The Fall Guy (5 page)

Back down to change the hitches, then up to work the gears again. By now quite a crowd had gathered, including Swan's shift supervisor, Sergeant Hurley, and a paramedic team, who seemed more interested in the damage to my truck than to me.

They checked me out, bandaged a bump on my head I didn't even know I had, cleaned the cuts on my arms from the windshield and told me I should see a doctor in the morning. Fat chance of that. All the headlights were aimed at my poor truck as it came up through the bush.

Its hood and windshield were crushed, the front bumper was gone and all the lights were broken. But it was the sight of the tailgate that made me smile.

“Looks like something hit you pretty good there, Rick,” Nancy said.

Swan's supervisor headed over for a closer look, and Swan hustled over to join him. Sergeant Hurley had been at the detachment for a hundred years, almost, and nothing much got by him. He was the one who took me to identify my mother, and he's had a soft spot for me ever since. Sometimes he even tries to give me fatherly advice. Or what he figures is fatherly advice. I wouldn't know, and neither would he.

Any move hurt like hell, but I wasn't missing this moment. I dragged myself out of the cruiser and limped down to the edge of the road where my truck sat dripping. Hurley was peering at the tailgate with his flashlight.

“And you think someone did this deliberately?” he asked.

“They did. An old Ford V8 with a hole in its exhaust. I heard it earlier today over at”— I stopped for only a second—“Jeff Wilkins' place.”

“Wilkins doesn't own a vehicle like that,” Hurley said.

I squatted down an inch from the big scratch along the edge. Bits of chrome stuck to the black paint. “I bet it's at least twenty years old. All we have to do is find it. Can't be too many old souped-up V8s still on the road.”

Gerry was down off his tractor, angling for a closer look. “Lots still stored under tarps in the shed, though, with owners dreaming of getting them back on the road. Nancy, I bet you and Bud see them.”

Nancy nodded. “Lori-Anne Wilkins used to drive one herself, before she married Jeff.”

I was surprised. “Does she still have it?”

Swan rolled her eyes. “Well, she's dead.”

I felt my face grow hot in the darkness, but Nancy ignored her. “I think she gave it to her son. I told her she was nuts. Flaming death trap, that thing was.”

I didn't know much about Lori-Anne's kids. I knew there was a son and a daughter. But they were a lot younger than me, so our paths didn't cross. But I remembered Lori-Anne worked late hours before she met Wilkins. And the kids ran wild in the streets of Lake Madrid long after dark. Aunt Penny always felt sorry for them. She said they'd learned to live by their wits way too young. When it got cold, they hung around the store. They always seemed to need a wash and a good meal, so Aunt Penny would give them things. She never let them steal, but she gave them apples, expired bread and chips. Said Lori-Anne needed all the help she could get. In her own way, Aunt Penny was a softie.

“Does he still live with her?” I asked. “I never saw him at the cottage.”

“They're both away at college in the city,” Sergeant Hurley said. I think the man knows where you're going before you do, because he added, “Jeff said he only just reached them. They won't be coming down till the funeral Friday.”

“Aw, no big family hugs?” Nancy said.

Nobody seemed to think that needed an answer.

“Then I guess that means they weren't around here driving O'Toole off the road, were they,” Constable Swan said. She strode around my truck. “This thing's so banged up I don't know how you can tell a damn thing.”

I said nothing. Sometimes that's the best thing, with women and with cops. But it didn't stop me from thinking. It made no sense for Lori-Anne's son to be spying on me at the cottage or driving me off the road. It was his mother who'd been killed, and if he thought I had proof, surely he'd be the first person wanting the cops to have it.

But if the son did have an old, beat-up V8, Jeff Wilkins could have gotten his hands on it. I didn't know how, but I was betting Lori-Anne had spare keys around the house somewhere. Wilkins had already proved he was a resourceful guy, especially when it came to pointing the finger at some other sucker. From the sound of it, he didn't like his stepson much either.

CHAPTER
NINE

T
he next day, I was so sore and dizzy I could hardly get out of bed. If it wasn't for Chevie nipping my feet and the hens squawking in the yard, I wouldn't have moved for a week. I sure wasn't up to tracking down a beat-up old car. I figured Jeff Wilkins would have got it back to the city somehow anyway. Maybe even got the chrome bumper fixed before the son even noticed the car was gone.

But Friday morning I was determined to get up. Lori-Anne's funeral was set for three o'clock in St. Matthew's Church, and I wanted to be there. Aunt Penny arrived out at the farm with a frozen lasagna, some day-old cinnamon buns and a big bottle of Advil. She looked none too pleased to be playing delivery boy, and bawled me out for driving around in my old rattletrap like I was in the Indy 500.

I took offence. “I was nearly killed!”

Her lips pursed. “Word is, you were drunk.”

I told her about the old car, and Gerry's plum brandy. “The cops even impounded my truck. Evidence, they said. It's sitting in their lot waiting for tests.”

She snorted. “Your truck is sitting outside Bud's Garage, where everybody who stops by can share the joke about your midnight swim.”

I remembered Constable Swan's smirk, and a spike of anger made my head ache. The cops didn't believe me. They'd played along just to humor me. Or maybe they thought the booze and the bump on the head had gotten to me.

After Aunt Penny left, I downed two Advil and went outside. It took me a full minute to realize that with my truck gone, how was I going to get to the funeral? That whack on the head must have shaken loose a few brains. Staring at the spot of flattened weeds where I usually parked, I tried to think. Did any of my pieces of junk around here run well enough to get me all the way down the highway to the church? I still had half a dozen lawn tractors, but I wouldn't get to the funeral till Tuesday on one of them. Plus, I'd never live it down. The 4x4 in the shed had only three wheels.

That's when I remembered the dirt bike someone gave me years ago for fixing their chain saw. Aunt Penny had not been impressed with the payment, so I'd never ridden the thing. Now I limped over to the shed and dragged it out into the sunshine. It was at least twenty years old, the seat was gone, and I was pretty sure the gears were rusted out. But it had two wheels and a 2-stroke, 250cc engine that a few shots of 10w-30 should spruce up in no time.

In fact it took three hours and a lot more than a few shots of oil, but I got it running with an hour to spare. I have one set of dress clothes—well, I call them dress clothes—so I put them on and headed off. My shirt got splattered with grease, and I sounded like a jet engine warming up as I rattled along the highway. But it looked like I was going to get there on time.

I'd expected Jeff Wilkins to put on a big show. Fancy casket, lots of pallbearers, organ, hymns and a catered spread after the burial. That way everyone would talk about how much he loved her.

But I was wrong. The bugger hadn't spent a penny more than he had to. Nothing but a short graveside service that couldn't have set him back more than the commission on a ten-year-old truck. There were only a dozen cars in the church parking lot, so only a few heads turned when I roared in off the highway. I guess not too many people mourned the death of Lori-Anne Wilkins. Aunt Penny was there, talking to Nancy the tow-truck wizard. Constable Swan was looking very classy with her peaked cap tucked under her arm and her long ponytail flowing down her back. She barely looked my way.

I rolled the dirt bike behind a bush, where I hoped no one would notice it, and started across the parking lot, scanning the cars. Jeff Wilkins' black sports coupe, looking freshly washed and waxed, took center stage among the pickups and suvs. Tucked under the branches of a huge maple that almost hid it from view was a black Ford LTD with a 351 V8 and a dented chrome bumper.

Bingo.

Aunt Penny was waving at me, but I pretended not to notice. I wanted to hang out by the back fence where I could watch everyone. I spotted Jeff Wilkins standing beside Reverend MacLeod. He had a firm grip on two teenagers, who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. They stared at the hole in front of them. The girl was hiding behind a big hat and even bigger sunglasses. She had the same tiny frame and blond hair as her mother, but her puffy dress made her look like a hot-air balloon. Her brother had pulled his baseball cap down almost over his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked like he wanted to kill the world, or at least Jeff Wilkins.

The minister patted Wilkins' arm and turned to face the crowd. Opening his book, he began to read. A scrap from the Bible, then a sappy prayer about living on in memory. The priest had said the same stuff at my mother's funeral. And it didn't look like it was helping any better this time. In the silence afterward, Lori-Anne's kids began to whisper to each other. I moved a little closer.

“Shut up,” Wilkins hissed at them.

“Fuck you,” the boy said.

“Daniel,” said the minister, looking up from his prayer. “Would you like to say a few words about your mother?”

Daniel jerked like a bolt of lightning had hit. He froze, his eyes wide. Reverend MacLeod was quick off the mark and turned to Wilkins without blinking an eye. “A difficult task for a young man in such circumstances. Perhaps you'd prefer to speak, Jeff ?”

And speak he did. Squeezed out the tears and the sighs, talked about how she'd gone to the angels and he hoped she hadn't suffered. Managed a dig about the careless moron who'd caused her death. A couple of people glanced at me, including Constable Swan. I edged behind a large bush.

Reverend MacLeod thanked him and then opened his Bible for another read. The girl suddenly raised her head. “I want to say something.”

Daniel and Wilkins both gave her a nervous look. Before they could object, the girl whipped off her sunglasses. Her eyes were smudged black. “I'm Bethany Tailor. Mom raised Danny and me all on her own for ten years after our dad took off. Nobody ever loved their kids more. Or worked harder to give them a good life. If this world was fair, she should have gotten a reward for that. But instead…” She stopped, her tears making black streaks down her cheeks. “She always hoped, you know? Always thought there might be better days around the corner. Better days for us. Better days for her. Mom wasn't educated or supersmart. She liked simple things. Pretty things. All she wanted was a nice house with flowers and birds and a good life for us.”

Daniel reached over to grip his sister's arm. She yanked it away. “This should have been her time for reward. She got married. She got us into college. She had time for her garden and her decorating. It wasn't… it wasn't”—she sobbed—“supposed to end like this.”

Daniel leaned toward her. Whispered in her ear. She nodded, put her sunglasses back on with shaking hands and fell silent.

Beside her, Wilkins wiped away a tear. Hypocrite, I thought. A few people were wiping away tears, and pretty soon the minister cleared his throat and lifted his book.

Afterward, people walked by to shovel dirt on Lori-Anne's casket. A pine casket, I noticed. Soon I was alone in the graveyard. People headed into the church hall for refreshments, but when Wilkins put his arm around the kids to steer them inside, Bethany shook him off.

“This is all your fault!”

“Bethany, honey, it was a terrible accident.”

“You bought that bird feeder. It's because of you that she's dead!”

“But I didn't know—”

“You promised you'd hang it! She said she waited days and days.”

Daniel muttered something to her and tried to haul her away. “No, Danny! No! It wasn't an accident! He did this!”

Wilkins glanced in my direction and his eyes narrowed. I ducked lower, but the bush wasn't big enough.

“You never gave her a moment's happiness, you fucking control freak! It should have been you!” Bethany was wailing. “You did this on purpose, knowing—”

Daniel grabbed her shoulders and almost threw her into the old Ford.

Wilkins' jaw dropped. “Take her home, Danny,” he said. “Give her one of those pills Doc Logan gave me. Just keep her the hell away from people.”

The Ford peeled out of the lot, gravel spraying and muffler roaring. Wilkins watched it go, then turned to go into the church. He looked worried. He didn't turn in my direction, but I saw his eyes slide sideways toward my bush.

What the hell was all that? Wilkins with a soft side? Or playing to the audience. Me.

CHAPTER
TEN

T
he graveyard scene bothered me all the way home. I wanted Wilkins to be guilty, but I couldn't make the Ford LTD fit into the scheme. Someone driving it had spotted me inspecting the deck, and sped away. Later they had followed me to Aunt Penny's and tried to run me off the road. I'd thought the driver was just trying to scare me off, but he did a pretty thorough job. He even got out of his car to check what happened. My truck was upside down in the creek. Normally a sign that the person inside was in trouble. But the LTD drove off and left me.