Borderlines (3 page)

A combination hotel/bar/cafe//home, the Inn was owned by a mercurial woman in her fifties named Greta Lynn. She had run the Rocky River for the past twenty-five years or so, inheriting it from her equally eccentric mother, and lived there with a succession of mousy male companions whose names nobody could recall. Greta, Rennie, and I were, as they say “of an age,” and had run around with the same crowd when we were younger. In later life, after “Peanuts” had become a popular comic strip, I was convinced that somehow Charles Schulz had met Greta-and had found his inspiration for Lucy Van Pelt. I climbed its warped, cracked and creaking front steps and entered a huge entry hall.

A crumbling carved hardwood staircase rose directly ahead, and two equally large rooms opened on either side. The room to the right had been converted into a cafe//bar-where I’d slurped sodas of yore-and was segregated by a pair of ornate multi-paned pocket doors. The room to the left had no doors and spilled out into the entry in a seeming attempt to take it over. I turned left to what everyone called “The Library” to find Buster, for this was his home away from home-a room of paperback-cluttered halls, of tall dirty windows, clanking radiators, and derelict furniture, overshadowed by a gap-toothed, non-functional, cobweb-choked handelier. There, at the head of a semicircle of mismatched sofas, armchairs, and ottomans, like some long-dethroned king with his wery-bred entourage, Buster held court.

He saw me as I crossed the threshold and raised his beer high.

Goddamn, it’s the celebrity. Come here.” He struggled to his feet as I approached and placed one gargantuan arm across my shoulders. He was a huge man, fat and bearded, six and a half feet tall, with crooked, yellow teeth and bleary, misty eyes-a man with intimate knowledge f the bottle, yet whom I’d never seen under the influence. Or maybe ever seen sober.

I am no grasshopper myself, but standing next to Buster, I felt like a child posing with a hippo.

He waved his beer can at the small group of people sitting around e semicircle of chairs. “You know any of these guys? John The man finished for him. “John Secco.” “Right; not too good with names,”

Buster muttered. “This is Joey gunther-sorry, Lieutenant Joe Gunther of the Brattleboro Police department, my nephew. Remember hearing about that Ski Mask murder case down in Brattleboro? Well, Joey here nailed him.” Several heads nodded, I think out of pure politeness. He pointed at another man, hesitated, obviously groping for a name, and finally gave up on the general introductions. He pushed me to the chair to his right, settled back down himself with a grunt. He as about to ask me a question when Greta entered the room. “Thought I heard you in here.

How’s your mother?” No hugs or kisses from her. There never had been; never would be. Greta Lynn was square, no-nonsense woman who prided herself on being ready and able to spit any man in the eye metaphorically speaking. She was short-tempered, opinionated, and brusk and, as far as I knew, had never shown a different side of herself to anyone in all her fifty-six years except to my mother. To her way of thinking, it would have been sappy and contrived to have made more of a fuss over my arrival. “She’s fine. I dropped by on the way up here.

She asked me to give you her best.” “That’s very thoughtful. And your brother?” Here her tone was solicitous. Leo, who still lived with our mother in the old family house in Thetford, loved classic cars from the fifties, cheap flashy omen, his work-he was a very successful butcher-and our mother, ho was older than Buster and whom Leo nursed in his own effective fashion. It was a combination of plusses and minuses in Greta’s eyes, and had always found absolute whites and blacks easier to deal with.

“Leo’s fine, too. Making a killing with his new butcher shop.” She made a noncommittal grunt. “Would you like something?” “Cup of coffee would be nice. Thanks.” “All right.” She turned to Buster. aNother one?” He never got a chance to answer. Suddenly, the front door flew open with a crash and a middle-aged, thick-waisted woman half-fell into the entrance hall. She was disheveled and frightened and was still holding her leather handbag.

“My husband,” She gasped as she tried to get up off the floor.

Greta ran to help her, the rest of us looking on. “What happened?”

Greta asked.

“It’s Bruce. He’s gotten into a fight with one of the cult people.” “Where?” “In one of those houses, down the street.” She pointed toward Atlantic Boulevard.

Greta looked over her shoulder at us. “Well, come on, move it.”

She turned the woman around and charged out the door with her. The crowd, I among them, moved like cattle to follow them.

“You know what’s going on?” I asked Buster, as we hurried down the street, struggling into our coats. “I can guess. She and her husband came up here a couple of days ago trying to find their daughter. Sounds like they got into trouble instead.” “What do you mean, ‘Find their daughter’?” “My guess is she joined the Order and her folks are trying to get her back.” “Has this happened before?” Buster shrugged. “Off and on. We get parents, clergymen, newspeople. They either come to gawk or raise a little hell. Never amounts to too much.” Rennie, catching sight of us from across North Street, ran over to join us. “What’s going’

on?” Buster chuckled. “I guess that Boston fella is getting the short end of the stick with the Order.” Rennie looked down Atlantic Boulevard at Greta and the woman.

“Oh, Christ, Greta on the warpath.” He trotted on ahead to catch up to them.

We were near the bottom of Atlantic when we heard muffled shouting coming from the last house on the east side of the street. Ahead of us, Rennie, Greta, and the woman, who Buster identified as Mrs. Wingate, broke into a run. Mrs. Wingate began calling, “Bruce. bruce,” as she went.

Rennie reached the front door first and pounded on it with his fist, yelling for someone to open up. As Buster and I drew near, I noticed absolute stillness from the neighboring houses, and felt the odd sensation of dozens of eyes watching me from the dark. I was struck again by the same ominous chill I’d felt earlier upon seeing the four children and the dog in the street.

I stood beside Rennie and tried the doorknob, my adrenaline now pumping at a good clip. Inside, the shouting had been joined by the sound of objects breaking. The knob turned in my hand, but the door was obviously bolted from the inside. Mrs. Wingate began to cry. “Please, get him out. Somebody’s going to be killed.” Rennie glanced at me.

“Window?” I nodded. The two to the left of the door were blocked by a flower box, so Rennie and I ran for the building’s south side, looking for another option. The sounds from the inside continued unabated.

As we rounded the corner, a shattering explosion of glass at head level made us veer on, our arms thrown up to protect our faces. As if n slow motion, his jacket fluttering like broken wings, his white shirt blowing in the night as with an energy of its own, a man came sailing backward through a large, ground-floor picture window, accompanied by a million tiny shards of glass, each twinkling fiercely in the light of the full moon. He landed with a solid thud, flat on his back, his arms spread eagled, and his expression one of utter astonishment. From his clothing, which included black slacks and penny loafers, I knew he had to be attached somehow to the tweed-and-wool Mrs. Wingate.

His face was bleeding slightly and he looked utterly astonished, but otherwise he appeared more surprised than injured. Above us, standing still what used to be a ground-floor window, loomed a tall bearded man with long black hair, dressed in quilted cotton.

“What’s going on here?” Rennie shouted.

“He threw Bruce out of the window,” Greta said, emphasizing the obvious.

I stepped over the shattered glass and bent down near the man on the ground. “You okay?” He looked at me in silence for a couple of seconds. “I think so.” I could sense him trying to regain his composure. He was having to dig deep.

“Anything hurt?” Mrs. Wingate joined me at his side. “No.”

Wingate moved a little. “I think I’m okay.” He sounded a little distracted. With his wife’s help, I lifted him to his feet.

“I’m a little dizzy,” he said as he tried to take a couple of steps. We sat him down on the grass, away from the broken glass.

“Bruce, what happened?” Mrs. Wingate asked, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief she’d produced from somewhere. His cuts were superficial and had already stopped bleeding. He pushed her hand away.

“That bastard wouldn’t let me see Julie. Wouldn’t even let me In.

I had to use force.” He tried for a smile, but his lips were tight and pale. “I guess I lost.” Mrs. Wingate introduced us-her first name was Ellie-and we all shook hands awkwardly. I noticed then he was trembling slightly. I could hear more shouting from inside the house.

“Someone told me you’re trying to find your daughter.” “That’s right.” The noise inside got louder. I looked over to Ellie. “You okay here for the moment? I think I better get in there.” She nodded. I found the others just inside the front door. Not surprisingly, the noisemakers were Rennie and Greta.

“Goddamn it, Greta, if you’d shut the hell up, we could find out what happened here.” “Any idiot can see that. Bruce came to get his daughter and was beaten up. That’s assault and battery.” I interrupted.

“Not necessarily, Greta. I’m Joe Gunther.” I stuck my hand out to the tall man with the beard, who’d just been watching up to now.

He smiled slightly and took the handshake. “Fox.” I continued: “If Mr. Wingate broke in here uninvited, these people had a perfect right to throw him out, although maybe not through the window. Is that Mr. Fox, or Fox something?” “Just Fox. Are you a lawyer?” A woman with three small children stood behind him, all dressed identically in their quilted suits. The disheveled room, even with the window permanently open, was quite warm.

I smiled at his question, and at the kids, who looked very small and scared. The oldest couldn’t have been more than five. “No, I’m a Brattleboro policeman, up here visiting. Can you tell us what happened?” “Oh, this is going to be good,” Greta muttered.

“We were returning from Evening Gathering when this man approached us, demanding to see his daughter, someone named Julie. I told him I knew of no such person, and would he please leave us alone, but he followed us home. I tried to keep him out when we got here, but he forced his way in, locked the door behind him, and began pushing me around, screaming and yelling. He grabbed that chair and tried to hit me with it. I had to think of the children, so I stopped him. He slipped and went out the window.” “The people in your party are all here now, in this room? No one’s missing?” “That’s right.” I nodded toward the woman. “What’s your name, ma’am?” Fox answered for her.

“Dandelion.” Greta almost choked. “Dandelion?” “Give it a rest, Greta.” I walked over to the window and called to Wingate. “Did you break in here uninvited looking for your daughter?” He froze for a moment, his eyes narrow and angry. “Did you start the fight?” He looked up at me furiously. “He wouldn’t let me see her, said she wasn’t in there and that he didn’t even know who I was talking about. I saw her with my own goddamned eyes. We followed her here, for Christ sake. Why do you think I came to this house in the first place?

e lied to my face. He’s lying right now.” I sensed violence surging within him, but for the moment at least the man in the Robert Hall clothes maintained his self-control.

I told Fox, “You can press charges if you want.” “What?” Greta asked, visibly surprised.

Rennie answered for me. “It’s the law-Wingate was trespassing.”

Greta looked at me. I just nodded.

“We don’t wish to press charges,” Fox said in a quiet voice. “You want him to pay damages?” Again Fox shook his head.

“We may have a kidnapping here,” Greta’s voice was a notch higher.

“I demand that we be allowed to search the building.” It was good line of bluster, but, knowing Greta, I could sense her sails beginning to flap.

“That’s way out of line,” Rennie said behind her. She whirled on him. “Since when the hell did you become such a gal hotshot?” “We don’t mind.” Fox’s calm, resonant voice spread between em like oil on water.

We could’nt search so much as amble from room to room, like tourists visiting a museum. And the analogy held, for in many wayS, the tour revealed a life style of long ago. There were no lamps or electric lights-the only illumination came from homemade candles; the floors, apart from an occasional small wool or braided rug, were bare; dried foods hung from hooks in the kitchen; the beds upstairs were nothing more than wood frames strung with rope supporting straw-stuffed mattresses. Everything was neat, clean, and frugal to the point of being bare.

At the foot of the stairs, there was a jury-rigged wood stove made from an upended fifty-five-gallon drum. It was supported on bricks and had wire supports running from the wall and ceiling to the stovepipe.

Rennie passed his hand near the hot surface. “This ain’t the safest stove I’ve ever seen. I got no bone to pick with you about how you live, but you better fix this: new stovepipe, new supports, some kind of firewall behind it. We don’t really have a fire code around here, but this is dangerous. I’ll get you a pamphlet on what you need if you like.” Fox nodded. “Thank you.” He escorted us to the door, his small family mute behind him.

Greta suddenly marched up to the woman called Dandelion.

“Do you know where Julie Wingate is? Has she been hidden someplace?” All four of them looked at Fox. “You may answer.” “No,” the woman said. “Christ.” Greta stormed out.