Spencerville

by Nelson DeMille

  Thanks. I won't. Keith asked, Did she look all right?

  Schenley didn't reply immediately, then said, As well as can be expected. He added, She had a bruise on her face . . . you know, when she was in the cell, I wanted to talk to her, but the other two guys were there, and I felt about as bad as I've ever felt. She just sat there, no crying, no screaming, just sort of, like, above it all—very classy lady—and when she looked at me and the other two guys, there wasn't any, like, hate or anything, just sort of like . . . she felt sorry for us—

  Okay . . . thanks. I'll remember the favor if it ever comes up in court.

  Thanks, Landry. This is a damned mess. I can't understand how these three guys, who I thought I knew, could do what they did.

  When we know that, we'll have solved most of the world's problems. He added, I'll put in a good word for you with Pastor Wilkes.

  Schenley laughed, then said, Hey, for your information, Baxter had a homing transmitter on your Blazer.

  Damn it. He asked Schenley, What color is his Bronco?

  Black. He gave him the license plate number and added, Hey, let it go, Landry. Stay away from here. They're looking for you, and Baxter's long gone.

  Yeah, but maybe I'll head for Florida, too.

  He'll kill you next time. The other guys with him say they had to pull him off you before he killed you.

  Thanks again. Keith hung up and got back into the van, where Chuck was drinking a Big Gulp and eating a donut.

  Chuck said, Got extra donuts here.

  Thanks. Make a left.

  Sure thing. Chuck pulled out of the 7-Eleven and made a left on the commercial strip. He said, This ain't the way to Lima.

  No. Make another left at that light.

  Sure thing. Don't mean to be nosy, John, but I get the feeling something's bothering you.

  No, I'm fine, Chuck. In fact, that phone call just restored my faith in the human race.

  Yeah? Sorry I missed that.

  But don't miss your turn. Left here.

  They headed south into the country.

  Keith thought about what Schenley had said and what Terry had said. Obviously, the call that Annie had made to Terry on Monday night was not made from Spencerville, but from Grey Lake if Schenley's chronology was correct, and it probably was. If Baxter had left Spencerville about three A.M., he'd have been at Grey Lake about nine or ten A.M., with a side trip to burn down the Landry house. Baxter had called his children from Grey Lake in the morning, then made Annie call her sister much later, probably after he realized that all the news reports about the Baxters being reunited and in seclusion needed to be verified by Annie to at least one family member. Also, the Florida story had to be put out. Again, Keith thought, Baxter was not only vicious but cunning. A bad combination.

  Keith had no idea what was going on at Grey Lake, but he knew it wasn't a reconciliation. He tried to take some comfort in Annie's assurance that she could handle Cliff Baxter. But in truth, after what Baxter had seen—his wife and her lover naked in bed together— Keith was certain that Baxter had snapped. If he was even halfway rational, he wouldn't have kidnapped his own wife and left such a mess behind; he would have stayed around to protect his job, his power, and his reputation. But obviously the man knew he was finished, and with that knowledge, whatever social control he'd managed to maintain up to now was gone.

  But he wouldn't kill her. No, but he'd make her wish she was dead.

  Keith directed Chuck to an intersecting highway, then gave him a few other directions. Chuck asked, How do you know this place so good?

  I was born here.

  No shit? Hey, you're a Buckeye! Give me five, John!

  Keith felt compelled to solidify the camaraderie, and they did high fives.

  A few minutes later, they approached the Porter house. Keith could see for a good distance in all directions, and he didn't see any police cars, or in fact any vehicles, not even the Porters' car in their gravel driveway. Pull in here, Chuck.

  Chuck pulled into the drive, and Keith said to him, Thanks, buddy. This is it.

  This ain't Lima.

  I guess not. There's the sixty, and here's twenty more. See you next time I'm in Toledo.

  Hey, thanks.

  Keith opened the door and got out. He said, I love this van.

  Ain't she somethin'?

  Keith moved quickly to the back of the house. There was no one in the herb gardens, but the back door was unlocked, and he went inside. He called out, but no one answered. Keith put his briefcase on the counter, locked the back door, then went around to the front door and bolted it.

  He went back to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took a bottle of orange juice and a bran muffin, which he ate as he drank the juice straight from the bottle. He finished both and felt his stomach heave, but managed to keep it all down. He was definitely not well and was operating on pure adrenaline and hate.

  He had no idea where the Porters were, or when they'd be back, but he was actually glad they weren't around.

  At some point, the Spencerville police, or the sheriff, or the posse, or the deputies, or somebody would come around again, and he had to get moving. It was nearly three hundred miles to northern Michigan, and he needed a rifle, a car, clothing, and the other odds and ends of the killing game.

  He went into the front foyer and started up the stairs, then heard a knock on the front door.

  Keith went quickly to the living room and peered out the window. Parked in front of the house was a Spencerville police car.

  There was no one in the car, so the question was, How many cops were around the house? Schenley said only one in each car. There was another, more insistent knock.

  Keith didn't have to answer it, of course, but if it was one of the men who had accompanied Baxter to the motel, Keith wanted to say hello and maybe borrow the car and the shotgun in the car.

  He peered sideways out the window and saw Kevin Ward, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, not looking very alert.

  Keith went to the front door and opened it. Hi.

  Before Ward could react, Keith delivered an uppercut to Ward's groin, then as Ward doubled over, Keith pulled him inside, kicked the door closed, and delivered a powerful hand-chop to Ward's neck. Ward crumpled to the floor, semiconscious.

  Keith took Ward's handcuffs and cuffed his right wrist, then snapped the other cuff to the radiator's steam pipe. Keith unbuckled Ward's gun belt and pulled it off.

  Ward was coming to now, and Keith said to him, You looking for me?

  Ward lay on his side, and it took him a few seconds to realize he was tethered to the steam pipe. He stared up at Keith and said, You fucking . . .

  Keith drew Ward's service revolver, aimed it at Ward's head, and cocked it. Where's your boss?

  Fuck you.

  Keith fired into the wooden floor in front of Ward's face, and the man actually levitated off the floorboards.

  Ward shouted, Florida! He's in Florida!

  Where in Florida?

  I don't . . .

  Keith fired again into the floor near Ward's head, and again Ward bounced, then yelled, Stop! He went. . . I think he went to Daytona. Yeah, to Daytona.

  Where in Daytona?

  I . . . he never told us.

  Okay. She with him?

  Yeah.

  Did you have fun at the motel?

  No.

  Looked like you were having fun.

  I was scared shitless.

  Not as scared as you are now.

  No. Hey, Landry, I just follow orders.

  Every time I hear that, I want to kill the guy who said it.

  Give me a break. You got me down. I told you what I know. Hey, for all I care, you can go down to Daytona and kill the son-of-a-bitch. I hate him.

  And he's not real happy with you either. You saw his wife naked. You better hope I kill him, or you have a career problem.

  Keith holstered the revolver and climbed the stairs before Ward started to think about that.
With any luck, Ward knew that Baxter was at Grey Lake and would call Baxter to say he'd been a good boy and sent Landry off to Florida. It didn't matter that much either way, but you never passed up an opportunity to play the great flimflam game.

  Keith found the master bedroom, which had a very lived-in look, with clothes strewn around, the bed unmade, and every object out of place. He got down on the floor and reached under the bed, hoping that Gail had taken him literally and put the rifle there, but he couldn't feel the carrying case. He looked around the room. In truth, the rifle could be on the floor, and he wouldn't see it amidst the junk. He went around to the other side and looked under the bed, but aside from the clutter, there wasn't anything resembling a canvas carrying case.

  A voice said, Looking for this?

  Keith straightened up and saw the muzzle of the M-16 rifle resting on the edge of the mafcress. Keith stood and said, Hello, Charlie.

  Charlie Adair dropped the rifle on the bed and said, You look like shit.

  Thank you. You, too.

  Did I hear you assaulting and abusing an officer of the law downstairs?

  He was that way when I found him.

  That was very clever—getting the Florida story out of him, and you know that's not where they went. You're very good in the field. I always thought your real talents were wasted behind a desk.

  That's what I've been saying. Keith had no idea how Charlie Adair knew that Baxter and Annie had not gone to Florida. For that matter, he had no idea how Charlie had wound up in the Porter house.

  Adair looked around the room. With friends like these, you don't have to raise pigs.

  They're good people.

  They're left-wing radicals.

  Don't check out my friends, Charlie. I don't like that.

  These are the kinds of friends I have to check out.

  No, you don't.

  Actually, they are nice people.

  How'd you get onto them? Or should I ask?

  You shouldn't. You should tell me.

  Keith thought a moment, then said, Telephone records.

  Bingo. You haven't made many calls since you've been here, so it was easy. Don't be impressed.

  I'm not. He asked, Where are the Porters?

  Running errands. Hey, I never saw a man in an Armani suit step out of an iridescent van. Who was that guy?

  Chuck. From Toledo Airport.

  Ah. Good. He coming back?

  No.

  You're without transportation.

  I have a police car. Where's your transport?

  I just clicked my heels, and here I am.

  Charlie . . . I already have a headache. What can I do for you?

  That's not the question, Keith. Ask not what you can do for your country, but what your country can do for you.

  That's not how it goes.

  Unfortunately, Keith, that's exactly how it goes in Washington, the big tit of the world. Your country is here to help you.

  With no strings attached.

  I didn't say that.

  I don't really have time for this.

  A little time with me will save you a lot of time later. Hey, can we get out of this sty? I think I saw a clean spot downstairs.

  Keith took the rifle off the bed, and, carrying Ward's gun belt and holster, he followed Charlie into the upstairs hallway, where Charlie picked up the carrying case with the scope and ammunition. It was just like Adair, Keith thought, to materialize out of nowhere, brandishing a rifle that could just as well have been in its case—Charlie Adair was all show, mostly drama and comedy, but one day, for sure, tragedy.

  They came down into the front foyer, and Charlie went over to Kevin Ward on the floor and stuck out his hand. Hi, I'm Barry Brown from Amway.

  Keith almost laughed as Ward actually put out his left hand and shook with Charlie.

  Charlie said, I have some stuff that'll make that uniform look like new again. I'll be right back. Stay there.

  Keith and Charlie went into the kitchen. Charlie washed two glasses in the sink and said to Keith, There's fresh tomato juice in the refrigerator.

  Keith got the pitcher out and poured two glasses. Charlie touched his glass to Keith's and said, Good to see you alive.

  Good to be alive, not good to see you.

  Of course it is.

  They drank. Charlie smacked his lips. Not bad. Needs vodka. But maybe you shouldn't drink. You really look like shit. I guess Chief Baxter got ahold of you.

  Keith didn't reply.

  Let's go out back where we can talk.

  They went outside, and Charlie sat in a lawn chair, looking out over the gardens. Beautiful.

  Keith remained standing. He said, Charlie, I'm on a schedule.

  Right. Okay, I won't be too cryptic. Here's what I know. You got back here from Washington on Saturday, missed your rendezvous with Mrs. Baxter, but by Sunday night you were both gone, according to what I've pieced together. By about nine P.M. Sunday, the whole fucking state of Ohio was looking for you on suspicion of kidnapping, but for some odd reason, the FBI wasn't notified of a possible kidnapping with probable flight across state lines. The next we hear from the Ohio police is that they've found your naked and battered person in some fuckarama out by Toledo Airport, sans Mrs. Baxter. You're in Lucas County Hospital with a mild concussion, and so on and so forth. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter are reunited and are on a second honeymoon in Florida. So I fly out to Toledo on Monday morning and look in on you, but you're still out cold. I get a local FBI guy to keep an eye on you so that Mr. Baxter doesn't return to retrieve your balls, which they tell me are intact, then I come out to Spencerville and do some old-fashioned snooping. By Monday night, I've had bean curd with the Porters, and we've become great buddies despite our political differences. He looked at Keith and said, I went out to your place, of course. Sorry.

  It's okay.

  I don't think so. So you want to find him, kill him, and get her back.

  Keith didn't reply.

  Charlie continued, Anyway, I'm staying out at the local mom-and-pop motel, and this morning I get a call from the FBI guy at the hospital, and he's all upset to have to tell me you gave him the sliperoo. I'm impressed. Not with the FBI guy, of course. I mean, the last time I saw you Monday morning, you looked like you couldn't get into any trouble. So I get a federal marshal to go out to the sister's place in wherever the hell that is and do a stakeout, then I get all kinds of phones tapped, courtesy of a federal judge in Toledo, and I come here to the Porters', taking a chance that you'd show up. Meanwhile, I've got a federal writ of habeas corpus in my pocket in case some of the locals pick you up. All I have to do is fill in the blanks. Isn't this wonderful? I can do anything I want. But I'm on the side of the angels with this one, buddy, so any minor abuse of federal power can be forgiven. He added, We take care of our own, Keith. We always have.

  I know.

  I'm here to help.

  I know you are, Charlie. But I don't think I need your help.

  Sure you do. You need a car, clothes, and some good hunting gear.

  Why do I need that?

  To go up to Michigan. That's what you told Terry on the phone.

  Keith shook his head. You're a piece of work. You know that? Look, I'm not going to sell my soul for a pair of boots. I can handle this myself.

  Let me apprise you of your situation. You have a cold-cocked cop in the front foyer, no car, no home, damned few friends, not much if any money, every cop in this county is looking for you, you're wearing a silk suit and tight shoes, you're walking with a slight wobble, my friend, and your only decent weapon, discounting the cop's peashooter, is that M-16, which is really not your property, but Uncle Sam's, and I might just take it with me.

  I wouldn't try that.

  Charlie took out a pack of cigarettes. The Porters said I could smoke here. They smoke grass. He lit a cigarette and said, Isn't it a great feeling to be part of a big, powerful, omnipotent organization?

  You tell me. Is that what you need to f
eel good about yourself?

  Actually, yes. You, too.

  Wrong. Hey, I thought you were on my side. Remember? Dragons on my shield, rats in the cellar?

  That was Friday. This is Tuesday, and you're vulnerable again.

  Wrong again. I'm on a pure quest, Charlie. I'm a knight again, and I'm going to rescue the damsel in distress from the monster. This is a good fight, and knights always do this alone. Fuck the king and all the king's men. That includes you.

  Charlie thought a moment, then replied, Okay. I get it. No strings attached, but I'm not letting Sir Keith go up there without the things he needs. I'll just supply what you need for the mission, and you go up to Michigan and take this guy out, then you get yourself to . . . let's say Detroit. The downtown Marriott. I'll book a room. If you don't show up by this time tomorrow, I'll assume it didn't go your way. If you do show up, you and Mrs. Baxter and I will celebrate. No strings.

  Keith didn't reply.*

  Charlie continued, I told the people in Washington you had personal matters to take care of. All they want from you is a yes or no by Friday. Gives you time to think about it, if you're alive tomorrow. If you're dead, I'll tell them you're terminally inconvenienced. Anyway, after you get out of here, you're on your own. Just like old times, when I kissed you good-bye at some fucked-up border crossing or airport. But I have to feel that I've given you every advantage before you leave. Just like old times, Keith. Let me do that for you.

  Why?

  I like you. I didn't like Chief Baxter. I don't like what he did. I want you to be happy. A happy man makes happy decisions.

  Again, Keith didn't reply.

  If nothing else, think of the Porters. They have a cop in the foyer. I'll take care of that for you and for them.

  I'll take care of that. Keith asked, Where are the Porters, Charlie?

  Running errands.

  Where are they running errands?

  Antioch. I sent them away. Hey, they were telling me about the Antioch rules of sexual conduct. I laughed my ass off. But it's not funny. He added, Actually, I like them. They promised to vote Republican next time. You want another juice? I'll get it.