Nick's Trip (25 page)

Andy shook my hand and said, “Now we’ve been introduced. What can I get you?”

“A draught beer,” I said.

Andy plunged his thick knotted hand into the cooler and withdrew two glass mugs. He gripped the handles of both with one hand as he tapped out the beer and put a head on it without wasting more than a few drops. I looked at the two beers and then around the empty Polanski’s. Andy placed both beers in front of me.

“There you go.” He leaned a scabbed elbow on the bar and studied the crescent-shaped bruise on my jaw.

“Maybe I have that look,” I said with a crooked smile. “But one beer’ll do it for me today. Thanks.”

Andy frowned and looked a bit hurt. “It’s Tuesday, man!” He pointed behind him to a glitter-drawn sign that itemized the daily specials. “Two-for-one beers every Tuesday—best damn day of the week around here, ’cept for the weekends.”

“Just one for me today, Andy, thanks.” I pushed one of the mugs and slid it in front of his arm. “You have it.”

He shook his head. “Too early for me, pardner.” Andy took the mug by the handle and poured it out into the last of three sinks behind the bar. He walked down to the service end and began building a pyramid of shot glasses that he stacked on a piece of green bar netting.

I nursed the draught through a cigarette and stared into the bar mirror. Andy played a Tammy Wynette Christmas tape and stayed on his end of the bar. When my mug was empty I walked across the room to a pay phone near the men’s room. In a worn directory I found the number to the Pony Point. I dropped a quarter in the slot and punched in the number and when Wanda picked up I asked to speak to Russel. She put the receiver down. I listened to Tammy Wynette on my end and Randy Travis on theirs until Russel picked up.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Russel, it’s Nick Stefanos.” There was a silence. “The detective from D.C., looking for April Goodrich.”

“I remember you,” he said. “What you want?”

“You know how to get in touch with Hendricks?”

“Sure,” he said. “Same way you would—dial nine-one-one.”

“Come on, man,” I said impatiently. “You know how to get him direct, don’t you?”

Russel said, “What’s up with you, man? You don’t sound too cool.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Listen, Russel. Call Hendricks—this isn’t for me, it’s for April—and tell him to get over to Tommy Crane’s place”—I looked at my watch—“in about a half hour.”

“I can get him,” Russel said carefully.

“You going to do it?”

Russel paused. “Sure, Stefanos. I’ll do it.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone.

I walked back to the bar and dropped a five on it and thanked Andy as I put on my overcoat and slipped my smokes into the side pocket. Then I left Polanski’s and stepped across the asphalt lot. The air was colder now and there was a wind, and the steel clouds had deepened to slate. I climbed into my Dart and fired the ignition.

I
FOLLOWED 257
to the steepled church and hung a right onto the road that led to Crane’s property. At the gravel entrance I cut left into the break of the oak forest. The trees were leafless but the overhang of their heavy branches darkened the road. In the clearing I stopped my car beneath the single oak that stood near Crane’s cottage. Crane’s F-150 wasn’t there. I cut the engine.

Outside the car, I removed my overcoat, folded it on the driver’s seat, and closed the door. I fastened the top button on my wool shirt and called out Crane’s name twice. For several minutes I listened to the sound of animal movement in the compound and waited for a human response. When there wasn’t one, I walked across the hard earth and hopped up onto the porch of Crane’s cottage.

I opened the screen door and knocked on the solid door behind it. From behind the door I heard nothing. I stood there in the cold and stamped the porch with my work boots to circulate
blood into my feet. Five minutes later there were still no signs of life, and I tried the knob on the door. It turned and I looked behind me, and then I stepped into Crane’s cottage.

I yelled his name. With the door closed, there was only the occasional creak of the old house conceding to the rush of the wind. The smell of bong water and sulfur cut the living room. I walked to the oak-trunk table and touched my finger to the resin in the bowl of the bong. It was cool, as were the butts in the ashtray next to it. I wiped sweat and ash off my hands and onto the thighs of my jeans, and crossed the living room to the narrow hall. I passed the open bathroom door and stood in the doorway to Crane’s bedroom. A Westclox alarm ticked loudly from his night table. From the doorway I looked out one window to the compound and out the other to my car beneath the oak. No sign of Crane. I called out his name once more and stood there, listening to the clock. Then I turned and walked back down the hall to the door that had been locked four days earlier.

I tried the knob. The door was still locked.

I jiggled the knob and quickly put a shoulder to the door’s body. The frame cracked and split in the right corner, but the door didn’t open. I said Crane’s name again, but now it was only habit, and this time I didn’t wait. I moved one step back and jammed the sole of my work boot into the area just below the knob, and the door kicked open.

I stood at the top of a dusty flight of irregular wooden stairs. The bottom of the stairs ended in darkness. I grabbed a loose banister and skimmed it as I walked down toward the cellar. A moldy, botanical smell rose up as I descended. At the last step I searched for a switch, rubbing my hand across a cold cinder-block wall clodded with dirt. I looked back once and saw colorless light at the top of the stairs. I felt no switch, but I kept inching forward.

A string brushed my face. I found it with my hand and pulled down. It clicked without result. I ran my hand up the
string and touched a bulb caked with dirt. I wrapped my hand around the bulb and turned it clockwise until there was light.

I stood on a dirt floor in a root cellar that ran the length of the cottage. Rusted farm implements—wooden rakes, a fencepost digger, and a sledgehammer—leaned against the east wall. In the far corner several open-topped brown paper bags sat in rows, where bulbous plants had begun to sprout stalks like emaciated, grasping hands.

Two thick black snakes were stretched out sleeping next to the bags, their heads resting like rubber fists against the cinderblock wall.

My heart rate accelerated, and I looked back up the stairs. When I turned my head back I saw another door set in the third wall. The snakes appeared to be sleeping. I eyed them as I walked over to the door.

The door had been secured with a padlock fastened through a hasp. I put my ear to the cool wood and heard the steady hum of an appliance through the door. I stepped back and listened. There was still no movement above in the cottage. I walked to the east wall and grabbed the sledgehammer by the wood handle and returned quickly to the door. I swung the hammer once and tore the hasp off its hinges. Then I kicked open the door.

Inside, a carefully arranged room was carpeted in red. A mattress lay in one corner and a camera set on a tripod pointed down at the mattress. The walls of the room had been paneled in sound-treated tile. On one wall hung oak shelves filled with black videocassette cases. In one of the shelves a television rested beside a VCR. On another wall several mounted photographs depicted acts of sodomy and rape. Many of the photographs were simply closely cropped shots of women’s faces. The faces reflected fear and pain.

A portable humidifier sat on a table and hissed steam into the room. Next to the table the coils of an oil heater glowed red. The room smelled of oil and incense.

I scanned the videotape selection. The cases were unlabeled,
as were the tapes within. I walked back to the doorway and looked up the stairs, then returned to the bed and threw back the sheets. The mattress cover was clean. I felt the mattress and then lifted it. A brown leather briefcase lay beneath it on the red carpet.

I grabbed the briefcase by the handle and pulled it free from the bed’s frame and dropped it on the floor at my feet. I fumbled with the catch—it wasn’t locked—and opened the hinged top. I looked inside and ran my hand along its contents. Then I closed the briefcase and got up off my knees and walked quickly from the room, past the snakes on the cinder-block wall and the tools and the bags containing rooted plants, and up the stairs to the landing, through the narrow hallway to the living room, where I ran now, out the front door and off the porch and across the hard earth to my Dart parked beneath the oak.

I jangled my keys and fit one into the trunk and raised its lid. Inside, my nine-millimeter sat loaded and wrapped in oilskin. I set the briefcase next to it and slammed the trunk shut. Then I looked for my ignition key as I moved to the driver’s side of my Dart. I had opened the door of it when I noticed a tall man leaning in the entranceway of the sty, fifty yards away.

His arms were folded and he was staring at me with a grin. Some of his thick black hair had fallen in front of his eyes. Tommy Crane pulled the hair back behind his ears.

He said, “Can I help you, friend?”

I looked into the car and fingered the ignition key. I might have made it, though maybe not—Crane was quick, I had seen it in his walk—but it didn’t matter, because by then I had already decided to push it. Billy Goodrich had hired me to find his wife; I had only found the money, so for me it wasn’t over. I closed the door and stepped away from the car.

“I didn’t see your truck,” I said with what I knew was an unnatural smile.

“I can’t hear you,” Crane said.

“I said, I didn’t see your truck.”

“I lent it to a friend.” Crane was wearing his black down vest over a red chamois shirt. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “If you want to talk, come on. We can do it in the sty, but I don’t have time to fuck around. I got work to do.”

I looked behind me to the empty gravel road that led into the dimness of the woods. Then I looked back at Crane. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

I walked toward the sty. By the time I reached the hinged gate, Crane had ducked inside. I cleared the lip of the entrance without lowering my head and stepped into the cinder-block structure. The concrete floor was freezing, and the cold traveled up and numbed my calves.

Crane was by the back exit, standing in front of the punchboard that held the butchering knives. He had picked up the black hose that had been coiled beside the copper trough. Liquid boiled inside the trough, and beneath it burned an orange pile of embers. The rank smell of swill filled the sty.

I moved toward Crane and passed a litter of piglets feeding from a sow beneath the warmth of an infrared lamp. Another sow lay alone in a farrowing pen. I could see the balance of the pigs through the exit in the yard out back. Some were down behind the bales of hay. The rest were moving slowly about, wheezing and snorting as they bumped one another with their snouts.

Crane fingered the brass nozzle of the hose and tightened it with a white-knuckled turn. “So,” he said, looking at the nozzle. “You came back.”

“I said I would.”

Crane slid his hand down off the nozzle and wrapped his fingers around the black rubber. “Sayin’ it’s one thing. The other day, you didn’t look like you had the stones.” He squinted. “What changed your mind?”

“A dirty cop, back in D.C.”

Crane studied my discolored jaw. “A cop, huh?”

“That’s right. He told me to stay off the case. But it didn’t
really matter that he was a cop. He was just another guy, looking to get a piece of April Goodrich. It happened like that her whole dumb life. And I think the last time it happened, it happened here.”

Crane said, “How you figure, friend?”

“It wasn’t too tough.” I walked around Crane and leaned my back against the punchboard. It gave me a view through the entrance to the yard outside. I could see most of my car, and beyond that the empty gravel road that ran into the woods. My car sat alone beneath the oak. I thought of Russel and the warmth of his kitchen, and the care he gave to his animals. I wondered if he had picked up the phone and made the call.

“April headed west,” Crane said.

“No,” I said, “she didn’t.” Two large black pigs stood blocking the exit to my left, and Crane had squared off in front of me.

“Then where is she?”

I shifted my weight. “Here, somewhere. She came down with a briefcase full of money she stole, from back in town. You killed her for the money. Or maybe you killed her for the kick. Either way, Crane, you killed her.”

Crane said, “You crossed the line now. You better be able to prove what you’re sayin’.”

I reached into the pocket of my jeans, pulled out the silver antique ring with the ruby stone, and held it out. Crane’s black eyes widened. I said, “Here’s my proof.”

“That’s a stupid trick,” Crane said. “And it’s one you’re gonna die for.”

He swung the hose. The brass nozzle clipped my shoulder. I felt the sting and tucked my chin into my chest and pulled my elbows in, my balled fists in front of my face. I backed up and Crane swung again, making contact across my forearm. I grunted as the nozzle broke the cushion of muscle and reached the bone.

The black pigs screamed from the doorway. Crane made an animal sound and bared his clenched gray teeth as he brought the hose up over my head. It came down with force, but I moved
to the side, and the nozzle chinked the concrete. Before he could bring it back up I pushed him off balance with an open palm, then came quickly out of my stance and fired off a left to his lower back and then a hard right into his kidneys, aiming two feet deep. Crane dropped the hose and doubled down to catch his breath, and when he did I moved in front of him again. I had time to rear back on this one, and Crane didn’t even blink as he watched my punch come straight in and connect square on the bridge of his thick nose. The nose gave like dry sponge, but it only moved Crane back one step. He straightened up and walked toward me, blood inching down over his lip.