Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  Joe had an uncle who was a long-time acquaintance of Boots. One of the first to welcome the young ex-GI back from the killing fields, Boots posed a proposition that only a fool would have refused. Joe was nobody’s fool. He became the Vicario family’s booby-trap expert.

  “You know what’s funny?” Joe said.

  Locasio growled. “No. What’s funny?”

  “The Boss once had me do a job to get revenge against the guys who blew up Pagano’s place and killed his boys.”

  “That was back in the eighties, wasn’t it?” Ziggy asked.

  “Yeah. As I recall, his twin sons were home for Christmas. Both of ‘em went to expensive schools. Seems one was studying to be a doctor. The other was into some kind of space shit.”

  “Boots told me about it,” Locasio said. “It was the Bonannos that put the hit on him. Boots said The Boss gave Pagano bodyguards for a while. Then the sorry ass turned stoolie. His day’s coming real soon.”

  8

  The bus continued down the Trace, encountering difficulty only on the hills. Troy picked up the conversation where Bryce had dropped it.

  “Have you met Hamilton MacArthur? He’s an old investment hand.”

  Bryce liked the idea of shifting the emphasis to MacArthur. “Fred introduced us out in the parking lot. I thought he headed an insurance company.”

  “He did. They brought him down here a few years back to be president. But before that, he was director of investments for one of the big life insurance companies in New Jersey. He’s done pretty well for himself. Retired last year.”

  Bryce glanced up the aisle where MacArthur sat. “If looks mean anything, he sure gives the appearance of success.”

  He was about Bryce’s height, but stockier. Deeply tanned, he had sun-bleached sandy hair and looked like a prosperous yachtsman in his blue blazer and white cravat.

  Troy’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Yeah. But I think he’s a lot of bombast. At least he had enough sense not to get involved in derivatives the way the guy did he replaced.”

  “Derivatives?”

  “Like the ones that sank that big bank over in England a few years ago.”

  “The Barings Investment Bank.”

  “Yeah. That was it. Don’t guess you ever got into that sort of thing.”

  “No,” Bryce said. But he had been a careful student of speculation in the monetary system. In the seventies he had discovered the seemingly random shifts in currencies of various countries were really not so extraordinary when you considered the fundamental factors that determined a currency’s worth. Locating a bank in Switzerland where he could buy a money fund in U.S. dollars, he borrowed three times that amount of Swiss francs, converted it to dollars and bought more fund shares. The interest on the Swiss loan was only three percent, while the U.S. fund earned eighteen percent. When the dollar rose against the franc, he cashed in and earned a huge foreign exchange profit.

  Troy looked back at Bryce. “I’d say MacArthur is pretty well-heeled. I’m sure he owns a big chunk of the company. His wife does okay, too.”

  “Why didn’t she come with him?”

  “She’s a vice president of some sort with one of the big hospital outfits in Nashville. She’s about sixteen years younger than he is. Fred said MacArthur was partly interested in this trip because his wife will be at a meeting in New Orleans while we’re down there.”

  Bryce gave him a puzzled look. “Isn’t this a bit of a slumming exercise for him? I’ll bet it’s been a while since he saw the inside of a Days Inn.”

  Troy laughed. “That’s a sure bet.”

  “Maybe he just wants to get a look at how the other half lives.”

  “Actually, I think he came along at the urging of Emma Gross. She’s the big woman with the off-center hairdo he’s sitting with. Her husband is a retired Methodist preacher. He’s currently serving as associate pastor of the church MacArthur goes to in Hendersonville. They're a couple of the non-Lovely Laners who were invited to help fill up the bus.”

  “You said Hendersonville?”

  “Yeah.”

  The town of Hendersonville was a suburb just across the county line to the east of Madison. It was home to such country music legends as Johnny Cash and included a stretch of Old Hickory Lake shoreline studded with high-ticket mansions.

  “I’m sure the passenger list shows MacArthur as living in Madison,” Bryce said.

  “It’s wrong if it does.”

  “Then you’d better tell Tillie Ellis.”

  Troy gave him a wry grin. “You gotta be kidding. She’d have me for lunch. Take a braver man than me to tell old Tillie she’s wrong.”

  Bryce’s laugh was less amusement than an expression of relief that he had successfully avoided further discussion of his background in the investment field.

  Bryce was reading the information on Natchez and New Orleans when Tillie's voice boomed over the speakers. “We’re approaching the Tupelo Visitor Center turnoff. After we see a short movie about the Trace, you’ll have a few minutes to look through the gift shop. We should be there no more than thirty minutes. Since we’re running a little behind time, you’ll need to get back on the bus promptly so we can leave for the Mall at Barnes Crossing. That’s where we’ll eat lunch. To keep down congestion, the driver’s side will get off first, then the curb side.”

  Although the big vehicle had coughed and wheezed occasionally, like a metallic monster trying to catch a cold, Chick brought the bus to a smooth stop near the entrance to the Visitor Center, a small, modern-looking structure that also housed headquarters for the Natchez Trace Parkway, a project of the National Park Service.

  After stepping down to the walkway, Bryce moved away from the bus, paused to stretch and loosen up stiff muscles. He was not accustomed to sitting for long periods on a bus seat. He felt like a spring toy that had been compressed into a small box. On looking around, he saw somber clouds nudging each other about the darkening sky. Then he caught himself scrutinizing the tree-lined area and realized that, unconsciously, he had begun to search for potential pursuers.

  He admonished himself for such paranoid behavior. It seemed highly unlikely Boots' people would know where to find him, particularly not this soon. But he hadn’t survived to this point by being imprudent, so he acknowledged there would be no harm in keeping an eye out for anything unusual.

  What he saw a few minutes later caught him off guard, however, although it certainly qualified as out of the ordinary. As the curb-side passengers emerged from the bus, one of them attracted Bryce’s eye immediately. He recalled having seen her earlier, though only in a brief profile view. Now he realized that if ever he had encountered the personification of growing old gracefully, this was it. Curls of golden brown wreathed her face, interlaced with strands that glistened silver beneath what little remained of the mid-day sun. She radiated a healthy glow with only a touch of makeup. Sparkling blue eyes, a short patrician nose and delicate lips shaped almost like a cupid’s bow had been created in perfect harmony. She wore white slacks, a white blouse embroidered with two small cardinals and a lightweight red jacket. The LLSS badge clipped to her jacket identified her as Marge Hunter.

  She had an understated elegance about her that almost caused him to miss the one blemish in the picture. As she started to walk past him, he noticed the shoelace of her right sneaker had come untied. Without thinking, he did something quite out of character. He stopped her with a raised hand and a broad smile, pointed at the shoe and spoke in as pleasant a voice as he could muster. “Let me tie that for you before you trip over it.”

  Glancing down, she shook her head. “Thanks, but don’t bother. I’ll get it.”

  He had already dropped to one knee. “No bother.”

  When he had finished, he started to get up but found his leg muscles reluctant to cooperate, something that had plagued him on occasion lately. “Mind giving me a hand? The old legs don’t always perform like they were meant to.”

  As she took his hand and
let him pull against her to regain his feet, her face took on an odd, uncertain look. “I’m sorry,” she said, withdrawing her hand as soon as he released it. “You said it would be no bother.”

  A thin smile registered his embarrassment. “I sometimes exaggerate. I guess I should claim it was the result of an old football injury, but there’s no use lying. Getting older has its drawbacks.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Older? Not getting old?”

  That brought a grin. “I still have a long way to go yet.”

  “Marge,” said an impatient female voice up ahead. “Are you coming?”

  Marge Hunter glanced up the walkway, then turned to Bryce, expressive blue eyes shining. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful. I hope you enjoy the journey.”

  Watching as she walked away, he wondered if she were referring to this trip or to that longer journey he had alluded to, the trek into old age? Then he glanced at his right hand, recalling the softness, the warmth he had felt as he’d held her hand. Had that been just a casual grip to steady a tottering stranger or a truly sensitive response? With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he jammed both hands into the pockets of his jacket and started toward the Natchez Trace Visitor Center. Had it been so long since he’d experienced the warmth of a woman’s touch that simply lending him a hand had the power to send him into flights of fancy?

  9

  Locasio ground out the cigarette and leaned back in the seat. A smile crossed his chiseled face as he thought about his new status. He hated what had happened to Boots, but he enjoyed having his own chauffeur and the luxury of a back seat to himself. Joe and Ferrante had been quiet for a few minutes, giving him a chance to study the problem he faced.

  He badly needed a passenger list for that bus. Otherwise, it would be a hit and miss proposition to check out the men on board. There should be lots of opportunities to look them over. He knew buses had to make rest stops every so often, and he figured it was even more critical with a load of old people. He remembered how often they’d had to stop on the way to Nashville to let Boots take a leak.

  If they only had a photo of Pagano, things would be so much easier. Boots said some idiot had trashed the guy’s pictures in anger over his court testimony. Sounded like something Marco might do, Locasio thought.

  He slipped the pack from his pocket and found only one cigarette left. “Joe,” he called out. “Next time you see some place to stop, pull off. I’m out of smokes.”

  Joe frowned. “That’ll cost us some time.”

  “Hell, man,” Ferrante said, laughing, “you’re some kind of Dale Earnhardt. You can catch the bastards.”

  Joe glanced around. “You come up with any ideas yet, Locasio?”

  The young mobster rubbed his chin. “Yeah. When they stop for the night, we’ll break into that bus and look for a passenger list. They’ve got to have one around there somewhere.”

  “What help will that be?” Ferrante asked. “You said Pagano wouldn’t be using his real name.”

  “Right. But it will show us who we’re dealing with. Give us a list of all the men, make it easier to check everybody out.”

  “Here’s an exit with a service sign,” Joe said, swinging the Cadillac off to the right.

  Bryce encountered Troy inside the Visitor Center, thumbing through a display of books on various national parks.

  “I saw you met my ex-sister-in-law,” said Troy.

  “Who?”

  “Marge Hunter. She was married to my brother, Keith. He died several years ago.”

  Feeling a slight letdown, which he would have denied even to himself, Bryce tried to remember the names on the passenger list. Now that Troy had brought up the subject of Marge Hunter, his curiosity was aroused. “Her current husband isn’t on the trip, is he?”

  “Hardly. He died last year.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Bryce said.

  “From what I hear, it’s the best thing ever happened to her.”

  Bryce raised a questioning eyebrow. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

  “The guy was a real horse’s rear. I don’t know the whole story. I guess she’s too embarrassed to talk about it. At least with me. I got a smattering of it from Betty Lou Scott, who’s closer to her than anybody. It’s a shame. Margie is really a great gal.”

  “Let’s go, fellas,” Tillie said as she breezed past. “They’re ready to show us a movie in the theater.”

  Troy rumpled his brow. “Better follow orders.”

  “We’ll catch the flick, then you can tell me about Marge Hunter.” Bryce turned with a shrug.

  The movie described the Trace’s origins and history through the early 1800s. The biggest year was 1810, when more than 10,000 boatmen and others traveled north toward Nashville. The largest southward migration came when General Andrew Jackson led his troops down to the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812. According to the narrator, the arrival of the steamboat New Orleans at Natchez that year signaled the beginning of the end for the Trace’s popularity.

  When the group filed out at the end of the movie, Bryce and Troy bought soft drinks and moved to the front of the building. The parking area appeared as shrouded as late afternoon, the sun now blotted out by churning clouds.

  Bryce gazed up at the darkened sky. “Looks like we might get some rain. I didn’t think that was in the forecast for today.”

  “Yeah. And I didn’t think our bus was supposed to act up, either.” A twinkle brightened Troy’s eyes. “So you want to know about Margie Walden Hunter. She’s a looker. You wouldn’t think she was in her early seventies, would you?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Yeah. She and Keith were married forty years. He was an unassuming, personable type, always wore a smile. One of those people who inspires trust just to look at him.”

  Bryce sipped on his drink. “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  “He was a natural at selling real estate. His one shortcoming was an inability to have children, something Marge had really wanted. Keith was sterile. Funny thing, though, about the time they finally decided to use other measures to have a baby, Marge suddenly changed her mind. She apparently got caught up in some kind of weird mid-life crisis.” He shook his head and dropped the subject. “She and Keith lived in a big house on the river in Madison. They were pillars of the church...Lovely Lane, of course.”

  “What happened after he died?”

  “She was at a complete loss. They had been constant companions. Often talked about traveling, but rarely found the time. They were looking forward to that after his retirement in another three years. He was only sixty-two when he died. It took her a good while to adjust to being without him.”

  “Where did she meet Hunter?”

  Troy leaned back against the wall. “At a high school reunion. He was an old beau who had gone into the Navy as soon as he graduated. After he went to sea, they lost contact. They hadn’t seen each other until he moved back to Nashville after retiring as a navy captain.”

  “He must have been pretty sharp to make captain.”

  “He seemed that way at first. In contrast to most of the other guys at the reunion, you know, bald, fat or stooped, Herb Hunter stood stiff as a ramrod. He had a thick head of black hair, hardly any gray in it. In high school, he was a smooth-talking, supremely confident character, took the lead role in school plays. You know the type. It had been a long time, but he seemed like the same old Herb to Marge.”

  Troy related how Captain Hunter had called Marge the next week and invited her out to dinner, to reminisce about old times. She was reluctant to go, but Betty Lou Scott convinced her this was exactly what she needed. A few years had passed since Keith’s death, but she was still holding back. She needed to get on with her life. So she agreed.

  Hunter was a jaunty host, according to Troy, oozing self-confidence, full of himself and stories about his travels and his service. Marge felt almost as though they had picked up right where they left off during the war. A few months later,
she gave in to his persistence and agreed to marry him.

  “The way Betty Lou told it, he was Prince Charming on their honeymoon trip to Hawaii,” Troy said. “When they got back, Marge told her she couldn’t have been happier. Then things apparently went to hell in a handbasket. Their first Sunday back at church, Fred did his usual thing and gave her a monstrous hug. She told Betty Lou that Herb stiffened like a board, fire in his eyes. As they moved down the aisle, he leaned toward her and snarled, just above a whisper, ‘Who does that son-of-bitch think he is?’

  “Well, Margie was mortified. She whispered back, ‘Watch your language, Herb, you’re in church.’ To which he replies, ‘You’d think we were in a whorehouse the way that bastard grappled at you!’”

  Bryce frowned in disbelief. “He said that?”

  “So help me, God. Least that’s what Betty Lou said he did. She made me promise not to tell Fred, said it would wound him something fierce, might cause him to resign his job as head usher. I can’t imagine walking into church on Sunday morning without Fred there to greet us.”

  Bryce knew what he meant. He had first met Fred on the walking track that circled above the gym floor in the Fellowship Center at Lovely Lane Church. Fred’s friendliness and persistence had finally prodded him into laying aside some of his reticence.

  “What happened after that?” Bryce asked.

  “Betty Lou wouldn’t tell me anymore, except that when Fred greeted Marge the same way a week later, she had to pull her crazy husband away so he wouldn’t deck old Scott right there in the narthex. They moved across town the next week. I didn’t see her again until after Herb died last year.”

  10

  During his quiet years in Madison, Bryce had lowered the barriers only once, allowing himself to get close to someone, and that had resulted in another shocking case of regret, triggering a return of the “blue funk.” He had befriended a young woman at the mall where he walked daily. She invited him to Christmas dinner at her parents' home in a small town north of Nashville. When it started snowing hard on Christmas Eve, Bryce suggested she drive up the next morning with him, but she insisted on going after work to help her mother. She died in an accident not far from where her parents lived. Bryce blamed himself for not being more adamant that she ride with him. It had compounded his feeling of being a modern version of the Ancient Mariner wearing an albatross around his neck.