Cruelest Month

by Aaron Stander

  Hall attempted to refill their teacups, but the pot was empty. She went to the sink to fill the kettle, then set it on the stove, a curvy model with chrome, probably one of the first electrics made.

  “I can’t say I liked it, though—too much smoke and noise. But I got to wandering around the place and found the blackjack tables. They were off to the side in their own room. It was so much quieter in there. The first few times, I watched. Then, I got a book on how to win at blackjack at the library. It was decent, but it was too sketchy for my taste, so I ordered some others through an interlibrary loan. I spent weeks figuring out the system.”

  She turned around to check the kettle. “Oh my, I forgot to turn it on. Let’s see. At first I lost money. Never more than 10 bucks; that was my limit. Boy do I hate to waste money. And then I started winning. Not much. I read about how they keep an eye on you. If you win too much, they ban you. Anyway, after a while it wasn’t fun anymore. But I’d gotten to like spending time with the boys. And they have uncommonly good food there, cheap too. So it just became my social outing of the week. Alas, there are only three of us left now, and I don’t think Tommy Fuller has got much time. Now you say Vincent is missing. I don’t quite understand. What does that mean?”

  “Fox has a daughter in Traverse City. You probably know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “She talks to her father almost every day on the phone. When she was unable to reach him, she drove up to his home. Not finding him, she contacted us.” He paused to make a note. “So you were with Vincent on Friday, and you also saw him on Saturday?”

  “Yes, I picked him and Tommy up at the library about 9:45; that’s our usual meeting time. We were at the casino by 10 o’clock. The boys played the slots for a while and then we went to lunch. I told them at lunch I couldn’t stand the place much longer and gave them a half an hour more. Just about the time we were leaving, Vincent hit a big pot. He wanted to stay around and play some more, saying his luck had just changed. I told him not to be a damn fool. He should take his money and get out of there. He wasn’t too happy, but he did what I told him. That was it. I drove them back to the library.”

  “How much money did he win?” asked Ray.

  “Six thousand dollars in that one pot. I don’t know what he might have won or lost before that.” When the kettle began to whine, she lifted it off the stove and poured the contents over the old tea leaves. “But you know,” she said, “the strangest thing happened. I’d completely forgotten. On the way back Tommy said he wished he had won that big pot. Vincent asked him why and Tommy says he has a friend outside of Miami, one of his war buddies. He says he’d like to see the guy while there was still time. Vincent asked if $4000 would be enough. Tommy said that would be more than enough. So Vincent, who was sitting next to me, counted out four grand and passed the money back to him. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

  “Then I asked Tommy how he was going to get to Miami. He said he thought he should fly, but he had no idea how to make a reservation or anything. We went into the library and I used the computer to make a reservation for the next day, Saturday. I used my credit card, and Tommy gave me cash. The next day we met at the library again, and…this is the part I shouldn’t tell you, I drove Tommy and Vincent to the airport.”

  Ray looked up. “Why shouldn’t you tell me that?”

  “I’ve promised my kids I’d only drive around the village—just to the grocery store, the library, church, and the doctor’s office. They don’t know about the casino, but that’s only up the road a bit. I never get to go to Traverse City. And they’ve got a beautiful new terminal at the airport. After we dropped Tommy off, Vincent and I went to the mall and had some lunch. I tried to do a little shopping at Macy’s, but it’s not the store that Hudson’s was.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “We drove home. I took back roads. People drive too fast on M-22, even in the winter.” Hall poured tea into both their cups. It was the color of a sandy lake bottom.

  “So when did you last see Vincent Fox?”

  “It was some time after 3 o’clock. I dropped him off near the library.”

  “Did you see him go into the library?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know where he was going next?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you drop him off at his home?”

  “I never do that,” she said firmly. “I never go to their houses, never let them come to mine. We always meet at the library. This is a small town. I didn’t want to start any talk. And I certainly didn’t want to start running a taxi service for a bunch of geezers.”

  “So you didn’t see him or talk to him again after about 3 o’clock on Saturday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When you were at the casino, did you notice anyone hanging about? Was there anyone who seemed to take special interest in Vincent’s winnings?”

  “I don’t remember that. Nothing comes to mind.”

  “Do you stay in contact with Fox on the phone?”

  “I talk to him occasionally. I don’t really know him well, not really. We’ve just had conversations over lunch.”

  “Was he carrying a lot of cash on Saturday?”

  “I don’t know. If he was, he wasn’t flashing it around. But he wouldn’t have anyway. That wasn’t like him.”

  “How about his mental state?”

  “What are you asking? Do I think Fox was going a bit dotty?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “No. He’s still all there. He has some trouble with names, but don’t we all? And he told a lot of stories that were awfully far-fetched, but I think he was just having fun. I can’t imagine that he would suddenly wander away, not knowing who or where he was. Not unless, of course, he had a stroke or something. When you get to be our age, all the statistics are running against you.”

  Ray closed his notebook and slipped it into his coat. “I’m surprised no one called you about his disappearance. It’s gotten a lot of coverage on the news.”

  “There’s no one left to call, Ray. The lights of my generation have almost all gone out.”

  10

  Mackenzie Mason stood in the great room of her recently acquired home and surveyed the scene—white walls, thick white carpeting, black granite on the countertops and the fireplace surround. Built on a small spit of land that extended into the bay, the contractor’s trophy-home intentions were limited by the buildable area of the lot. More by accident than aspiration, he had managed to build a structure appropriately sized for the setting, his efforts enhanced by the work of a skilled young architect. The final product was a home of modest proportions with luxury accoutrements—exotic woods, pricy fixtures, and high-end appliances. A great room—high ceilinged, glass walled, and occupying half of the building’s footprint—was the focal point of the structure. It provided spectacular views of the bay and the orchard-covered hillsides beyond. A large master suite, a second bath, and two tiny bedrooms completed the house.

  Mackenzie had found the listing online. The real-estate agent told her that the house was completed just as the economy tanked. The builder’s company went into receivership and the bank was left holding the bag. The bargain property was then picked up by a Bloomfield Hills orthopedist as an investment. Less than six months later, he walked from the mortgage as his own financial house of cards came crashing down.

  When Mackenzie offered $100,000 less than the asking price, she was amazed at how quickly the bank snapped up the offer. She chided herself for not going lower. So much for toxic assets, she thought out loud as she looked around the room. She’d had spent little time or effort redecorating. The house was furnished with only the essentials needed for the next few months. She had, however, upgraded the security system with cameras, monitors, additional motion detectors, and a wireless uplink to the alarm company’s headquarters.

  Mackenzie walked to the front of the room and stood near the wall of glass that faced the bay. Small patches
of snow were still visible on the opposite shore, and cold drizzle blurred the already formless landscape. After spending more than two decades in the west, most of it in California, she was having trouble adjusting to the cold, gray, March weather of northern Michigan. Sliding into an Aeron chair, she wondered, Is this just madness? Her eyes ran along the bleak horizon. Why am I here?

  Mackenzie Mason had left her senior vice-president position in a high-tech company on December 31. She and three other top-level executives walked away with severance packages equal to a year’s salary with the customary bonuses—a generous parting gift for the fortunate few. Based on their rank in the hierarchy, the other employees got from three months to two weeks wages as the once highflying dot.com slid toward insolvency.

  January 1 found Mackenzie at loose ends. But the search for a new job was the least of her concerns. Headhunters had started harassing her as soon as rumors of the company’s demise went public. More than one had made the point that she was the dream client: young, bright, articulate, the right education from the best places, and a solid track record of accomplishment. What they didn’t say, because it might be considered inappropriate, was that she was also funny, beautiful, and very sexy.

  For Mackenzie, the end of a long-term relationship was more problematic than the employment situation. Although she was the one who had insisted on it, she still woke up at night with the fear that she had made the wrong decision. Which was why she’d decided to come back to Michigan. There was something she needed to know, investigate, understand, and perhaps resolve before she could move on with her life.

  Even as she admired her now sumptuous surroundings, she could still remember being poor and hungry and vulnerable. For years she had done her best to avoid the painful memories of childhood and the trauma and sadness of her brother’s death. Those memories had intensified the day before, when she drove to the south end of the county to look at the village where she had spent two desperately unhappy years.

  Mackenzie was shocked at how the town, Sandville, had almost vanished over the past several decades. Any thoughts of taking a closer look at her grandmother’s old garden, or perhaps searching the cemetery for her brother’s grave, quickly evaporated when she saw a sheriff’s car parked on the road. The deputy, a young woman, had a small dog on a leash, and they were walking around the lot where the house formerly stood. Mackenzie slowed enough to take in the scene; she circled the block, then left, not wanting to attract attention to herself.

  What was that all about? Mackenzie thought as she drove north. She ran several scenarios that would explain the deputy’s presence at her grandmother’s house, but couldn’t generate anything more plausible than a chance happening. Perhaps the dog needed a walk. She reassured herself that it would be silly to read anything into the event.

  Mackenzie picked up an iPad and flipped through the apps. She opened a project planner and looked at her early notes. Scrolling through the first draft, she was struck by the disorder of her stratagem. She had been doing project planning for years and was known for the precise and skillful way she could focus the work of hundreds of people and millions of dollars to achieve timely, profitable results. But here she was stymied. She hardly knew where to begin.

  In frustration, she got up and began switching on the lights, making the room as bright a contrast as possible to the end of winter gloom. Then she unlocked the hinged covers of the two stainless steel shipping cases she had collected a few hours earlier in Traverse City. She had been apprehensive about the pick-up, but everything went without a hitch. Ken Lee Park, a sometimes boyfriend, Taekwondo instructor, and expert in computers and corporate security, had assured her that everything would come via FedEx Ground without inspection. FedEx had further helped her by putting the trunks on an aluminum hand truck, rolling them to the parking lot, and lifting them into the back of her Subaru.

  She lifted a layer of dark gray foam from the first case, exposing the precisely engineered interior. The contents had been carefully packed, foam cut to surround every component. She removed a large computer display and set it on the desk. After pulling out more of the packing, she found the tower for the system and positioned it beside the display. From the second case, she lifted a small laser printer and a box of wires. Each cable and cord had been marked with colored stickers for easy assembly.

  In a few minutes, the computer was running. Mackenzie plugged in a thumb drive she’d brought with her from California and opened an encrypted text file, working her way through the elaborate security system Ken Lee had installed to protect the contents of the hard drive—the normal array of business application programs plus a collection of sophisticated intercept, surveillance, and hacking software.

  Returning to the second trunk, she lifted away another layer of foam and began unpacking several articles of clothing, all black, each packaged in a sealed plastic bag. There was also a bag of special soaps and shampoos. Without opening them, she stowed the bags in the large walk-in closet of the master suite and put the toiletries in a cupboard in the bathroom. The last block of foam came apart in two halves, revealing meticulously hollowed-out spaces. Ken Lee, well aware of her competence in the martial arts, had stressed the importance of weapons for self-defense. He had selected and trained her to use the two pistols, a Glock 19 and a Rohrbaugh R9. Each was tucked into a holster. The Glock was to be carried at the hip, the Rohrbaugh inside the left ankle. In addition to extra magazines for each weapon, there was also a small, high-quality LED flashlight and a bear claw knife.

  At the desk, Mackenzie stacked the six boxes of Winchester PDX-1 shells she’d purchased earlier at a Walmart, then loaded three magazines for each pistol. That done, she opened the safe hidden behind a panel in the built-in shelves in her bedroom and carefully placed the guns in the interior, along with the extra shells. She started to close the door, then stopped, retrieving the small Rohrbaugh, its holster and magazines. Sliding one of the magazines into the pistol, she put it in a drawer next to the bed, along with a flashlight.

  Ken Lee had overcome Mackenzie’s ambivalence, stressing that her skill at close-in fighting could be worthless against an armed and determined assailant. Although she had misgivings about the guns, she looked at them as necessary equipment to carry out her current mission.

  Slipping back into the chair, she decided she felt much better about her plan. The two-part mission statement at the top of planning draft read:

  Find the boys responsible for Terry’s death,

  Facilitate convictions and life sentences for: Richard Sabotny, Zed Piontowski, Jim Moarse, and Chris Brewler.

  She looked at the list. Then with her finger she highlighted Richard Sabotny’s name and chose the bold option from the toolbox. There. Richard Sabotny. That’s the man she wanted, the bully and ringleader, the one most or wholly responsible for her brother’s death. Not the brother of Mackenzie Mason’s for that was pure fiction. Terry was Caitlyn Hallen’s brother. Her brother.

  11

  Sue Lawrence responded to the call first. Ray reached the scene 15 or 20 minutes after her. A Cedar County Road Commission truck, flashers blinking in the misting rain, was blocking off the road to northbound traffic. The driver, Hank Pullen, stood in the center of the road behind the truck, a reflective vest over his jacket, turning cars around.

  Ray waved as he guided his patrol car around the truck and parked on the far shoulder behind Sue’s Jeep. He could see a second county employee standing at the intersection 50 yards up, keeping traffic from entering the road.

  Sue looked up at Ray as he approached. Camera in hand, she was crouched on the shoulder of the road. The ditch below was swampy and filled with water. A partially submerged body lay just below the embankment. “The ME is on his way,” she said.

  “Did you tell him to bring waders?” asked Ray, referring to Dr. Dyskin, the semiretired pathologist, who contracted as the county medical examiner.

  “No, but I told the EMTs to bring their hip boots. No point getting D
r. Dyskin mired in the mud.”

  “Who spotted the body?”

  “Hank Pullen called it in. He and Dan Beeson were riding around patching chuckholes. I need to talk to them again, but I think it was Dan who saw the body. He was riding shotgun.”

  “They didn’t see who dumped it?” asked Ray.

  “No such luck. And given the body’s location, you could probably only spot it from the height of a truck cab. It might not have been found for days or even weeks.”

  Ray stepped as far as he dared to the edge of the bank and peered down at the corpse. “Not much doubt about who it is, or was. Looks like he was just thrown out.”

  “That was my thought,” said Sue. “The poor old guy tossed along the road like a beer can or a fast food bag.”

  “And he’s missing a boot.”

  “I noticed that. Brett is on his way. After the body is removed, we’ll do our best to look for other possible evidence. Perhaps the missing boot is submerged in the water.”

  Their attention was pulled from the ditch by the arrival of an EMT unit and Dr. Dyskin. “Where’s the body?” he asked.

  Sue pointed over the embankment. Dyskin walked to the edge, gazed at the body for a long moment. “Well let’s get him up here and see what we can see.”

  Sue directed the actions of the EMTs, two young men. After pulling hip boots over their orange coveralls, they carefully approached the corpse, gently scooping it into a metal rescue litter that they carried back to the surface of the road.