Impasse

by Royce Scott Buckingham

  “How can I help?”

  “You can’t! I don’t need you! I need your husband.”

  Katherine pushed the rest of the mail away, wanting nothing to do with it, but Clay eyed the stack.

  “Anything else?” he asked in a low growl.

  “Bulk mail. Except this.” She pointed to a letter with a name above the return address. “Roger Rodan?”

  “Sounds familiar.” Clay leaned out and plucked it from the desk, then sliced it open with a silver letter opener and began to read.

  Katherine watched his face change. It was an unpleasant process, like watching a handsome Hollywood actor turn into a snarling werewolf. He put his drink on the desk and rose from the chair.

  “Are you kidding me? No! Is this a joke?”

  “What?”

  Clay didn’t answer. Instead he repeatedly jammed the letter opener into the antique desk she’d picked out for him to celebrate the remodel. “No! No! No!”

  Katherine didn’t dare speak.

  Clay took a deep breath then leveled a malignant stare at her over the top of the quivering opener, which jutted from the wooden desktop. “Sylvia Molson is contesting our fee, just like Stu said.”

  “What does that mean? Will this delay getting the money?”

  “No! This won’t delay the money! If Stu was right, this means the money’s not coming at all!”

  Katherine stared, trying to process the information. “Stu’s usually right,” she whispered. “You didn’t tell me that he—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I told you! We owe Joe Roff hundreds of thousands of dollars that aren’t coming.”

  “Oh God. I just bought the house.”

  “This isn’t about your house, you stupid bitch! He is going to burn quarters into my goddamned face!”

  Katherine’s mind reeled, and the words she had to say were painful. “I could sell it.”

  “We can’t sell this office we remodeled. We’re renting it!”

  Katherine felt a rising panic. “I’ll talk to Joe. He likes me. I’ll do whatever I need to do, like you said.”

  Clay took a deep breath and flopped down in the chair. For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, then he coughed up a sardonic chuckle. “Kate, Kate, Kate,” he said. “You don’t get it. Joe and Reggie thought it would be funny to fuck a prosecutor’s wife; that was part of the agreement to advance us the money. But make no mistake: to men who can have nineteen-year-old strippers whenever they want, your middle-aged ass isn’t worth three hundred thousand dollars.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Audry stood in the doorway, regarding Stu through her bug-eye glasses. She wore a skirt with heels and a white blouse. No pajamas this time—she had a habit of throwing them on as soon as the sun went down, like a kid eager for a bedtime story. No T-shirt and panties, either. She looked like a lawyer again.

  “So you’re just going to leave town? Run away? That’s the plan?”

  “Yes,” Stu lied. He found it hard to lie after so many years of seeking the truth. I’ll have to practice that, he thought. “I’ve done the analysis. I can’t take on an organized crime boss and his entire crew. If they want me gone, they’ll get me. Worse, they’ll go after people I care about, including you. It’s better that they think I’m dead.”

  “And I can’t take any of the brilliant research I’ve done to the police.”

  “Not a word.”

  “So you’re cutting me out.”

  “I’m protecting you.”

  “I’m a big girl, remember?”

  Stu smiled and tried not to stare. “You certainly are. But career criminals are like wild animals. They do what they do, and if you get tangled up with them, they’ll do it to you. I’m already tangled. You’re not.”

  “What about Clay?”

  “I have a feeling his life is about to get very tangled. That’s all you need to know.”

  “You tease!” Audry shook her head then softened her tone. “And Katherine?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to think through all the facts and make the necessary conclusions on that one yet.”

  “You think too much. How do you feel?”

  Stu hesitated. He’d been so busy gathering information and seeking answers that he hadn’t decided how he felt. It was like a safety mechanism—focusing on logical solutions kept him from wanting to punch somebody in the nose.

  “Angry,” he said finally. The answer surprised him.

  It surprised Audry, too, but she nodded. “Okay, then. Go with that.”

  Stu gathered his things. He found Edwin’s in the bottom of his pack, tattered and torn. He flipped a few pages then realized he didn’t need it anymore. He gave it a nostalgic pat and dropped it in the recycling bin.

  When he was ready to leave, Audry hugged him. She was a whole-body hugger and squeezed like she meant it.

  “This has been the best job ever,” she said into his shoulder.

  “You know that’s a really odd thing to say, given the circumstances, right?”

  “You know what I mean. This is what it’s all about. I’m helping a human being fix his life, not reviewing some boring precautionary contract provision for a proposed business venture. Not writing a will, just in case. You’re real. And totally not boring.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Nope.” She finally released him from her clinch. “I’ve never dated someone who killed a man. Or a bear.”

  “Both were self-defense.”

  “I know.”

  Stu was sad when she let go. It was the closest he’d felt to a person in … He couldn’t remember how long.

  “This is for you.” He handed her a thumb drive.

  “What is it?”

  “A list of our legitimate clients. You’ll also find a signed letter of introduction for you, backdated to when I was alive. If Clay doesn’t retain them for any reason, this will send them your way.”

  “My own law firm?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Are you going to tell me where you’re going?”

  “No.”

  Stu turned to go. Then he paused. It felt wrong that his last word to Audry might be no. He was already being less than chivalrous, disappearing after sharing an intimate night. And waffles. Especially after a trip across a metaphorical rope bridge together. He looked back over his shoulder. Though it was dangerous to promise, it had to be okay to hope.

  “But I hear Oregon is nice.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Katherine took a long look out at Buzzards Bay from her half-furnished living room. It was a lonely view. A very nice home with no company had a way of feeling very empty. Clay had promised to call her as soon as his meeting with Roff was over. He hadn’t, and it was getting late. It could mean a lot of things, none of them good.

  They were criminals, Roff and Dugan. Hranic, too. She understood that now. They were the type of people her husband had prosecuted. It had been easier to switch sides than she’d thought. The line between law and outlaw was as thin as the line between Stu and Clay.

  The doorbell rang with a ridiculously solemn bong that echoed about the room. Her heart skipped a beat. Clay was supposed to call, not drop by. What if it was Roff or Dugan? Or both? They burned quarters into the faces of people who owed them. Just when she was about to become the hottest middle-aged woman at the gym. She banished the thought—it was too ugly. But then she recalled that Raymond Butz worked for Dugan. Butz’s wife had been made to disappear completely. Like Stu.

  Oh no.…

  Katherine took the phone with her to answer the bell, although she wasn’t sure who she’d call if she needed help.

  CHAPTER 46

  Stu was curious to see how he would feel when he saw her. Over the previous six months he’d examined his marital situation from every angle. The disturbing facts he’d discovered upon his return added another layer of analysis, but none of it answered his most basic question about his wife. For that, he had to see her one more time.


  And so he’d rung the bell and then ducked behind Katherine’s perfect new row of boxwood hedges like a kid playing doorbell ditch. He peered at her through the branches, standing motionless and invisible in the brush, listening, watching, trying his best to get a sense of her karma as she stood in the doorway, staring into the night, skittish and wary. To his surprise, it took only a moment to answer his question. And the answer was no.

  Seeing her brought none of the relief or joy he’d promised himself while in the wilderness. Instead he felt a gap. There had always been a distance between them, he realized. But he hadn’t given it the weight it deserved, because it was an intangible thing, a space, a feeling, and he’d never trusted his feelings. He consulted them now, though, and found he no longer had the urge to go to her. She’d never been the right mate for him, and now she’d weakened, given up the struggle and taken the easy path, where the traps were laid. His instincts told him to walk away. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It simply was not love.

  He would leave Katherine to her photographs and her new friends, he decided. Audry had weaseled the name of her art patron out of Brad Bear. Archie Brooks. Archie was a regular in the criminal courts. Stu remembered him. He was loosely associated with Roff’s crew. His purchase of her series had been orchestrated by Clay to create the illusion of success—Katherine was a sucker for flattery. Her whaling series was stacked somewhere in a waterfront warehouse, decaying right alongside the industry it portrayed.

  Stu felt no guilt. They wouldn’t kill her; she didn’t know enough, and they could take their house back if she owed them money. They might screw her again, he supposed.

  But getting screwed isn’t inherently dangerous.

  The money she had would run out, and soon she’d have to fend for herself. But she hadn’t come from money, Stu thought, and so she should know how to survive without it. Besides, she was an excellent hostess. Perhaps Margery would give her a job in one of her restaurants.

  CHAPTER 47

  Stu waited inside the New England Imports warehouse. It was a large but innocuous structure—as he’d expected an organized crime figure’s building might be—with a corrugated blue metal roof, two big white garage doors, and a man-door. It sat at the dark end of the wharf on the New Bedford side of the bridge, wedged between similar dockside monoliths that were equally lifeless. Old fishing nets hung on the outside below the rusted metal NE IMPORTS sign, giving the building a neglected look. Like one of Katherine’s photos.

  The single huge storage area was nearly empty—no bales of marijuana, chopped cars, or crates of tommy guns. Just a sloop nestled in a maintenance cradle, and boat parts stacked on shelves along the walls. Every sound echoed around the open space, giving it a ghostly feel. The building’s interior office was a small cubical built against the wall on one side. Thin partitions made up its other three walls, and it jutted out into the massive room like a perfectly square tumor. Stu crouched in its shadow.

  He found he preferred crouching over sitting. It kept him alert, and he’d been doing it for more than an hour, motionless, and listening to the creaks and groans of the wood walls and metal roof. The unmistakable skitter of a rat caught his ear. Just one. In the rafters somewhere above. But it wasn’t his prey tonight. He kept his head cocked toward the exterior door. He’d hear it open. He’d also hear any human footsteps on the concrete and know the exact distance to the shoes that produced them as they approached. Stu closed his eyes and just listened. He was comfortable waiting, patient and calmer than he had any right to be.

  The rasp and click of the bolt on the man-door alerted him. There was an effort to turn the knob slowly, quietly, but it didn’t matter. Stu heard it as clearly as if someone had knocked. He didn’t move, but simply opened his eyes, watching from the shadows and listening. The footsteps were coming. One pair.

  Good.

  He’d left a single torchiere lamp lit inside the office, on the other side of the thin wall. The remainder of the warehouse was dark. It would lend his visitor a false sense of security to approach in darkness, Stu thought, and the light in the office would draw him like a moth.

  A shadow approached. Stu heard the footsteps and quick nervous breaths. Still, he didn’t move. Instead he watched from his hiding place as a human silhouette walked right past him and peeked into the open office.

  In the darkness, Clay Buchanan didn’t see the wire loop that encircled the upper portion of the door. As Stu had estimated, his partner was just over six feet tall, and his head fit neatly through it. Stu raised the old wooden oar he’d found leaning against the wall and slapped it against the concrete with an impressive bang. Clay leaped forward like a spooked rabbit, and the snare tightened around his neck.

  The wire line on the back of the snare was twisted over the doorframe with just enough slack that Clay could turn in place but couldn’t take more than one step in any direction. He spun and yanked, jamming one finger up between his neck and the wire, but he was unable to pry it loose.

  Stu stepped from the shadows.

  “Don’t struggle. It’ll just get tighter. And be careful not to lose your footing or you’ll hang yourself.”

  Clay turned and stared. It took a moment before he could speak. “Stu?” He wheezed.

  “Hi.” Stu pushed past him and walked behind the desk, where he sat on the chair. “Having a bad week?”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Clay’s throat was constricted so that he sounded a bit like he’d inhaled helium.

  “I thought it was obvious. I’m back from my adventure.”

  Stu could see Clay’s mind churning. An animal in a trap is still dangerous, he reminded himself.

  “Thank God, it’s you. I thought I was dead.”

  “Funny, that’s what everyone keeps saying about me.”

  “I don’t know what you think, buddy,” Clay said, “but I can help you figure it out.”

  “I think you had an idiot pilot leave me out in the wilderness to die so you could collect the full Molson settlement. And I think you’re laundering money for midlevel organized crime figures.”

  Clay had to think for a moment. But his response was still impressively quick. “No. It was them, not me,” he said. “I had no idea they were going to leave you out there. My God.”

  “Oh? You didn’t know Dugan was a crook when you brought him to the firm? I don’t find that credible.”

  Clay licked his lips. “They had their hooks in me way back when we were prosecutors. I was drinking, spending, gambling. I owed them.”

  If you live among predators for long, they will eventually eat you.

  Clay continued talking, fast and high-pitched. “They had dirt on me, man, even then. It killed my career.”

  It was Stu’s turn to think. “You gave their crew low bail and plea bargains when you were a DA, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jeezus. And Malloy figured it out and asked you to quit voluntarily to avoid the scandal.”

  “Dugan approached me again this year. He said he wanted to do business, legitimate business. I didn’t know they were still after you for Butz.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What?”

  “I figured it out later, after you were gone.”

  “Talk. Now.”

  “Butz is one of Dugan’s men. He knocked his wife around one night, and she threatened to go to the cops with everything she knew about their crew. That’s why they killed her. Not because of some craft store bill.”

  Stu’s head spun. It made sense. The three-hundred-dollar financial motive had always been weak. Was I wrong all these years? He hadn’t ever seriously considered how the murderer felt about him. He’d just been doing his job, after all. He hadn’t even used the man’s first name, because Ray made Butz sound like someone’s wisecracking uncle at the barbeque grill, while calling him simply defendant during trial was an effective prosecutor technique to depersonalize him to the jury. Like a widget.

  Accused men take that shit personally, B
lake had said. And Stu had pursued Butz despite a historic lack of evidence. He groaned. It was a plausible explanation—he’d unwittingly pissed off a member of the local mob.

  Clay gave him a sympathetic look. “Are you ready to cut me down?”

  “It’s a simple matter of untwisting the wire.”

  Clay looked up and, after deciphering the trap’s elementary setup, released himself. He stepped out of the office, and Stu rose to follow him.

  Stu found himself standing face-to-face with his partner in the huge empty space of the warehouse. Dim light from the office lamp leaked out, casting an oblong halo around them, illuminating them like two boxers in a ring.

  “You had me scared there, Stuey,” Clay said.

  “I had to test you.”

  “Did I pass?”

  “So far.”

  “Great. Now we can take care of this mess. Have you called the police yet?”

  “Nope. Came to see you first.”

  “Then who else knows you’re alive?”

  “No one.” The lie came more easily than it had with Audry.

  “Not Katherine?”

  “Just you.”

  “Thank God.” Clay nodded, then reached inside his new and very expensive-looking jacket.

  Stu felt many emotions when his partner pulled out the .357. Strangely, disappointment was the foremost.

  Clay leveled the gun at him. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

  Stu wondered momentarily why people apologized before killing other human beings. Then Clay pulled the trigger.

  The dry click echoed in the empty warehouse. Clay tried again, then stared at the gun as though it had magically transformed into a pigeon.

  “It’s dangerous to keep a loaded gun in your desk drawer,” Stu said. “I did my homework, Clay. Did you? No? You never do.”

  “Wait! I didn’t mean—”

  “To kill me? I wasn’t sure before, but I am now, beyond a reasonable doubt. It was you. They might have gone along with it, maybe even welcomed it, but you put the hit on me. You initiated this.”