Bad Moon Rising (15 page)

This was typical Cartwright, the whole thing. His followers genuinely wanted to run the hippies out of town, and no doubt Cartwright found them irritating. But this ham play and the word from the Lord was all to promote his radio show. I'm pretty sure Jesus never used a live remote, but then Jesus didn't have Cartwright's skill with self-promotion. Or confidence games if you prefer.

You see, Jesus ordered Cartwright to the mountain every year about this time. Cartwright did his communing inside a comfortable little trailer, while all around him were booths offering religious pamphlets he bought in bulk at two cents each and charged $2.50 for. Then there were his self-published books, record albums, children's books, and Jesus sweaters, caps, and jackets. His church ladies sold burgers and hot dogs and pop at jacked-up prices. And every time he emerged from his trailer to speak to the two or three hundred people who'd gathered there, a plate was passed around. The shakedowns never ended.

He kept talking, or tried to. The smirkers kept shouting insults and laughing at him. Not even the cops walking among them could shut them up. Cartwright's flock turned on the smirkers and started chanting their own cleaned-up insults right back. Cartwright the mountaineer was drowned out completely.

And then finally, it broke. Whether the smirkers rushed the followers or the followers rushed the smirkers, it was hard to say, but somebody threw a punch at somebody and about a dozen bodies were entangled in pushing, shoving, and throwing a few fists.

The cops rushed to form a broken line between the two groups. They shouted, too—for both groups to shut the hell up.

For the past few minutes I'd sensed somebody staring at me, but in all the shouting I hadn't looked around. Now that I started scanning the people behind me, I didn't see anybody taking any particular interest in me. These were the true onlookers. They'd come to the crash site just to check it out. They weren't followers and they weren't smirkers. I suspected that most of them in this blistering, sweaty night were here for the yuks. This might well be more interesting than anything on at the drive-in. (I'd checked and it was.) I started to look back at the groups who were bringing the cops to understandable anger. But then peripherally I caught somebody waving. He'd quit waving by the time I'd started looking again. I was about to give up when I saw him lean from behind a tree and wave again.

Tommy Delaney, high school football player and tortured soul of his parents' many deadly battles, walked in my direction. I thought maybe he'd seen somebody behind me he wanted to talk to, but then there he was putting out his hand.

As we shook he said, “I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you before, Mr. McCain. I ran into Sarah this afternoon and she told me you were a good guy and that I should apologize.”

“I didn't know you and Sarah knew each other.”

“Yeah. My uncle owns the used-book store over on Main and Chandler. I used to work there sometimes. She was always coming in. She's a big reader.” He had a shy smile. “We didn't get along at first. You know, she can come on pretty strong with the hippie stuff. But eventually we got to be friends. I even took her to the movies a couple of times.” Then he nodded to Kenny. “We sell a lot of your books there, Mr. Thibodeau.”

“I wouldn't admit that to anybody, Tommy.”

Tommy smiled, but now his body tensed. Hands into fists, his eyes jittery. He gulped twice. He looked around at the melee that was calming down. He was going to tell me something. Then the tension and the anxiety drained from him and he said, “Well, I better get going. I—I'm not real popular with Mr. Mainwaring now. You know, I've kinda lived there for the last year and a half. It was real peaceful there. But I don't think he wants me around anymore. I wanna see if I can patch things up. I hate to be—you know, banned from there for good or anything.”

The sadness looked wrong hanging on the beefy teenager. He should be flattening players on the field or pouring himself a sloppy beer at a kegger or making it with a comely cheerleader in the backseat of a car. All that energy, all that popularity, all that raw strength—but now he was stooped again, bereft as an orphan in those Dust Bowl photographs of the Depression '30s. It wasn't difficult to imagine that he'd cried about this—or even that he might cry about it now, as soon as he was out of my sight.

“Did you want to tell me something, Tommy? I kind of got that sense a minute ago.”

“Nah—I mean—” After a glance at Kenny and then at me, he said: “I just wanted to apologize.”

He turned and left, quickly becoming part of the crowd.

“I wonder what he wanted to tell you, McCain.”

“Yeah, I wonder, too.”

15

I
was working my ass off eating a bagel and reading the morning paper's version of the events that followed Kenny and me leaving the good Reverend Cartwright's play last night. Apparently things had settled down enough for the program to continue. My favorite line in the story was: “According to most estimates, Pearson's Peak is not considered a mountain.”

“Did you like the coffee this morning, Mr. C?”

“Great as usual.” Jamie was sensitive about her coffee.

“I tried a new brand. I thought you might notice.”

I put the paper down. “I was going to mention it the minute I stopped reading. Whatever brand it is, keep on buying it. It's terrific.”

Her smile pleased me. I enjoyed seeing Jamie happy. Lately her blue eyes had lost their luster and her slight shoulders slumped. Between motherhood and her surfer-boy lazy bastard husband, she deserved to smile every once in a while.

Which was when our door opened as if a pair of battering rams had been thrust against it. Jamie jumped in her seat, her hands covering her mouth, a sharp noise caught in her throat.

He stood in the doorway with his finger pointed at me as if it was a weapon. “You son of a bitch.” Then he glared at Jamie. “Get her out of here. And I mean now.”

Jamie was already crying. I hurried around the desk. When my hands went to her shoulders I felt how rigid her entire body was. “Why don't you go somewhere for half an hour or so?”

“But where will I go, Mr. C?”

“The café down the street would be a good place. Get a donut and some coffee. It won't be as good as our coffee, of course.”

She didn't laugh, just plucked a Kleenex from the box on her desk and blew her nose—a hardy blow indeed. I helped her up from her chair, grabbed her purse, and slid it under her arm.

All the time our guest stood there trying to restrain himself from attacking me.

“Will you be all right, Mr. C?”

“I'll be fine, Jamie. Now you go on and have a coffee break.”

“But it's not even nine yet—”

“Get her the hell out of here right now, McCain.”

I walked her quickly to the door. Four steps across from the threshold she started to turn around to say something. I closed the door.

“You son of a bitch.”

“You said that already, Paul.”

After I was seated again, I said, “You could always sit down.”

But Paul Mainwaring was seething. “I should tear your head off, McCain. But I've got stockholders and they wouldn't be happy about the bad publicity.”

“Some people wouldn't consider it bad. They'd think you were a hero.”

“That's just the kind of glib bullshit I'd expect from you.” He was calming down enough to consider using the chair. He eyed it with great suspicion, as if it was about to attack him. “You've been asking a lot of questions that don't need to be asked. Dragging my family's name through the mud. I wanted you to find out who killed my daughter. But for some goddamn reason you started investigating my whole family.” He was so angry he was spluttering.

“Sit down and tell me what you're so upset about.”

In his blue golf shirt and chinos, he looked like any other millionaire playing hooky from the office. Except for the throbbing veins in his neck and temple. “I want you to stop right now. Period. And if you don't, I'm going to use every cent I have to make sure you won't have any business in this state again. I'm going to file a nuisance suit against you and leak all kinds of things about you to the press. There's a guy in Chicago who is famous for handling cases like this. He's destroyed a number of people. He doesn't care if he wins or loses the case as long as the other guy has to go on relief.”

“Sounds like a nice fella. I'd like to meet him sometime.”

His rage was back. He pounded my desk with enough power to cleave it in two. Or maybe three. “I'm sorry I ever had anything to do with you. I must have been out of my mind.” Then he caught himself. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand dollars. Nice round sum.”

“It's yours if you give me a letter saying that you will never again work on the case of my daughter's murder and will never try to contact anybody even marginally involved.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but you yourself just said you hired me to find out who killed Vanessa.”

“You're not stupid, McCain. But you don't seem to understand that we know who the killer was. He took his own life. There is no more case. And there is certainly no reason to be investigating Eve. She's very upset right now and I don't blame her. Whatever she does with her life is her business. Do you understand that?”

Giving me the impression that he knew all about Eve's lovers. “Yes.”

“Yes, you'll sign that document?”

“Yes, I understand why you're pissed and why she's pissed. But I was just trying to do my job.”

“So you won't sign the document?”

“No, I won't.”

He came up out of his chair with blood in his cheeks and spittle on his lips. “Then you're going to be very sorry. And if you ever approach my wife—or anybody in my house for that matter—I'll have you arrested.”

There was no point in arguing. He needed to keep battering me with threats. He was exorcising the demons of a dead daughter, a faithless wife, and now a minor private detective who could besmirch his reputation. Hating me made sense. He'd suffered more than anybody should have with the death of his daughter. I was only adding to his grief.

He leaned over my desk and jabbed a finger at me. “I thought you were a man of honor, McCain. But you had me fooled. You're just another grubby little opportunist.”

Again there was no reason to defend myself. If I was an opportunist, I was a badly paid one. And even if I did manage to uncover the real murderer, nobody would be particularly interested past the usual twenty-four-hour time limit before another more interesting crime story came along. The trial would revive interest several months down the line, but meanwhile I'd still be buying my boxer shorts at Sears and trying to find the station with the cheapest gas prices.

“You just remember what I said.” But gone was the anger. In its place was only exhaustion. It was as if he, not me, had been the victim of his rancor. He even swayed a bit, like somebody who just might faint on you. His face was streaming with sweat and his shirt splotchy and dark in places.

As I watched him leave, he seemed to be a much older man than the one who'd come here maybe fifteen minutes ago. I heard his footsteps in the hall, slow, even shuffling, and then the exterior door opened and closed. It was several minutes before I heard his Jag fire up.

Jamie returned with a cardboard cup of coffee from the deli. She looked around as if Mainwaring might be hiding someplace, ready to pounce on her.

“He's gone.”

“I was ready to call the police, Mr. C.”

“I'm fine. He's upset about his daughter dying and it's affected his judgment, that's all. There can't be anything worse than losing your child.”

“Oh, God, don't even say that. I look at little Laurie and I want to cry sometimes, thinking of all the terrible things that could happen to her. Sometimes I just want to lock us in a room and never leave so I can keep an eye on her all the time. But I have to go out. And Turk would help but he's, you know, busy with all his stuff.”

Yes, too much to ask Surfer Boy to help with his child. I knew I'd soon be having one of those dreams where I separated Turk's head from his shoulders. I knew that broadsword would come in handy someday. Sam McCain, Barbarian.

I used line two to make several calls about pending cases, one in response to a bail bondsman who seemed to blame me for the disappearance of our mutual client.

“Sure, you don't have to worry, McCain. You get your fat fee one way or the other.”

“Right. I inherited this stupid bastard from his brother, who told me that while he did have a .38 in his pocket when the cops stopped him inside the supermarket, he wasn't planning to rob it. The only reason I took it is because the county attorney got way ahead of himself here. Even though this dipshit had a gun on him, it doesn't necessarily mean that he was going to rob the place. There's no evidence of that. I decided to help him out because I thought the law was overstepping. I got the county attorney to drop the robbery charge but he didn't have a license for the gun. And he had three priors.”

A businessman's deep sigh. “I should've gone into the funeral business like my old man.”

“I don't blame you. Getting to handle corpses all day is something I couldn't pass up, either.”

A laugh rumbled from the phone. The guy was on the Pall Mall diet. “If you see this bastard, run him over for me, will you?”

“Will do.”

As I was hanging up, line one rang and Jamie answered in her clear sweet voice and said, “One moment, please. I'll see if he's available.” She put the line on hold and said, “It's Mrs. Eve Mainwaring.”

Was she calling to tell me the same thing her husband just had—that I was to stay out of her life? I lifted the receiver and said, “Hello.”