White Birch Graffiti (White Birch Village Book 2)

by Jeff Van Valer

  That’s one and two…

  The timing… Max took a big leap to his desk and grabbed the USA Today. Cornelius Shepherd. Top bunk, against the north wall. The professor was what they called him.

  Three…

  Fat kid, bottom bunk. Zeke. Everyone else—except Ted—went by nicknames, didn’t they?

  He felt himself lapsing back. He was one hundred percent Hoss again. He grabbed the edges of the paper and snapped it to fix the wrinkles in the middle. Sunday-edition, January 23, 2000. Yesterday’s paper. Neil was killed on Thursday, one twenty. Who were the rest of the kids in that cabin? Hoss wouldn’t be able to come up with their names on a bet.

  Except Ted. Ted Gables. Hoss always figured he’d talk to Ted again sometime but never had. He pulled his chair up to the desk and sat down. After putting the paper across the spilled, sticky, root beer mess, he took to the keyboard.

  “Blue River…” he whispered into the space.

  A certain internet address linked him to an online version—how progressive for a small-town paper—of a quaint little rag they called The Bugle.

  “Ted Gables,” he said dreamily, sitting back at his desk. “My man, Ted. How are ya?” He whistled an old tune and bounced a nervous knee—which tapped and rattled the middle drawer as it went—waiting for the internet to slog its way back into action. In under a minute, he’d read the last three days’ headline titles and found a certain obituary.

  “Ted’s wife?” he groaned. “Oh, my God.”

  Four…

  Then, in some kind of strange, almost telekinetic, mental takeover, he went back to his AOL e-mail and let his fingers dance across the keys. Beads of sweat seeped out of his forehead, and his toes tingled. When he stopped typing, his right pinkie finger trembled just above the enter key. His breath stuttered in near-orgasmic excitement. All his vibrating energy peaked, then exploded through his little finger.

  Click!

  He covered his mouth with his hands and laughed.

  He pushed on the desktop to stand up. “Prolly should’na sent that.”

  But he did, and it was marvelous.

  Strolling from his office, he broke into song, as he was wont to do. “Que Sera, Seraaaaaah!” His voice was lofty. His best Doris Day yet. “Whatever will bee—wait.” He stopped and snatched a digital camera from a charger. Then he blew into the bedroom and grabbed something reliable from the sock drawer. “Gonna need the Bond piece,” he said.

  Max Blocker doubled at the waist and slid a small duffel from under the bed. When he reached into the same drawer for socks and underwear, Hoss told him not to bother. He drifted into the bathroom to drain the lizard, smiling wistfully as he unzipped his pants and released the pressure.

  His stream went on for what seemed an entire minute before he jumped up and down on one foot to zip back up. He hooked one finger into the collar of his coat and never broke stride as he burst into the garage, slamming the door behind him.

  Old memories tip-toed through his mind. The guy who’d offered him a job at Buck’s family business all those years ago. Uncle Hugh himself, the gangster the McDaniel family hid from the press. Hoss had been nervous to turn down the job offer. Starting fresh and becoming someone else was hard work.

  The garage door seemed to take forever opening. He switched on the CD player, and a lone, electric guitar sliced into the quiet. He peeled out of the garage in reverse. Next came a nice, fast shuffle beat. As the car loped down the curb while both turning and accelerating, Hoss drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He sang along to Meatloaf in “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” An image of the Bat Out of Hell album cover came to him. He bore his teeth and leaned toward the front of the car. As gamefish-turned-fisherman, he wondered if his response on America Online hooked the big one. It said

  I know what you’re doing, Sunny. You’re not going to stop us all.

  —Hoss.

  A mile or so down the road, he said again, “Prolly should’na sent that.” Then he sang. He sang his heart out. He bopped his head up and down, feeling like he hadn’t felt in years. It was just like Hoss was supposed to feel.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ted watched the news reel loop of the gleaming senator. His heart slowed back down until nothing but his sleep-deprived angst remained.

  So Buck’s running for president. Good for him. Son of a bitch probably hasn’t even thought of White Birch in years. Courtesy of me.

  If Ted hadn’t cleaned up all that evidence across the lake, things sure would be different right now. It didn’t take long for life to turn back into the same old scam.

  When Ted thought to peek into the colorful liquor-scape again, Ironman was gone. Anxiety spiked, or maybe it was just another surge of anger.

  But he kept hearing Frank’s voice. It was your truck, Ted. Ted figured he’d best get out of The Saloon while he had the chance. In an instant, it became too noisy, too full of people, too chaotic to keep track of everyone. He slid off his stool. His wallet was fat with several hundred dollars. He’d made a withdrawal, intent on paying cash for everything. Car rental, gasoline, hotel. He did it to keep from leaving a trail of expenditures. Just to screw with Frank Bruska.

  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” the barmaid said.

  “Thank you,” Ted said, tossing a crinkled twenty onto the bar. She made a sad face.

  She grabbed the twenty and held it toward him. “Tell you what. The beer and ginger ale are on me. You just promise to find the happy and come back soon.”

  “You keep it,” he said, turning toward the door.

  Sympathy magnet. How do they know?

  He’d spent the last thirty years—he realized only then—wondering if that summer bothered his cabin mates. Or did everyone have a Nope, Ted took care of everything! approach? Ted had, in fact, taken care of everything just so his dad could find out first. Did anyone in the cabin ever even think about what happened? Did they worry or fuss over it? Did they dream of fire and Lloyd’s blistering skin? Did they even care? Buck, the guy who pulled the knife in the first place, didn’t seem to worry at all.

  Oh, what a man can learn, sitting at a bar, sipping ginger ale. Some people seemed to have the conscience gene, and some people didn’t. Senator McDaniel probably slept soundly every night—because Ted took care of everything—and Ted hadn’t slept for days. And even when he did, he had dreams about that August night at White Birch and saw reminders every day since. Did the senator have any bad dreams? Did he think, while strolling on marble floors beneath the Capitol dome, about the night he killed his camp counselor? Did Senator Denton “Buck” McDaniel have a trapdoor spider?

  Bet your ass he doesn’t.

  Ted couldn’t get out of The Saloon quickly enough. He’d hit the sidewalk before the TV showed a picture of McDaniel’s two-point-three kids, palatial homestead, fancy cars and... and his alive-and-well wife. Ted wanted to be alone and safe in his hotel room. There, with nothing to do but think in the darkness, he’d take his chances with the trapdoor spider.

  Nervous, paranoid energy, rage at an injustice Ted couldn’t change, and a little growing fear (It was your truck, Ted) flowed in him, quickening his stride. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, he found walking wasn’t enough for him. He opened up a little and jogged. Overcoat, suit, dress shoes, and all.

  In his mind, he saw Buck in front of the microphones, John Radiford, Ironman, Kathryn’s tongue and bloody teeth, Dad dying. Ted wanted to run like a twelve-year-old. Like someone was chasing him.

  At Brodmann McArdle two or so blocks away, his car was right where he’d left it. But not the—the van had moved. It sat on the street, parked on the opposite curb, closer to The Saloon. Gray van. Generic gray. It faced him.

  Exhaust rose from its rear, its headlights dark. A flash of red suddenly shot through the steam.

  Taillights.

  Then, the rising exhaust flashed white for a split second before settling back to red.

  Reverse lights.

  The
driver Ted couldn’t see had just dropped the gear lever from park through reverse, and most certainly past neutral to drive. Naked fear grabbed at Ted just before the headlights blinked. Universal signal to grab someone’s attention. But no one else was on the street.

  The Saloon was a fair piece behind him. But the dark alley was right there. Just a few steps. The engine revved and yanked the van forward. Ted pulled hard with his hamstrings, breaking into that run he’d been thinking about. He’d dash down the street, as quickly as he could, to his car. The headlights flashed again. And again. Quickly.

  Urgently.

  The minivan crossed the street’s centerline. In two steps, Ted was in a full sprint.

  The alley. Take the alley!

  He headed for the building’s brick corner, three or four steps from the alley’s darkness.

  Right as Ted changed direction, Ironman turned a one-eighty around that same corner, immediately facing Ted. They were two steps apart. Two running steps. The man dropped his copy of The Bugle. The face beneath Ironman’s bald head revealed some surprise, maybe at how quickly Ted was moving.

  Adrenaline shooting through his arteries, Ted raised his arms in panicky self-defense. Ironman pulled his hand from inside his coat. Ted twisted to his right, his arms out, right elbow flexed. A muffled pop came from somewhere as Ted drove his elbow into Ironman’s face. A deep crack sounded as the two men fell with Ted’s momentum. Ironman landed flat on his back, Ted on top of him. Ted realized the muffled pop was a gunshot.

  Son of a bitch tried to shoot me!

  The minivan skidded to a stop as Ted stood up. He wound up and kicked Ironman’s hand, which struggled to point the gun. Another crack cut through the cold night as the gun slid down the sidewalk and into some slush just off the curb. The van blocked any ready escape down the street, and its driver side door opened. Ironman stirred. He was sure to be murderously pissed, and Ted no longer had surprise on his side. He stole into the alley’s near-total darkness.

  A dim utility light shine in the dark corridor’s far end, maybe a hundred feet down. Beneath the light, a dumpster and an old wooden fence blocked the exit. Ted’s muscles worked and served him well.

  As he felt something like an insect bite on his left side, a big insect (maybe something more like the jaws of a biting pit bull) the fence’s silhouette changed. It moved somehow. The slats’ curved tops opened and splintered.

  Shooting. No noise.

  “Get the fuck up, man!” Ted heard from down the alley.

  Driver? Yelling at Ironman?

  An upturned trashcan sat in front of the dumpster, and Ted instinctually changed his stride to use the can to spring himself up in a dead run. One foot on the can, the next on the dumpster’s corner, Ted sprung upward.

  That instant, a deep explosion came from down the alley.

  Shotgun.

  The fence splintered in several places. Ted crouched to protect himself as he flew off the dumpster and cleared the fence. He was mindless of what lurked on the dingy-looking other side. He toppled another aluminum trashcan on his trip back down. On impact, his feet squished into something like mud or wet grass. His left knee, though, wasn’t so lucky. As his feet slipped out from under him, his knee caught something hard, maybe the edge of the pavement. A chain link fence screeched as he crashed into it, sliding in the cold mud. Around the time the second can’s lid rolled noisily onto the pavement, pain flashed. Ted was sure he’d split his kneecap in half.

  The racket he made could wake an entire neighborhood and would pinpoint his location. The trashcan lid served as a sonic beacon, spiraling on the pavement like a giant coin on a tabletop. Something in Ted’s knee stabbed down to his ankle and up to his hip. He was able to stand, but when he took a step on his left leg, he fell to the ground.

  Climbing. On the dumpster.

  Ted slid himself across a few feet of asphalt to the base of the wooden fence.

  A strong-looking, dark-complected hand—not Ironman’s—grasped an unsplintered slat. Grunting, the man heaved himself over. As he flew, his legs and feet were together, his knees slightly bent. All in all, the move looked professional somehow, like an Olympic gymnast’s dismount. The man landed, sure-footed, holding in one hand something that looked like a stubby baseball bat. For the moment, the man faced the direction in which Ted had intended to run. Ted managed to stand. His left knee complained mightily, and he thought he might have more than the bite of a pit bull. He picked something up and limped toward the shooter.

  CHAPTER 27

  Mr. Gray took his silenced nine and jumped out of the van. Yelling at Lewis to get up, to wake up, if he had to, Mr. Gray fired a few rounds down the alley, dead center, hoping to hit something. Just enough streetlight fell to guide a man fleeing on foot, but not enough to draw a bead on a target. Mr. Gray could shoot with deadly accuracy, but only when he could see.

  Lewis got up in a few seconds, blood running down his face. Pistol in his right hand, shotgun in the left, Mr. Gray chose running and using the silenced pistol before hesitating to point the shotgun. He pulled the trigger right as the doctor’s silhouette flew over the fence, his long coat trailing behind him like a cape. It looked to Mr. Gray like the guy leapt the fence outright. Mr. Gray sprinted down the alley. In a matter of seconds, he used a small garbage can to get up on the dumpster. Bracing to clear the fence, he scanned the lit distance to gauge where the doctor would most likely have gone.

  When he heaved himself over the fence and landed, something moved in the corner of his vision. Then everything went white. Jabbing pain burst through his face and skull.

  A few moments later, he rolled to one side, patting his pocket and verifying the sat phone was there. He stood, at first unaware of what happened. But then he remembered the doctor coming at him with a garbage can, one hand on the opening, and one on the bottom. Mr. Gray’s head throbbed, and his face stung.

  He scanned the ground and couldn’t find his shotgun. He tasted something metallic and spat out a glob of bloody spit.

  Fuck, man. DNA.

  He stood and ran down the grassy strip, the only way the doctor could have gone. To Mr. Gray’s left, the next block down, the minivan’s engine strained. Lewis. Speeding. He must have the doctor in sight. Mr. Gray’s nine was empty, so he drew an unsilenced .45 and ran toward the next street.

  ~~~

  Ted stepped forward and pistoned the empty trashcan toward the van’s driver. When the bottom rim thumped into his face and head, the can broadcast a metallic BWONG!! louder than any aluminum canoe ever did at White Birch. The man flumped to the ground.

  Ted’s knee screamed as he tossed the can a few feet away, into the grass. Limping toward the motionless shooter, Ted picked up the dropped, illegal-as-hell, sawed-off shotgun. He held it, left hand on the pump, right on the sawed-off stock. A familiar-feeling slide-release pressed into his right middle finger behind the trigger guard. Ted knew, then, that what he had in his hands was a pump-action, 12-gauge Mossberg 500 shotgun. A full-stock, long-barrel, legal version of the same stood at home, in his safe.

  Still incensed about Buck, Ironman, John Radiford, and everything else, Ted took one more malignant, limping step toward the downed, bloody-faced man. What was the worst that could happen? The very worst? He used his right thumb to make sure the shotgun’s safety slide was switched forward, to fire. Turning the gun so the ejection port faced upward, he pulled back on the pump to make sure a live round was in the chamber. He grabbed the ejected round with his right hand before it fell, pumped the next round into the chamber, and standing over the downed man, he thumbed the ejected shell back into the magazine tube.

  Really. What was the very worst that could happen?

  But Ted couldn’t even finish pointing the gun. He wasn’t going to shoot the man, not if he was on the ground unconscious. Ted figured he would keep the shotgun, though. If the son of a bitch survived the trashcan-to-the-face, he’d have no idea how close he’d come to death. It was time to move. Time to run
. He lurched forward a step or two, then committed to his own cause. He ran as quickly as his knee would allow. While each of the first few steps seemed to shatter his leg bones, a new shot of fear splattered the knee pain out of his awareness.

  The minivan wailed and sped down the street to his left. To his right, maybe another hundred feet down, an old Trans Am sat, brake lights on, exhaust drifting out of its tailpipe, a lanky kid leaning toward the open passenger door. The van accelerated. It had to be Ironman driving, having swung around the block between The Saloon and the town square that housed the funeral home. Ted picked up his pace and headed toward the car he intended to hijack.

  “Get in the house!” Ted yelled as he approached the lanky kid, the van bearing down on him. He was able to steal a glance over his shoulder. The van kept coming. Trashcan Face popped into view from where he’d been down. Ted had worried the blow to the man’s face had been fatal, but the guy now seemed only a little fazed.

  Ted pivoted, kept his momentum going backward, and leveled the shotgun at Trashcan Face. He had no idea what kind of round the gun had in it. The shot that splintered the fence so decisively had to have been buckshot. The next round could be anything from birdshot to a single hunk of lead that could bring down a rhinoceros. Ted didn’t take the chance. He dropped the barrel a few degrees and pulled the trigger. After working the pump action, he blasted toward the oncoming van. After a brilliant flash, the driver side headlight went dark.

  Ted turned back and yelled at the lanky kid, whose face bore huge surprise. “I said, GET in the HOUSE!”

  This time, the kid did as he was told.

  The van swerved toward Ted as the Trans Am’s rear tires squealed on the pavement. Ted jumped into the open passenger door before the tires gained any purchase. The driver, another skinny kid, wore nothing but jeans and a faded, black, concert T-shirt. Some fast and heavy Metallica tune played through the speakers. The kid kept his eyes on the road as the car gained speed with enough power to keep Ted from catching his balance.