Step to the Graveyard Easy

by Bill Pronzini

  Cape rolled by the motel entrance, twice. Almost nine-thirty, full dark, night-lights and moonshine giving him a clear scan of the property. It was set in thick woods, one gravel road leading in and uphill; a handful of close-in cabins built of shaggy-bark logs were visible from the street in front, the ones higher up hidden in dense stands of pine. Quiet, and private: trees and distance separated the cabins from one another.

  He drove back downhill, along Pioneer Trail to the next intersection, then a short way up the street that paralleled the one the motel was on. He parked the Vette there, walked back around the block to Cabins in the Pines, walked in past the lighted office as if he belonged there. Nobody came out to challenge him.

  He followed the road, keeping to shadow along its edge. Short gravel arms branched off to two-car parking spots for each cabin, the arms marked by signposts with numbers burned into the wood and spotlights angled upward from the ground so you could read them. The first signposts he passed were 1 and 2, which made 14 one of the higher-ups.

  When he neared cabins 11 and 12, he could see the road’s terminus, a circle like the bulb at the end of a thermometer. Two vehicles were parked there, a distance apart from each other—one large, one small. Spotlit paths led off at angles from the circle into the trees. Diffused light filtered through thickly knit branches on the 14 side, but he couldn’t make out the cabin itself. The one on the opposite side, 13, was completely dark.

  Cape moved deeper into the woods’ shadow, eased his way up to the nearest of the parked cars. Now that night had fallen, the temperature had dropped several degrees, and a cool wind off the lake made swishing, rattling noises in the trees; the wind and the pine needles underfoot muffled any sounds he made. Bent low, he ran to the rear of the smaller car.

  Pale blue Mitsubishi. Hertz sticker on the rear bumper.

  Still in a crouch, he crossed to the other vehicle. SUV—a Chevy Suburban, not new, white paint pitted and streaked with dirt. Personalized California plate: RTLDSCP. He eased along the driver’s side, tried the door. Locked. He went back around to the passenger side. Locked.

  From there he went up into the woods. The pines grew close together, and the spaces between them were clogged with ground cover and dead limbs. Slow going. Noisemaking, too; he waited until the wind gusted before taking each step. The path to number 14 was thirty yards or so to his left. The ground spots set at intervals along it cast enough light so that he was able to maintain a parallel course.

  It took several minutes to reach a point where he could make out the cabin. A light burned over the door, a softer glow outlining the curtained window adjacent. When he was abreast of the cabin, he crept to within twenty yards and stopped in the shadow of a split-boled pine. From there he had a mostly unobstructed view of a narrow porch, the cabin door.

  He thought again of Tanya’s little automatic, the one he’d dumped in San Francisco. Schizoid feeling: wished he still had it, was glad he didn’t. He’d never fired a gun in his life. Try to use one in circumstances like these, he was liable to do himself more harm than good.

  He buried his hands in his empty pockets, leaned back against the pine to wait.

  Five minutes ticked away, by the faint luminous dial of his watch. Ten. Nothing changed at the cabin. The only sounds were out here where he was: wind, night birds, rustlings in the undergrowth, a car coming partway up the road to one of the lower cabins.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Twenty.

  Cold and the leaning position built a cramp in one leg. Cape flexed and massaged it away.

  Twenty-five.

  Thirty.

  And the door opened—was yanked open—and a man came out onto the porch.

  Boone Judson’s size and squat shape, but not Judson. The nightlight over the door shed enough illumination for Cape to distinguish his features. Younger, darker, beetle-browed, thinning black hair. A stranger—yet familiar. And not because of the superficial resemblance to Judson.

  Rollo. Who else?

  He stood irresolute for a few seconds, staring down the path toward the parking circle. Turned then, slammed his hand hard against the door behind him. Went back into the cabin, leaving the door open so that Cape had an oblique view inside that told him nothing. A few seconds later Rollo reappeared, thumped down off the porch onto the path.

  Cape hesitated. The impulse to go after Rollo, brace him, was strong; but in the darkness, with all the twigs and dry needles underfoot, he’d be heard long before he got close. Sure as hell Rollo was armed. That was the whole point of this trap, wasn’t it?

  He stayed put, watching Rollo hurry out of sight. After a minute or so he heard the cough and throb of an engine starting. Gears meshed, tires churned on gravel.

  Another minute, waiting and watching the open cabin door. Nobody else showed there. Cape made his way out of the woods, as quietly as he could. Crept up the steps and eased his head around for a look through the open doorway.

  One big room, pair of queen-size beds on one side, sitting area and kitchenette on the other. And Boone Judson lying facedown across the nearest bed, arms outflung, knees touching the floor. Black-scorched wound in the back of his head, above the hairline. Blood spattered over his pink scalp, what was left of his dust-colored hair; blood on the exposed sheets under his head. Shot once point-blank, execution style, not long after Cape’s phone call.

  Judas goat, scapegoat. Centerpiece of a frame.

  Cape stayed where he was. Quick scan of the room. Only one thing caught his eye, a ring of keys on the table in the kitchenette. He moved then, sideways to the table. Car keys, Hertz tag on the ring. He swept them up, backed away to the door and outside.

  He was sweating; the wind dried it, left it on his skin like a sheen of ice as he hurried down the spotlit path. At the circle he approached the Mitsubishi. First key he tried wouldn’t unlock the driver’s door; second one did. He opened it with the tail of his jacket wrapped around his hand. The dome light revealed empty seats, empty floor.

  He shouldered the door shut, went around to the rear. The same key unlocked the trunk. He raised the lid, using the key to do it, not touching the car itself.

  “Jesus!”

  Death-smell. It made him gag, recoil. The pale trunk light showed him the blanket-wrapped mound stuffed in there; and where one of the folds had pulled loose, the black-mottled face, protruding tongue, one staring eye.

  Tanya.

  Strangled.

  Long time dead, Thursday-afternoon dead.

  Cape slammed the trunk lid shut with his forearm. He pulled the key out, used his jacket lining to wipe it clean before throwing the ring down. In his mouth was a sick, brassy taste—the taste of fear. Worse than he’d expected, much worse. Trap, frame—bloodbath. And no easy way out, maybe no way out at all. Stupid to let Rollo walk away, stupid to think he could just turn him in to D’Anzello and then walk away himself—

  Sudden light show. Swirls, pulses of red and blue at the motel entrance below.

  Police cars. Two, three, four swinging in off the street. No sirens, just their roof flashers creating crazy colored patterns against the backdrop of trees and darkness.

  Sure, sure, sure. The first thing Rollo had done was to put in an anonymous call to the local law.

  Cape plunged headlong into the woods.

  24

  Nightmare run: grotesque shapes, hidden obstacles that tripped and hindered him, dry branches poking, clutching like fleshless finger bones. There was no pursuit as far as he could tell—they hadn’t seen him, they were busy back there at the cabin. But he couldn’t make himself slow down.

  He lost all track of time; the woods seemed to go on and on, endlessly. When he finally broke through the perimeter, it took him seconds to realize he was on the street where he’d parked the Corvette. Through a haze of sticky wetness he located it thirty yards downhill. He stumbled along uneven pavement to the Vette, leaned hard against cold metal as he fumbled the key into the door lock. Breath rattled in his throat; he
couldn’t seem to drag in enough oxygen.

  Headlights sliced around the corner from Pioneer Trail below.

  Cape threw himself inside, slammed the door, flattened across the passenger bucket. The beams swept uphill toward him, whitening the interior. Swept past without slowing.

  He lay there until the pain in his chest eased and he could breathe more or less normally. His hands shook when he sat up. He had to steady one with the other to insert the key into the ignition.

  Better once he got the car moving. The shakiness subsided. But the sticky wet kept oozing out—thick, oily, sour.

  He made a U-turn, drove down to Pioneer Trail, turned left away from Cabins in the Pines. After a quarter of a mile a stoplight marked a major intersection. He turned there, toward the lake. Pretty soon Lake Tahoe Boulevard appeared ahead. Bright lights, traffic, people… the law.

  The Corvette was another trap.

  Distinctive, conspicuous. And D’Anzello had the plate number. How much time before every cop in California and Nevada had it on a hot sheet? An hour, two hours? Maybe not even that long….

  But he had to stay mobile; on foot his chances were zero. He was no car thief—it was the Vette or nothing. Just keep driving, keep moving. Stay off the major streets and roads. Use the backstreets.

  And go where?

  No place to run, no place to hide.

  The wetness kept running down from his forehead. More than just sweat—a salt taste at the corner of his mouth. Blood. From a deep gash in the skin over one eyebrow; probing fingers brought awareness of stinging pain. Of other hurts, too, on his face and neck and hands. All torn up from his flight through the woods.

  Have to do something about that right away. Blood made him even more vulnerable, more conspicuous.

  Service station ahead, not crowded, not too well lighted on the side where the restrooms were. He pulled in there, parked in as much shadow as he could find. First-aid kit in the glove box. He took it to the door marked Men.

  Inside, he locked the door and looked at himself in the cloudy mirror. Scratches, scrapes, the one gash; his face a streaky mess of sweat, dirt, blood. He washed in cold water, covered the gash with antiseptic and a bandage. His clothing wasn’t too bad—a couple of tears in the shirt, another in the jacket. He used paper towels to clean off smudges of dirt, a crimson splotch, clinging twigs and pine needles.

  Better. Not so much like an accident victim.

  Back into the rolling trap.

  Side streets, hunting now for a bar with dark, off-street parking. Found one: the Buckhorn Tavern. The name was familiar—one of the places he’d been in earlier. Dark inside, handful of customers and a bartender who minded their own business. Cape ordered a double shot of Jack Daniel’s, tossed it off. Its heat steadied him. He ordered another shot, single this time. The last thing he could afford to do was muddy up his thinking with too much liquor.

  He asked about a public phone. The bartender pointed him to an areaway that led to the restrooms. Phone but no directory. Most taverns had a bar copy, so he went back there and asked. The bartender said maybe they had one, maybe they didn’t, he didn’t have time to go hunting. Cape slapped down two singles, his change from the drinks. That bought him a cheapjack grin and the immediate appearance of a dog-eared local directory.

  He moved over to where the light was better, flipped the book open to the yellow pages. Scanned through the listings under Gardeners.

  Small boxed ad on the second page: R. T. Landscaping Service.

  RTLDSCP. R. T. Landscaping Sendee. R. for Rollo?

  No individual’s name in the ad, no address—just a phone number, and the words “Complete Lawn Care and Garden Maintenance. Residential/Commercial.”

  Cape leaned his forehead against the wall. No place to run, no place to hide, no place else to go. Think. Think!

  Short, dark, pudgy like Boone Judson. R. T. Landscaping Service… residential/commercial. Lakepoint Country Club. Lakepoint, Lakepoint… something else about the country club…

  My son Gary… he works part-time as a caddy…. Lilith works there, too, in their payroll department…

  Justine.

  Justine what? What was her last name?

  Breakfast buffet waitress Friday morning, saying the name in a stiff voice, saying—

  Blank.

  Saying—

  Come on, Cape, think! Saying—

  “Will there be anything else, Ms…. Ms….”

  President’s name. Dead president’s name—

  Coolidge.

  He tore into the directory again, this time to the white pages, the C’s.

  J. Coolidge, 2294 Lakeview, S. Lake Tahoe.

  25

  He didn’t have far to drive, just a mile or so back toward State-line and then across Lake Tahoe Boulevard, but it seemed to take a long time to get there. Every car, every set of headlights, was a potential threat. So far, his luck was holding; none of them belonged to the law.

  Lakeview Drive curled along a short section of shoreline in the middle of town, private homes and a few motels on the lakefront side, small apartment complexes and a scatter of houses on the inshore side. Two-two-nine-four was one of the complexes, a dozen units in two facing rows on one level; a lighted sign in front said Rest Haven Apartments. Cape parked in tree shadow down the block, returned on foot.

  Behind the sign was a bank of mailboxes, each one labeled with the tenant’s name. J. Coolidge was number 5. That unit was toward the rear, and when he got there he found the front window curtained and no light leaking out at the edges.

  He went up onto a tiny railed porch, thumbed the bell. Empty echoes inside. He thumbed it again, hard and long, in his frustration. Nothing, nobody home.

  Justine wouldn’t still be working at the Grand, not this late. Out somewhere for the evening. Wait around until she came home? What else could he do?

  Cape came down off the porch. And then stopped, swinging his head around, when he heard the crunch of approaching steps on the path.

  Kid, fifteen or sixteen, wiry build, dark brown hair in a buzz cut. The path lights were bright enough to limn his features as he neared: high cheekbones, distinctive almond-shaped eyes.

  The kid slowed to a wary standstill a few feet away. “Hi. You looking for somebody?”

  “Gary? Gary Coolidge?”

  “That’s me. Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Matt. I’m a friend of your mother’s. No, that’s not right. An acquaintance of your mother’s. We met at the Lakeside Grand the other day. She didn’t mention me?”

  “Uh-uh. She invite you over?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “So how come you’re here?”

  “To ask her for a favor. An important favor.”

  “Yeah?” Suspicion in the almond-shaped eyes. “You look kind of messed up. Like you were in a fight or something.”

  “Not a fight. Running around in the woods where I should’nt’ve been,” Cape said. “When’s your mother due home?”

  “Before midnight, she said. She and Lilith went to dinner and a flick. You know who Lilith is?”

  “Yes.” Midnight. Long, long time.

  Gary said, “Mom tell you about me, too?”

  “She talks a lot about you. Proud of you.”

  “Well, I’m proud of her, too. We watch out for each other.”

  “That’s the way it should be.”

  “What’s this favor you want from her?”

  “Her or Lilith. Or you.”

  “Me?”

  “She told me you caddy at the Lakepoint Country Club. So you know some of the other employees.”

  “Some.”

  “A landscape gardener named Rollo?”

  “Rollo? Nah.”

  “You sure?”

  “None of the gardeners is named Rollo, I’m sure of that.”

  “R. T. Landscaping Service,” Cape said.

  Blank look.

  “Short, pudgy, dark-skinned man. Brown eyes, thinning
black hair. Drives a white Chevy Suburban with a personalized license plate—RTLDSCP. Uses drugs.”

  “Oh, man… Stickface. That asshole.”

  “Stickface?”

  “That’s what we call him. If he ever smiled, his face’d crack in two. He tried to sell me some speed once. Right there at the club.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Torres, Targes, something like that.”

  “Think, Gary. I need to know for sure.”

  He thought. And shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “First name, if it isn’t Rollo?”

  “If I ever heard it, I forgot it. We just call him Stickface.”

  “Any idea where he lives?”

  “No. How’d I know?” Suspicion showed again in the kid’s expression. “How come you’re so interested in this guy? If it’s drugs—”

  “It’s not.”

  “I hate that stuff, man. I don’t want anybody uses drugs messing around my mom.”

  “I swear to you, my needing to find him has nothing to do with drugs. It’s personal, and it’s urgent.”

  “How come urgent?”

  “Because I’m in a bad spot, and he can get me out of it,” Cape said. “Would you recognize his name if you saw it written down?”

  “I dunno, maybe.”

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars if you check the phone book for me.”

  “Fifty! No sh—no kidding?”

  “In cash.”

  The kid said, still wary, “You can’t come in with me. You’ll have to wait out here.”

  “No problem. Just make it fast, okay?” Cape fished a twenty and a ten out of his wallet, pressed them into Gary’s hand. “The other twenty when you come back.”

  “Even if I don’t have his name?”

  “Yes. But I really need it, name and address both.”

  “Well, I’ll try.” Gary gestured toward a public area—lawn, benches, a tiny playground for kids—that stretched between the two rows of apartments. “You can wait over there.”