Mad Season (17 page)

“I’ll talk to them,” Ruth said, her head reeling. And after she hung up, realized she didn’t know why Wilder had been arrested. They couldn’t prove he was involved, could they? Was there new evidence? The nausea was starting, down in her toes, making its way up to her throat. What would she say to Emily?

She ran for the bathroom.

* * * *

Colm disembarked in Ann Arbor with a dozen university students: young men with backpacks and baseball caps on backward; women with skintight pants and colored combs in their long frizzy hair. He’d sat next to a stunning black girl who refused to talk to him, held her chin high, her hair in a hundred tiny snakes. He wondered how often she had time to do it—once a month? But she wasn’t telling, just swept up her canvas sack of books and moved swiftly down the aisle. He wanted to yell after her that he was black Irish, that his great-grandfather came over on a coffin ship, boxed for a living, till he got knocked out once too often.

He imagined the girl’s look after he told her. “Talk to me about coffin ships, white man!”

There had been a dozen sightings phoned into the Branbury police station. It seemed Vic was everywhere: in a Vermont shopping mall, a New York subway, an Ohio post office. A kidnapped child rang an alarm in the minds of the compassionate. But a more recent sighting, not a sighting exactly but a phone call from a used-car dealer in Ann Arbor, Michigan, who happened to be a radio buff, sounded the most authentic. And so he was here. He was a private detective, Colm told the Ann Arbor police lieutenant, and flushed when he saw the man’s lip curl: he couldn’t produce a business card. But when he flashed a copy of the photo he’d conned for Fallon from Catamount Furniture—thirty employees, with Smith grinning beside Kurt Unsworth in the back row—the officer grudgingly gave out a little information: a fat man trading in an ‘89 Dodge Colt. This time the fat man, if it was Smith, had made a mistake: the contact rapped all over the world, picked up the latest police reports, sent for copies of their “Wanted” photos. Now he was hooking into the World Wide Web. How unlucky could a criminal get?

The fat man had answered an ad for a Honda Accord that the dealer, whose name was Petronelli, was selling; had been to the place once, where Petronelli had recognized him, and contacted the local police. Smith would return that evening to trade in the Civic. All they had to do, the lieutenant said, was surround the place. For that the Ann Arbor force was prepared.

“I’ve an even better photo than the one Fallon sent you,” Colm said, pulling it out of his wallet. “A close-up. One of the fellow workers took it, farmer’s son. Caught him with his eyes wide open.” Colm wanted in with this lieutenant, he wanted to go along on the hunt.

The lieutenant barely glanced at it. He knew he had the right man, “no mistake.” Colm had to hope. There was no invitation for him to come along. But no turndown, either. He’d have to follow in his rented car. The police were on their way now to “case” it, form a plan.

The dealer lived in town, practically on top of the university: he operated out of his house. Ten or fifteen used cars in the yard. The house was down the street from a white pillared building, archaeology department or something. Colm was impressed with the university: it was the kind of place he’d always wanted to be part of, but there was never money. It looked like the pictures he’d seen of Athens, one Parthenon after the other: library, art gallery, Eisenhower archives—Eisenhower, a military man, in this lane of temples. He smiled at the irony. But wasn’t the playwright Sophocles a general, too? He’d read that somewhere. Jeez, he was jumping to conclusions again.

He shivered, he was nervous, he couldn’t help it. He’d never done anything like this before. He’d make a lousy policeman. It was a bleak day, winter’s last blow in mid-April, even the mud had frozen. Ann Arbor seemed a city of wind. He wouldn’t be surprised to see snow. His shoulders hunched against the possibility.

The dealer identified Fallon’s photo of the fat man, and the lieutenant looked smug, Colm was a fly on his shoulder. He might yield to praise, but Colm wasn’t ready to give it. He was worried about the plan. Four police stationed around the house, one inside. What if Fat Man had a gun? He probably did. And the boy in the car? But Vic wouldn’t be in the car, would he? To be transferred? Wherever he was, Vic would have to be gotten out safely.

Nothing must happen to Vic—if Vic was alive. Christ, there was that, too. There was always the abductor—for sex, he hadn’t mentioned that to Ruth, he couldn’t, though of course it was in the back of her mind. Her face had been sick with worry, the ripe body bent forward. She’d wanted to come, it took all his bullshit to keep her in Vermont. A sensible mother, but emotional, a parent (that waste in his own life).

If the boy was dead, how could he face her? It was easier to telephone, not have to deal with her one on one. Her eyes, blurring to sea; the breath, caught in the teeth. It had to turn out all right, that was all. He bit hard into his lower lip. And tasted blood.

The fat man was due at six-thirty. Of course he’d wait until dusk, want to make his getaway in the dark. There was most of the day to plan. They stayed long enough at the dealer’s only to make a map of the house.

“We’ll meet here half-past five,” the lieutenant told the others. “Leave the cars in that parking lot over there.” The way he said it meant, Just the four of us. We don’t need a fifth.

So Colm went back to his motel and downed a Manhattan, he needed it. He’d be at the dealer’s by five, just in case. It was going to be rough, he didn’t have a gun, couldn’t defend himself. What was he doing here, anyway? What if someone was killed? All the dead men he knew were brought to the funeral home by relatives. It was going to be rough, yes. Interesting word,
rough.
Sounded like
ruff:
elitist dress, obscuring the ears maybe, suggesting doublespeak, hypocrisy.

What good were words without a gun? No one was going to give a pseudo-detective a gun. He couldn’t shoot one anyway, could he? He hated guns. Jeez, a detective without a gun!

* * * *

Branbury was a small town, the few criminals were housed in the old red brick courthouse—mostly break-ins, now and then a drug bust. Wilder would be out on bail already, Ruth bet; Carol’s new green pickup was pulling out as she arrived. The husband was with her, they walked apart like each was teetering on a separate tightrope. The husband looked mad enough to kill, another reason Ruth wanted to be here alone, to see what she could find out.

Wilder had been picked up on a drug charge, she discovered, not the assault at all, though there was some question about the other; the officer looked meaningfully at her. Still she was shocked: a drug charge. And Emily? Was Emily into drugs? The thought panicked her, she needed to sit down. She barely made the contact room; found Wilder half crouched on a wooden bench, his head in his hands like a melon he could hardly heft.

“Why am I here?” He answered her unspoken question. “Not the cocaine. I made a delivery for my brother, that’s all. Kurt was .. . indisposed. But promised he’d try to quit. I think he means it this time. Does that involve me? I think I was set up, they’ve been watching us, like we’re some—”

He made a noise in his throat. She waited. “But the other—don’t think—look, Ms. Willmarth, I sold them a raffle ticket. Yeah, sure I did, she gave me a dollar. I don’t recall it smelled. I did it for Kurt.” He cleared his throat. “He’s my brother. But sometimes—”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes I can’t find him at all. He doesn’t know I’m in the room with him, he’s that far gone. I sense he wouldn’t even know how to be the old Kurt, who the old Kurt was. He says he wants to change. But I don’t know if he can.”

“Even if it means you take the blame for something he did,” Ruth said. And waited.

But the boy turned his face away.

“The fact is you lied to the police.” Ruth was calmer now. She believed him about the drugs, she had to. “You told them you’d never been there, you went back on your story. You were there that night.”

“With Emily! In the car.” His hazel eyes pleaded with her.

She had to think tough. “After you dropped off Emily, too. Your car was still there. Another car stopped. Emily saw. I saw.”

Now she was lying. She hadn’t really seen, but she’d felt, she’d felt something out there. That moon, she could never sleep on a full moon night. She’d gone to the window in the bathroom; she’d seen something in the road, hadn’t she? A car, or merely shadows—who knew?
Or was it because Emily had seen a second car?

Was it a lie if it brought out the truth?

He dropped his head back in his hands. “Emily told you,” he said, like he’d been betrayed so often he hardly cared anymore. “Sure, I was there. Dreaming, sure. Can a kid dream?”

“And saw nothing else?” Her voice was softer now. She’d dreamed her way through high school herself, those two years of college. It was marriage, money worries that killed the dream.

The flush crept up his neck, his chin, spread over his cheeks. He looked like he had something to tell her, wanted to tell. She waited.

But the color cooled, the lines went stubborn in the face, like he’d been caged all year, was damned if he’d give in now.

“Nothing. Nothing but the moon. Oh, another car going past, slow, you know the road, nothing more.”

She got up to go, then turned back, he was still slumped on the bench. “Your mother’s worried sick about you, Wilder. It’s hard, having a son—” She stopped, something was filling her throat.

“I know. I know about Vic.” He appeared to be shrinking into his shoes. If she didn’t leave she might run over and embrace him, cry on his bony shoulder. He was just a boy.

She left.

Out in the parking lot she stopped short, her heel caught in a crack of the pavement. What a softie she was. Wilder was hiding something, someone, she knew it, knew it!

She yanked her foot out of the crack and felt something rip. The rubber heel had torn off and now she’d have to stop at the shoe repair shop. There wasn’t time, she had to get back to the cows, her best milker down with ketosis, it was putting her off her feed, she’d have to call the vet.

“Shit,” she said, “Shit. Shit shit shit.”

And felt better when she’d said it.

* * * *

Colm had to admit he was nervous, waiting. Jeez, what an amateur he was. The lieutenant looked at him like he was a girl. “Better stay back then,” he said, a concession to speak to the interloper. “We’ll do the hard stuff. You identify the boy—if Smith brings him.”

He wished now he had a gun. But it was too late. A Colt was coming up the drive. He flattened himself against the wall. The dealer, Petronelli, was nervous, too, he was sweating waterfalls. He might give the whole thing away, they might lose everything. Was anyone else in the car? Was it Vic? It was a policeman’s job to get Vic out—if he was there—while Fat Man was inside the house. But what if there was an accomplice, someone else in the car? Had they thought of that?

Colm could barely see, it was stuffy in here, he could hardly breathe. The plan was for Petronelli to meet the fat man at the door, invite him in. Then the police would close in from outside. If the dealer didn’t give them away. Colm heard the bottle clink down on the table, the guy was fortifying himself.

The door banged. It sounded like an explosion. His head was coming apart. He heard Petronelli yell, “Come in,” he wasn’t going to the door, he was too nervous. He’d give it away for certain.

The door opened. The voice was jovial. “I’m in,” the man said. And Petronelli called from the next room, on cue: “Minute. I got Cairo on the air, gotta sign off. Car’s around back. Beside the green Chevy. Keys inside, you can—”

“I’ll get it then,” said the voice. And the door slammed.

This wasn’t in the plan, to let him leave. The dealer had done them in, the idiot! Colm was sweating, his face was a steam bath. He heard the lieutenant swear. He heard a shout, a lot of shouts. He ran to the back door.

And there was the fat man, running toward the new car. Colm plunged out after him, it was like diving over a cliff. And then crashed. There was a flash of pain, and the air turned blue and then green. And then black.

When he opened his eyes, sat up, sank down again from the pain, they had the guy. There were three men on him: the lieutenant was screaming, they’d almost lost him. Smith had whirled away, he was agile for his size, fired a second wild shot and got the lieutenant in the elbow. The lieutenant was screaming with outrage. He’d aimed his pistol and Fat Man stumbled, fell against the fender of the green Chevy. Beside Colm. Colm stared into the small blue eyes. He couldn’t get up himself, something had struck his ankle. They were a pair.

Colm said, “Where’s Vic? Where’s Vic, you bastard?”

“Who’s Vic?” growled the fat man, and squealed as he was yanked up and onto his feet, his wrists clapped with handcuffs.

Colm got up on one knee, he had to see for himself. The lieutenant was yelling at him, yelling how stupid he was, running out at the man that way, unarmed. He said it served him right if he was shot.

And the world went blank again. The world had landed, solidly, on Colm’s left foot.

Chapter Ten

Ruth went to the Unsworths’ “on business,” she told Sharon, sitting her down by the phone. She wanted to meet Kurt for herself, see what he knew about Vic, watch him with Wilder, who was out on bail—all that Unsworth money! But “watched like some criminal,” his mother had despaired over the phone. And Ruth wanted to see Garth, though how could a fifth grader arrange a kidnapping? No, it was too sophisticated for that.

Besides, she had to get out of the house, she was stir-crazy. Do something, anything, that might remotely lead to Vic.

But how awful to suspect the children of a woman she liked, even admired. Admired, yes, the word surprised her: a woman up from the city, raising sheep, though she hardly knew the first how-to. You had to give her credit.

She was greeted warmly at the door, though she couldn’t return it. She wasn’t ready to be friends, not yet. They came from different planets, didn’t they? The living room was empty of boys, but she heard noise upstairs. It was a Saturday, Kurt was still laid off work. But he was at work the day Vic was taken, Carol had made that clear, he had the alibi. She squeezed her eyes tight, it was hard to think of Vic without her heart flopping over, her stomach throwing up in her throat. When Carol offered a tour of the house before “tea,” Ruth said yes at once. She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see the boys, yet she had to. But then there were rooms they couldn’t enter, it was like Bluebeard’s castle. Locked rooms—were there bodies inside? Rooms with noises behind the shut doors: scraping, buzzing noises—what were they? Garth’s room was open, though, he was making a model of something, not looking up when they entered, used to his mother’s tours maybe. His nose an inch from the glue he was squeezing between delicate wings. She tried to imagine him with Vic, working on the telescope.