Day One (12 page)

November 13

MIDLAND, OR: Police are investigating the deaths of Gene and Sue Ann Famke, discovered Tuesday at their home six miles northwest of Midland after dispatchers received a 9-1-1 call from a neighbor reporting screams and possible gun fire.

The couple appeared to be victims of a deadly assault, said Deputy Raelene Suggins of the Klamath County Sheriff’s Office. Gene Famke, 43, was found on the front lawn. A recently fired .38 caliber revolver registered to Famke was recovered from the driveway nearby. Inside the residence, a double-wide manufactured home, police found the body of Sue Ann Famke, 41.

Anyone with information about this case is urged to contact the Klamath County Sheriff’s Department.

(A drop of water hollows a stone, not by force, but by continuously dripping)

—Ovid, Epistulae Ex Ponto, Book 3, no. 10, 1. 5

November 19 — 6:04 am

B
ig Ed Gillespie preferred the direct approach. But he wasn’t the boss, and if the boss said stay off the radar, that’s the way he would play it. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. Not this time.

He awoke early the morning after he found the Bronsteins and took a shower, then left his motel room before anyone nearby was up and moving. Still dark out. He’d paid cash for the room and done nothing memorable during his brief stay, though a man big as a mule deer who spoke with an electronic larynx would likely stick in the mind no matter what he did. That couldn’t be helped, but his actions could. He’d selected a motel near the highway, a place that catered to nobodies passing through. He’d also insisted Myra stay somewhere else. Anywhere else, he didn’t care. He didn’t want anyone to be able to say, yeah, some dude with a fucked up throat was running around with a bony, hot-tempered tweaker.

He stopped to eat at the Jubitz truck stop on I-5, just another big, beefy man shucking off the night over a plate of eggs and sausage links. After breakfast he drove into town with the first gasp of morning rush hour, wipers set to the slowest interval. He got off at the Rose Quarter exit, followed MLK down to the Inn at the
Convention Center. Hiram Spaneker was waiting for him on the corner at Holladay Street.

“Good flight?” One hand on the wheel, the other pressing the electrolarynx to his throat. He’d gotten good at doing things one-handed when he wanted to carry on a conversation.

Hiram dropped a nylon bag onto the back seat and slid into the passenger seat. “I suppose. I felt like a fucking sardine, but at least they gave me a bag of pretzels the size of my nut sack to keep me occupied.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Stuff to occupy the boy.”

Big Ed wheezed in response. He continued down MLK and followed the loop under 99E onto Division. Easier than Hawthorne, especially this time of day. That much he’d learned in the three days since he got to town.

“Did ya see her?”

Big Ed nodded. From a distance, but she entered the right house.

“And the boy?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“What about the others? A man and an older kid too, right? That’s what Myra said.”

“Whole family is made of butter.”

“That ain’t no family.” But Hiram smiled grimly and leaned back in his seat. Ten minutes more, and Big Ed parked in the upper lot in Mount Tabor Park, a location that appealed to some primitive desire for symmetry. Too dark and too cold for anyone else to be around; he expected to be gone again before the sun rose. He opened his glove box, hefted the piece: A brushed chrome Desert Eagle chambered for .44 Magnum. He’d taken it off a Yreka meth cooker who’d crossed Hiram, one of many firearms he’d acquired from the less deserving over the years. Probably used in a dozen drugstore holdups, so if the cops ever got their hands on it, it would be tied to some NoCal shit.

But as he checked the magazine, Hiram’s face went red.

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“Just in case. I do not expect to need it.”

“That’s why you’ll be leaving it here, numbnuts.” Hiram’s cheeks twitched as he spoke. “I don’t want no one to have cause to come looking like before. No goddamn bodies. You got that?”

“Seems to me like you would want at least one body.”

“Not today, I don’t.” Big Ed looked at Hiram, saw the dark glint in his eye. “I’m a patient man, if you’re not.”

Big Ed didn’t want to argue with Hiram Spaneker, not after Hiram had announced his intention to offer Ed a second chance. He knew the rules, understood them better perhaps than Hiram realized. Back in Givern, bodies weren’t a problem. Local cops were a wholly owned subsidiary of Spaneker Enterprises, and the county guys knew to stay out of the way. But this wasn’t Givern. Hiram was out of his element. Big Ed could sense the old man’s discomfort in the city. Didn’t surprise him—didn’t disquiet him either. Big Ed was uncomfortable everywhere now, but three years on the run had provided a stern education in finding his way. His last trip to Portland, he’d come in big and cocky, looking for trouble. Found it, too. Took a bullet, almost lost his life. He was a different man now, no longer a man on fire.

He slid the gun under the front seat.

They locked the Suburban, then he and Hiram walked down into the neighborhood until he saw what he wanted parked on the street, a late-80s Accord, four doors with a battered left front quarter panel. He slim-jimmed the door and punched the ignition with his Leatherman. Hiram scowled as he climbed into the passenger seat; not as much leg room as the Suburban.

Daylight Savings had fallen back a couple of weeks before, but the sky was still dark when he turned off 60th into the girl’s neighborhood. A few short blocks, a right and a left. He drove past the house once, saw lights and movement through the window.
They were up already. Folks with jobs and kids to get off to school were gonna be early risers on a weekday morning. He continued up the block until he found an empty space.

Mitch Bronstein was some kind of ad fellow, worked at a snooty agency downtown. Probably a queer. Loafers and cotton shirts. Big Ed planned to go in quiet and strong, do what they had to do quick. He told Hiram they’d be back in the Suburban and rolling south by the time the sun cleared the shoulder of Mount Hood. Drive straight through to Givern, sleep in their own beds tonight. Hiram promised Big Ed a big sack of money to use for a pillow if everything worked out. Big Ed smiled. Been a long time since he owned a pillow.

“Are you ready?”

“You gotta ask?” The old man cracked his knuckles. “What kinda car does this bastard drive?”

“BMW. Let me get up on the porch before you come up.”

The street was quiet. A few houses showed lights, like the Bronstein place, but no one was outside. Making coffee, yelling at their damn kids to get outa bed already. Big Ed tucked the larynx into his belt, then crept up onto the porch, quiet as his bulk would allow. The front door was half glass, the foyer beyond dark and empty. He pressed himself against the wall to the right of the door, then gestured to Hiram waiting down on the walk. Hiram went straight to the door and knocked. Put a pleasant look on his sunbaked face, much as possible. Slouched a bit. A moment later, light spilled through the glass pane in the door, then a shadow.

Hiram cracked an unctuous smile. “Mister Bronstein, sir, sorry to bother you so early.”

Bronstein didn’t open the door. “Do I know you?” His voice wary.

“It’s Dave. I just moved in a couple houses up. We met the other day.”

Big Ed could almost picture Bronstein’s confused expression, but Hiram’s bullshit flowed thick. He heard the door open a crack. “We did?” Big Ed tried to make himself even flatter against the wall.

Hiram kept smiling. “You were getting out of your car. The Beamer?”

“If you say so. What can I do for you, Dave? It’s damned early for a social call.”

Hiram looked back over his shoulder, then down at his feet. “Well, it’s about your car. I’m afraid I ran into it parking, and put a dent in the left front quarter panel.” Big Ed thought of the Accord and had to fight down a chuckle about that little detail.
Nice touch, Hiram.

“What?” Bronstein yanked the door open and took a step onto the porch, his face searching. “When the hell did—”

Big Ed slid sideways past Hiram and grabbed Bronstein by the throat, one-handed. Mitch’s eyes bulged and he clawed at the meat clamp on his windpipe. Big Ed spun around to face him and Bronstein stumbled. Ed pushed him through the doorway, hand still on his throat.

“Who is it, honey?” The girl, calling from another room. He could hear a note of Givern Valley in her voice. “It’s awfully early for someone to be knocking on the door.” Bronstein tried to speak, but Big Ed’s grip was too strong. “Jase, sweetie, go see who it is.”

“I’m eating.” The older kid. The one Myra mentioned.

“Come on, Jase. Help me out here. I still need to get Danny up.”

Big Ed walked Bronstein backward and cracked his head hard against the wooden trim around the front closet door. Bronstein crumpled, but continued to struggle. Big Ed cracked his head again then pushed him down onto his ass, head slumped against his shoulder. Dazed, but conscious. He pressed his face into Bronstein’s and stuck the larynx against his own throat. Spoke in as much of
a whisper as the device would allow. “Be quiet and you and your family might live through this.”

An idle threat, but Bronstein didn’t know that. His hands went to his throat. “What ... you ... what do you ...” A coffee-laced gasp.

“We are here for the boy.”

Bronstein’s eyes rolled. Big Ed stood, looked to either side, assessing. Fingers curled around the black cylinder of the larynx. The living room at his left opened onto the dining room. To his right, a hallway led past the stairs into the back. Both routes must connect to the kitchen. He heard a sound, the scrape of a chair across the floor. A muttered curse, then footsteps. A door opened, flooded the hallway with light. The door swung shut again as the tall, overweight kid appeared in the hallway next to the stairs. It seemed to take him a moment to realize what he was looking at. “Whoa, jeezus—!” Big Ed caught his eye as he turned, tried to flee. One quick step, then his arm locked around the kid’s neck. He yanked the kid backwards off his feet, slammed him into the floor. He kneeled down on the boy’s chest, looked him in the eye. The terror on the kid’s face was clear as reading a newspaper headline.

Jase, the woman had called him.

Hiram Spaneker stepped in through the open front door. “Think you’re making enough noise?” The old man looked down at Bronstein, then Jase, with obvious disdain. “I bet folks could hear your goddamn ruckus halfway to Salem.”

“It went as planned.”

“I don’t doubt it, if stampeding cattle was the fucking plan.”

Footsteps. “Jase, honey, what’s going on? What was that noise?” The swinging door in the hallway started to open.

“You go find the boy.” Hiram slapped him on the shoulder. Big Ed nodded, headed up the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hiram slip around through the living room as the woman pushed through the kitchen door into the hall.