by Brad Smith
‘Well,’ he said after a moment.
Carl walked over. Rufus pointed to an entry on the screen.
‘We have a Dodge pickup truck registered to one Larry Murdock.’
‘That’s the truck,’ Carl said.
‘It would appear so.’ Rufus paused, looking at the information on the monitor. ‘A rural address north of Tareytown. Keep in mind, this tells us nothing. It could be that Mr Murdock is merely the fisherman we’ve been supposing all along.’
‘Maybe,’ Carl said.
Rufus turned in the chair to look at him. ‘You’ve convinced yourself that there’s something here, Carl. Take it slow. You are the one who said that fishermen and duck hunters use that lane.’
‘I did say that,’ Carl replied. ‘People park there frequently. But as far as I know Frances never took down a license plate before. Why this time, Rufus?’
‘She was never in a situation like this before, Carl.’
‘That’s my point.’
There was a scratch pad on the desk. Carl picked up a pen and began to write down the address on the computer screen.
‘You’re not going to the man’s house,’ Rufus said.
Carl shrugged. ‘The police will want the info.’
‘The police will run the plate number themselves. How are you going to explain being in possession of this information?’
‘I’m not going to throw you under the bus,’ Carl said. ‘You know that.’
‘They are going to ask.’
‘I’ll just give them the plate number.’
‘Then why are we sitting here in front of my computer screen?’ Rufus asked. ‘What are you thinking, Carl?’
Carl moved away from the desk. He stood by the bay window, looking out into the town. The scrap of paper was clutched in his right hand. ‘I’d like to get a look at him,’ he said after a time. ‘Like you said, it could be nothing. At least I’ll know.’
‘You need to turn this over to the police, Carl.’
‘I will, Rufus.’ Carl put the address in his pocket and left.
‘Shit,’ Rufus said to the closing door.
TWENTY
Heading there, Carl had no intention of getting close. All he really wanted was a glimpse of the guy who owned the white truck. And preferably at a distance. If the owner was one of the two men he could recognize from the farmhouse that night, Carl would call the police. If not, then it was probably a dead end. Of course, there existed a third possibility – that the truck’s owner was the third man in the house that night, the one who had not removed his mask. Carl knew only that he was tall and thin. If that description matched, he would still call the cops.
He had made himself wait until morning, resisting the urge to drive there directly from Rufus Canfield’s law office. The next day was Sunday, a good time to catch somebody at home, he reasoned. The address was the village of Bonwick, a crossroads roughly halfway between Rose City and Tareytown. It was nearly an hour’s drive for Carl.
He spotted the Dodge truck from a quarter mile away, parked at an angle in a driveway. To be sure, he drove by, slowing down to get a look at the license plate. The house was on the edge of the village, a story and a half stucco with faded paint and a collection of junk scattered in the yard, lawnmowers and rototillers and car engines. A steel utility shed in the back yard had collapsed in the wind. The grass was so long it was lying flat on the ground, like prairie grass after a wind storm.
The village had just a dozen or so homes and a gas station that did double duty as a coffee shop. Anxious in his task, Carl hadn’t eaten or drunk anything when he got up that morning and now he went inside and ordered coffee, choosing a table that gave him a view of the house down the road. He sat there for the better part of an hour, asking for refills he didn’t want. His stomach was turning; he couldn’t eat and so he ordered no breakfast. When he became aware that the woman serving him was looking at him suspiciously, he paid his bill and walked out to his truck. He sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, knowing he was still under the eye of the woman inside as well as the other few Sunday morning patrons of the diner. Small towns and strangers, he knew.
Pulling out, he drove to the first side road west of town and parked there. After a moment he got out and opened the hood, where he made a pretense of looking at an engine problem, all the while watching the white Dodge truck a quarter mile away. Even that, he knew, was a ruse that would only last so long.
After twenty minutes he closed the hood and as he did he saw a man walk out of the house, get into the Dodge pickup and drive off. At that distance Carl couldn’t see anything about the man he might recognize. He was wearing a coat and moving quickly; he might have been skinny or heavy or anywhere in between. Carl got into his truck and followed.
The white truck was headed for Rose City, on the two lane blacktop. Carl, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, had to force himself to hang back. His pulse was racing now and he wished he’d gotten a better look at the driver when he’d had the chance. Maybe he should have parked closer. He had to remind himself that there was a high likelihood that the man had nothing to do with the trouble at the farm. Yet the mere possibility had Carl’s blood on the rise. He tried to calm himself, to no avail.
The man drove fast and at one point Carl had to run a yellow light to keep the Dodge in sight. On the outskirts of Rose City was a mile long stretch of strip malls, bars, gas stations and box stores. The road opened up to six lanes. There was a succession of stoplights and the traffic was heavy, delivery vans and cargo trucks. The Dodge swung across the traffic to the right lane, pulling in front of a tanker as it went through a green light. When Carl reached the intersection, the Dodge was gone. He’d lost it.
Carl, in a panic now, went through the light, watching the traffic ahead. Then he glanced to his right and saw the Dodge cutting diagonally across a mall parking lot there. The truck had turned at the intersection. There was a Home Depot in the mall and a Staples, as well as some smaller businesses. Carl, caught in traffic, kept looking until the Dodge disappeared behind the first row of stores.
Carl took the next right and circled around behind the block. There was a rear entrance to the mall and he took it, driving across the back lot past loading docks and dumpsters, in the direction of where he’d last seen the Dodge. As he made a turn to swing in front of the stores, he nearly collided with the white truck. It went past him and parked in front of a bar named Diablo’s. The driver got out.
Carl was less than thirty feet away. There was no question it was him. The man Carl had last seen at the farmhouse, the man who had tormented Stacy, and maybe worse. Carl knew the greasy hair, the wispy goatee, the bad teeth. All of it was etched in Carl’s memory; he would remember it until he died. Seeing the man at close range Carl felt his breath catch in his chest, and for a split second he was fearful, although he didn’t know of what. The man didn’t look his way.
And then he did. For some reason, heading into the bar, the man stopped and turned directly toward Carl, sitting in the Ford, the engine idling. And he recognized him, there was no doubt of that. The look on his face was one of abject fear and panic. He jerked his head sideways in a violent motion, as if in the hope that Carl hadn’t seen him. But he knew.
They both knew.
Even realizing it was too late, Carl put his hand up to shield his face and hit the gas, moving past the row of stores. Watching in the rear view, he saw the man stop in front of the bar and hesitate for just a second before turning and hurrying back to his truck. He jumped inside and drove off, heading out of the mall the way Carl had come in.
Carl made a U-turn, tires screaming, and followed. Behind the mall the Dodge went right, moving fast along the narrow side street, away from the city. Carl powered after it. As he drove, he fished the cell phone from his pocket and found Pulford’s number. It went straight to voice mail. Carl turned it off.
He cursed himself for being careless. Leaving the farm that morning, he’d told himself that
all he wanted was a look at the man. He needed to know if the license plate number meant anything. But he had gotten too close and now he had blown it. The man in the Dodge knew that he’d been made. If he got away today, he might not ever be found. Rufus had been right; Carl should have left it to the cops.
Up ahead the white pickup was flying. Carl gunned the Ford after him. They hit the main highway heading west, passing vehicles. When the road reduced to two lanes, there were several vehicles between Carl and the Dodge. He lost sight of it for a moment at a hill and then, cresting the rise, he saw the truck heading south on a gravel side road. Carl took the turnoff, nearly skidding into the ditch before roaring after it.
Soon they were entering an area of pine forest on both sides of the road, with the Dodge a half mile ahead. Carl saw the brake lights flash briefly and the truck turned to the left and disappeared into the trees. It seemed the driver knew where he was going. Carl was already hitting sixty on the stone road and now he sped up. Reaching the turnoff, he found it was a dirt road which snaked into the pines. The recent rain had made the lane impassable. The white Dodge sat fifty yards away, mud flying from its rear wheels as the axles sank into the quagmire.
Carl pulled on to the lane and stopped. He saw the driver look into the rear view mirror at the Ford, his foot on the gas pedal yet, the tires still throwing mud. The man let off the throttle and shut the engine down. He got out and stepped away from the truck. Carl climbed out of the Ford awkwardly, reaching across his body to open the door. The man half turned as if to run but in that instant he saw that Carl’s left arm was in a sling. He showed his teeth as he went into a stance that suggested some martial arts training. ‘Come and get it then,’ he said.
Face to face with the man after these futile weeks, Carl felt a deep rage rising inside of him, a thing he could neither recognize or quantify. As he drew near the man lunged at him, throwing a weak right hand, the punch grazing Carl’s cheek. Carl turned away from the blow and then put all of his weight behind a crushing right cross that landed squarely in the man’s face. The man dropped to his knees and Carl took him by the hair and drove his knee into his face. The man went limp.
He called Pulford again on the drive into Rose City. This time he left a message with enough details that she called back within two minutes. It seemed she had been screening her calls. When he pulled up in front of the police station she was waiting for him, wearing track pants and sneakers, her hair tucked beneath a baseball cap. The driver of the Dodge pickup was in the box of Carl’s truck, bleeding profusely from his nose and trussed hand and foot with the extension cord Carl had bought in Talbotville the day before.
As Pulford hurried down the front steps, Carl dropped the tailgate and dragged the man out of the truck, dropping him with a thud to the concrete. The man screamed in protest as Carl turned to Pulford.
‘This is one of them,’ he said.
TWENTY-ONE
‘He hasn’t asked for a lawyer?’ Dunbar asked as he and Pulford walked along the corridor to the interrogation room.
Pulford shook her head. ‘He doesn’t think he needs one. I have advised him otherwise but he’s not much of a listener.’
Bug was already in the room, sitting at the scarred Formica table. He had scrapes on his cheekbone and forehead where he’d hit the concrete out front of the station and his nose was mashed where he’d taken the knee to the face. He was still wearing his street clothes – jeans and a T-shirt with some rock band’s logo across the front. It was warm in the room and his leather jacket was on the back of the chair. He regarded Dunbar blankly.
‘Mr Murdock,’ Dunbar said, and he introduced himself.
Bug leaned back in the chair, looking up at the two detectives. ‘So what’s up – you gonna try and tag team me before you cut me loose?’
Dunbar pulled a chair over to sit opposite Bug. Pulford remained on her feet.
‘It’s going to be a long time before anyone will even think about cutting you loose, Larry,’ Dunbar said. ‘I need you to tell me about your actions on the Friday night two weeks ago, the night of the tenth.’
Bug pointed his damaged nose toward Pulford. ‘I already told her.’
‘Now you can tell me.’
Bug shook his head. ‘I was home alone. Drank a little whisky and watched the football. Went to bed around midnight maybe. Can I go now?’
‘What football game?’
Again Bug looked at Pulford. ‘You didn’t tell him nothing? Why do I gotta keep saying it?’ He turned to Dunbar. ‘Michigan, I think.’
‘Michigan and who?’
‘Fucked if I know.’
‘Who won?’
Bug laughed. ‘Either Michigan or the other team.’
Dunbar nodded and waited. Bug said nothing else.
‘Where was your truck that night?’ Dunbar asked.
‘In my driveway. Where else would it be?’
‘Where else?’ Dunbar repeated. ‘Well, it might have been parked in a lane by the river east of Talbotville. In fact, it was parked there.’
‘No,’ Bug said. ‘You got a smoke for me?’
Dunbar didn’t respond for the moment. He stood looking at the man at the table. There wasn’t much to Larry Murdock. He was all bluster and false bravado, a little scared boy talking tough in the school playground. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. When he’d first heard what had happened, Dunbar had wondered how Carl had managed to subdue the man using only one arm. He wasn’t wondering it now. Dunbar was pretty sure that even a one-handed Carl Burns could eat a half dozen Larry Murdocks for breakfast.
‘Why was your truck parked there?’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘It was. It was there because you were involved in a home invasion that night at a farmhouse a few hundred yards away,’ Dunbar said. ‘You and two other men. Who were they?’
‘I got no idea what you’re talking about, bud.’ Bug glanced at Pulford, who was watching quietly by the door. ‘Hey – did you lay charges against that asshole that attacked me yesterday, like I asked?’
‘That man’s name is Carl Burns,’ Dunbar said. ‘Have you ever seen him before?’
‘Nope. Fucker chased me down for no reason and sucker punched me. Tied me up like a damn animal. That’s assault and kidnapping. I want him charged.’
‘He’s seen you before,’ Dunbar said. ‘He is one hundred per cent certain that you were one of the men who broke into his house and assaulted him and two others. One hundred per cent. And we know that your truck was parked nearby. The indictments are coming down this afternoon. So far you’re looking at first degree murder, home invasion, armed robbery, arson and felony assault. You’re as good as convicted on all counts. If you want any chance at leniency, you’d better name your two partners right now.’
‘I was watching football that night, bud.’
‘Stick with that story, see where it gets you.’ Dunbar paused. ‘The nature of these crimes, you’ll never get parole. How long do you think you’re going to live, Larry? Because that’s how long you’re going to spend in prison. You OK with that?’
Bug shrugged. He looked from Dunbar to Pulford and back to Dunbar. ‘You got nothing to hold me on. You’re talking shit right now but you gotta let me go.’
‘We have an eyewitness,’ Pulford told him. ‘Don’t you get that?’
‘I’ve never seen that guy before.’
Dunbar leaned back in the chair. He had driven most of the night after getting word about the unorthodox citizen’s arrest. Pulford had called the hunting lodge and someone from the lodge had arrived at the camp on a snowmobile with the news. Dunbar and his hunting buddies were drinking scotch and playing euchre at the time, after a fruitless day in the woods. Apparently the hunting had been better back in the city.
‘You’ve been locked up in the past for dealing dope and stealing cars,’ Dunbar said to Bug now. ‘You’ve been a small time nuisance and nothing more. But all of a sudden you make this le
ap to murder and arson and robbery. What would cause you to do that? Are you just addled by drugs?’ Dunbar waited. ‘Or was somebody else calling the shots that night? Your record suggests to me that you’re a follower, Larry.’
Bug wouldn’t look at either of them now. He stared at the scratched surface of the table. ‘I was watching the football that night.’
‘Where’s the money?’ Dunbar asked. ‘Are we going to find it at your place? Some of it? All of it?’
‘No.’
‘So where is it?’
Bug shrugged. ‘What money?’
‘You know what money,’ Dunbar said. ‘The seventy thousand dollars you stole from Frances Rourke.’
The amount took Bug by surprise and for a split second he wasn’t able to hide it. He jerked his gaze upward toward Dunbar before looking quickly away.
‘I got no idea about any money. You got to let me go. You can’t hold me without no charges.’
Dunbar nodded toward Pulford now and she opened the door and spoke to someone down the corridor.
‘You go back to your cell and think about things, Larry,’ Dunbar said. ‘If it’s charges you want, by tomorrow morning you’ll have all the charges you could ever dream of.’
The uniform took Bug back downstairs to the holding cells. By that time the search warrant was prepared and signed. Dunbar and Pulford got a car from the garage and drove to the crossroads of Bonwick.
‘You get anything from his phone?’ Dunbar asked as they drove.
‘We haven’t found his phone,’ Pulford said. ‘He didn’t have one on him.’
‘In his truck maybe?’
‘I didn’t see one,’ Pulford said. ‘Forensics is giving it the once over.’
‘Any chance that it could have gotten lost in the scuffle out in the woods?’
‘I went there with the towing company,’ Pulford said. ‘I didn’t see anything and I had a pretty good look around.’
