Bloodline (39 page)

He drove a mile or so up the road, to just near the Prosperity line. There was a woods road on the right and he turned into it and disappeared into the trees. I followed him, down the narrow, rutted dirt path, until it widened into an overgrown wood yard. Kenny had backed his truck into the brush; I did the same and shut off the truck. We both got out and met at the front of the trucks, which were still ticking as they cooled down.

“I've been looking for you,” Kenny said.

“So what else is new.”

“No, I mean it, man. No bullshit this time. I'm not fooling around. Maybe I'm even sorry about all that.”

“And maybe not?”

“No, I am. But man, you're in deep shit. That's all I can say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, watch your ass. I'm warning you. I mean, think of this as a warning. If I were you, I'd get the hell out of here.”

“Why? Somebody gonna torch this truck, too?”

“Oh, no,” Kenny said, his voice urgent. “This isn't kid's stuff. This is serious business. If they knew I was talking to you, I'd be in the same boat, man. They don't screw around, I'm telling you.”

“Who?”

“Can't say.”

“Why?”

“Can't say that, either. I just know that you've got some people really riled up. And when they get riled up, they don't fool around.”

“Not like you, you mean.”

“No, man. We're talking serious shit.”

“Like what? Break my legs?”

“Worse.”

“Break my legs without anesthesia?”

“Don't you get it, man? You could get taken out,” Kenny said.

“Who around here would do that?”

Kenny started to say something, then changed his mind. He looked away for a moment and I looked at him, his jeans tucked into his logger's boots, his hard fists, his faded jean jacket. The tough guy didn't seem so tough. He just seemed young.

“I can't say any more. But I'm not into that. I'm not into doing friggin' twenty-five years for something. No jail for this boy, I'll tell you.”

“Did somebody ask you to kill me?”

“That's it. No more talking. Consider this a favor. I owed one, maybe. Think about it, man. It's no joke.”

And with that he turned and got back in his truck. The motor roared once and he was gone, his truck rumbling down the dirt track and out on to the road, where the roar faded into the distance.

I stood in the little clearing, stunned. The rain fell steadily and the woods around me suddenly seemed very dark and very deep, but not lovely at all. Something cracked in the trees and I started visibly, then walked slowly to the truck door and got in, praying it would start. It ground once, twice, three times.

And caught.

33

T
he door was open and the house was dark. I stepped in and stopped and listened. The refrigerator hummed. Something in the woodstove popped. The wind whistled against the back window.

“Roxanne,” I said.

There was no answer:

“Roxanne,” I called, louder.

Still no answer.

I walked to the bottom of the loft stairs and listened again. Still nothing. I climbed the stairs very slowly, waiting after each one. At the top, I peeked over and there she was, stretched out on the bed, her legs splayed over the edge.

And an open magazine on her chest.

I listened and could hear her breathing, softly. Relieved, I retreated and let Roxanne sleep. At least one of us could.

Back downstairs, I went over and turned off the tape deck and the amplifier. Then I went to the closet door, opened it. and took out the rifle. I checked to see that the safety was on and went to the kitchen drawer. The box of shells was there and I took out five. I pulled the lever back, and, pointing the barrel at the wall, slid four shells down
into the magazine and left one in the chamber. Then I went and put the rifle back in the closet.

Somehow, I didn't feel any safer.

I went to my chair by the window, my bird-watching chair, that now would be used for watching for something else. But what?

What was Kenny saying? That somebody was going to try to kill me? That there was a contract out on me? Some people, he'd said. Some people who were riled up. He wasn't going to do twenty-five years in jail. Twenty-five years in this state was the minimum for murder. Who wanted to murder me?

Putnam. Maybe I'd shaken him too hard. Maybe I didn't know what I was getting into. Maybe these people played rougher than I thought. What people? Putnam and who else? Maybe Missy's murder hadn't been committed in anger. Maybe it was just business. Maybe she had shaken the tree too hard, too. And ended up dead.

I listened for Roxanne to make sure she was still asleep, then went to the counter and got the phone book. I looked up the number of the Waldo County Sheriff's Department and dialed it. A woman dispatcher answered, and I could hear other voices in the background.

“Could I speak with Officer Poole, please,” I said.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Investigator Poole is off today. He'll be back on Tuesday. Can I take a message?”

“Could you get a message to him at home?”

“I'm sorry, I can't,” the dispatcher said. Another phone rang in the background.

“May I put you on hold?” she asked, but didn't wait for an answer.

I waited. Waited some more. There was a click and the loud voices and then she was back.

“Waldo County Sheriff's Department.”

“Hi, this is me. The same guy who wanted Officer Poole.”

“Well, sir, as I said, he won't be back until Tuesday. Can anyone else help you?”

I thought for a moment.

“No,” I said. “If he calls in, could you ask him to call Jack McMorrow? He's looking for me.”

“I'll do that, sir,” the dispatcher said, and we both hung up.

Now what? I thought.

It was after five and Roxanne wasn't stirring. I thought about waking her, but went up and took the magazine off of her and put a blanket over her instead. She was beautiful when she slept.

I went down and got a beer from the refrigerator, a Labatt's. Ordinarily, the first beer went down fast, but this one I sipped. After a couple of sips, I went to the phone again and called Clair. Mary said he'd gone up to the store in Knox to get some diesel for his tractor.

“Just puttering,” she said. “You want him to call you?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said.

It was after seven when the phone rang. Roxanne still was sleeping so I grabbed it after one ring.

“Hi, Clair,” I said softly.

“Oh, baby,” a man's voice said. “I just go all to pieces when you talk to me like that. Is that you, Jack? Or did I dial a wrong number and get phone sex?”

“Gary?”

“But you can call me Clair.”

“Sorry, Slocum. I thought you were somebody else.”

“I thought you were something else. Sounded like Clark Gable with a frog in his throat. I'll bet you can get sexy young telephone operators to undress with that voice. Can you teach me to do that?”

“Would you believe me if I told you Clair was a guy?”

“A guy? Hey, these days, I'd believe anything. Is he a transvestite, transsexual, or just a cute little cross-dresser?”

“None of the above. He's the ex-Marine down the road.”

“Whoa, Jack. Now that is kinky.”

“I won't tell him you said that. For your sake.”

“Thanks. You always were a pal. Hey, Jack, sorry to bother you and your ex-Marine friends, but I just wanted to check to see if our story was still on schedule.”

“Since when do you work Sundays?”

“Since I took Thursday and Friday off. But being a dedicated professional, I decided to come in and ensure my continued employment.”

“Never anything to take for granted.”

“Right,” Slocum said. “A guy who can get canned by the
Times
can get canned anywhere. Speaking of my future employment, how's it coming?”

I thought for a second.

“Good,” I said.

“Think that deadline is still realistic?”

“When was it?”

Slocum paused.

“When was it? Jack, this is not a good sign. Mark it on your calendar, my friend. Four weeks from tomorrow. On my desk. So I can pass it on to the powers that be and thereby take some of the credit.”

“Some things never change.”

“Well, at least I'm honest. So the story's coming along?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Those little mommies talking your ear off?”

“Bunch of chatterboxes.”

“Sitting in a lot of smoke-filled trailers?”

“Got smoker's cough.”

“Good,” Slocum said. “Hack for me, just once. No, really, glad to hear it's progressing as planned. How 'bout the photos? Can we get this thing assigned? The guy will be coming over from New Hampshire. He's very good.”

“Can I call you later in the week?”

“Okay. Fine. I really just wanted to know everything was okay. I know how these things can sound good on paper and then go all to hell when you start digging into them.”

“No way,” I said.

“Yes, way. Hey, I'll let you go. But, Jack?”

“What, Dave?”

“Give Clair a squeeze for me. Ex-Marine, my ass. You old dog, you.”

I didn't give Clair a squeeze and I didn't talk to him that night, either. He didn't call, which meant Mary probably fell asleep in a chair before he got home. While Roxanne slept, too, I sat in the chair with the lights out and watched the woods. It was a dark night, and it was like staring from the rail of a ship at sea: no shapes, just a diaphanous murky blackness. Not unlike the future.

At nine I got up and turned on the television. There was football. Dumb sitcom people laughing, their mouths yawning open like toothy caves. News from the Mideast, where children had been blown up over religion. A documentary about Australia's Great Barrier Reef. After five minutes I turned it off, got another Labatt's from the refrigerator, and went back to my chair. And sometime later fell into a troubled sleep.

In the morning, Roxanne told me she'd awakened at three and panicked when I wasn't in the bed. It had taken her a few minutes to find me, and when she had, feeling her way in the dark, she'd put her arms around me and kissed me gently on the cheek. She'd made tea and dragged a kitchen chair over and sat beside me in the night.

“We're a fine pair, aren't we?” I said at breakfast.

“Yeah,” Roxanne said. “You know, we really are.”

“Why did you leave me, then?”

“Because I loved you so much that it made me afraid. Why didn't you come with me?”

“Same reason,” I said.

Roxanne reached across the table and took my hand.

It was another rainy, cold day and neither of us strayed very far. I kept the fire going and read the
Globe.
Roxanne read a Raymond Chandler novel she'd found on the shelf. It was
The Big Sleep.

“Is it good?” she asked me.

“They're all good,” I said.

She was wearing jeans and one of my sweaters and, curled up in the big chair by the window, she looked very beautiful, very safe, very content. I didn't want to burst that bubble, but telling her about my talk with Kenny wouldn't be just bursting it. It would be like taking the rifle from the closet and blowing it away.

But I had to tell her. I had to tell her the rifle was loaded now. I had to tell her why.

I walked over to her chair and stood there. Touched her cheek.

“I love you,” she said.

“And I love you.”

I hunched down by the chair. Roxanne smiled at me.

“This is nice,” she said.

“Very. But I have to tell you something.”

Her smile melted away.

“What is it?”

“I ran into somebody when I went to get the paper last night. Kenny. The guy who—”

“Burned your truck.”

“Among other things. Except he didn't want to fight me this time. He wanted to tell me something.”

I swallowed.

“He wanted to warn me that somebody was going to get me.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn't say. He just said he wanted to warn me. He sort of apologized. Said he owed me one, and this was his way of paying me back.”

“What do you mean, ‘going to get you'?”

“Well,” I said.

This was very hard. “Get me. Take me out.”

“Kill you?” Roxanne asked, her voice a whisper.

I couldn't say yes. I just nodded.

She didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. She reached over and took my hand and held it tightly.

“I don't know if he's to be believed. Maybe he's fantasizing. Maybe he made the whole thing up to scare me.”

“And are you?”

“Scared? I guess. A little.”

“Did you call the police yet?”

“Not today. I will.”

“Maybe we should go?”