They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (21 page)

“But Valencia Jones didn't go to the state university at Plattsburgh. She wasn't arrested for drug smuggling leaving a ski resort near Plattsburgh. No one in Plattsburgh felt threatened enough by our presence to have people murdered, MacClough. No one felt they had to burn down a ski resort in—”

“Okay,” he relented, “you've made your point, but how does this get us any closer to anything?”

“Guppy, you think you can find out who owns Cyclone Ridge and the Old Watermill?”

“When I arrive home from work, I will set out to accomplish what you ask. I believe I should be able to get into some systems which will—”

“Yes or no?” I cut him off.

“Probably.”

“I'll settle for probably.”

Guppy thought about expanding on his answer, but one look at MacClough and me convinced him to skip it. He excused himself and went off to work. Johnny admonished him to keep his eyes and ears open and to try and get hold of the New York City papers. When Guppy had gone, we finished our breakfasts and passed the paper around.

“I know who owns the Old Watermill,” Zak said almost sheepishly.

“You do?” I asked. “Who?”

“The school.”

“The school!” MacClough puzzled. “Your school?”

“My school.”

MacClough was skeptical. “I never heard of such a thing. You sure?”

I answered for Zak and explained how it made perfect sense for a college to own a hotel, particularly in a small town. Schools often have to put visiting faculty up for a few days or for a few months. On parents' weekends, you could guarantee a large number of rooms. I confessed that I had never thought Riversborough the kind of school that needed its own hotel. Usually, it was the sports powerhouse schools that invested in hotels.

“So,” MacClough's voice smiled, “if colleges can own hotels, they can own ski resorts, right?”

“Holy shit!” Zak and I exclaimed in unison.

“My thoughts exactly,” Johnny winked. “Holy fuckin' shit indeed.” Now I almost wished the Guppster had hung around.

I hadn't noticed myself in the mirror since . . . in days, anyway. Maybe it was that glorious reproduction of Sissy Randazzo's prom picture that moved me to do it, to take a look. Maybe it was about time to face the truth about things, about my future or lack thereof. I'd like to think it was simply because my beard was getting scruffy and itchy and I needed a shave.

A lost face stared back at me, lonesome, childish almost. But for the beard it was my face at four. I was four when we first found out about my dad. Well, we found out he was sick. With what, we weren't told. But its name was whispered in dark corners when my parents thought they were alone. It's funny how parents try to protect themselves by protecting you. That was the face, the cancer face, the word whispered in the dark. I was lost then, too.

Most of the superficial scratches had already faded so that they were just traces now. I guess you can't force a dead hand to scratch with the same enthusiasm as a live one might in anger. The deeper cuts had begun to scab over. Very attractive and not too obvious to a blind man. I shaved my beard off. And I was fully four years old again; wide, sad eyes and chubby-cheeked. But back then, I didn't know my eyes were blue. I swear to God, I assumed they were brown. What do four-year-olds know from blue eyes? To me, the world had brown eyes like my father. It was good to have the beard off. I was tired of hiding from myself, even more so than from the authorities.

Staring into the mirror, my face morphed into Kira's. The details of her face were sketchy to me. I hadn't had the time to know it, its range of expressions, its lines and creases. What I had of it, all I would ever have of it, would have to be enough. And I vowed to the faces in the mirror, all the faces—my beardless face, cancer face, and Kira's—that I would find some reason in her death even if finding it meant sacrificing myself in the process. You know the kind of promise. You've read the words in a hundred cheesy novels. You've heard them spoken in twenty cheesy movies. But the words I spoke were not empty words. Some promises are meant to be kept.

Another Planet

The end began with Guppy's most elegant exclamation: “He's gone!”

Guppy had gotten back from work at 7:00 P.M. with a bag of groceries and the New York City papers. He seemed edgy, which was saying something for Guppy. With his dark puppy-dog eyes and calm, sweet expression, he often appeared unaffected by the pressure. Not tonight. It was as if he had sensed what was coming. His report to John and me about the Riversborough scuttlebutt was terse and discouraging.

The cops had tracked down the trucker who'd given me the lift back into town. And after coming up dry north of the border, the cops were now prepared to believe I was still in the vicinity of Riversborough. They had, as John had earlier mentioned, begun canvassing whole sections of town. It wouldn't be long, Guppy said, before they got to his neighborhood. We agreed that the cops, lacking a warrant, were unlikely to find the old bomb shelter. Even so, Guppy was unnerved.

“For chrissakes,” MacClough prodded, “if there's somethin' else, you gotta tell us now. We can't afford for the cops to show up here and catch us with our pants around our ankles.”

“I am afraid,” he said, “that we are in danger of being found out.”

“Why?” I was more than curious. “How?”

“Apparently, it has raised some suspicions with the constabulary that the waiter at the Manhattan Court Coffee House remembered me speaking with you that day and that you asked after me.”

“Coincidence,” MacClough dismissed. “Klein musta talked to a hundred people since he got here. I don't think the cops suspect any of them.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. MacClough, I don't think you are fully aware of all the specifics. You see, Mr. Klein came to me the day of the murder. A woman customer reported seeing him at the bookstore only a short while after he left.”

MacClough's face soured. “Shit!”

“By your expression,” said Guppy, “I can see you understand the full implications of these two incidents.”

“Is this guy from India or another planet?” MacClough wondered half-jokingly. “I was a fuckin' NYPD detective. Of course I understand. We gotta get you outta here, Klein, and fast. You,” he pointed to Guppy, “get Zak and tell him he's got five minutes to get his ass in gear.”

“But—” Guppy began.

“But nothin'. There's a good shot the cops are gonna show up here with a warrant in hand. I wouldn't be surprised if there's an unmarked car sitting out front right now. So move,” John shouted at our host.

This time, Guppy did not question John's reasoning and ran to fetch my nephew. MacClough and I just stared at one another. What was there to say? I knew that my life as a free man was about to end.

“I'm just going to give myself up.”

“Christ, Klein, not that shit again.”

“No, John, I have to. I'm not going to get caught slinking around. I owe it to Kira to tell my story with my head up. If they catch me trying to escape, no one will listen. The whole world'll think I'm guilty.”

“The whole world already does.”

“I'm sorry, MacClough, I've gotta do this.” I started to move to the bulkhead door.

He grabbed me, straining more than he should have to to hold on. I noticed his skin and the whites of his eyes were jaundiced. I wanted to ask him what was the matter, but I knew he wouldn't tell me. He had something to say and he meant for me to hear it.

“Listen, Dylan.” That got my attention. He only called me that when he was serious. “I guess maybe I understand about you wanting to turn yourself in. I wanted to do it after the Hernandez case, but your brother talked me out of it. And he was right to do it. It was the right thing for me and it was the right thing for the department.”

“So, you did kill him.”

“That's for another telling,” he said.

“You're not my brother, John, and I didn't kill anyone. So let go of me and let me do what I have to do.”

“Can't you figure out what I'm tryin' to say? You can't give yourself up, because they'll never let you live long enough to tell your story. There won't be any arraignment or trial. They'll find you hanging in your cell before the sun comes up. Or maybe some vigilante will whack you on the way into the station. Maybe the the local cops'll shoot you and claim you went for one of their guns. It's been known to happen. Whoever's behind this has power and influence. And if they went this far to stop you, they can't afford to let you have your day in court. You walk into that police station and you're sentencing yourself to death.”

“I'll do it through Larry—”

“Bad idea. Too late, anyhow.”

“Maybe we're over-reacting,” I proposed halfheartedly. “We don't know how long the cops questioned Guppy for. Maybe he took their questions the wrong way. If the cops really suspected him, wouldn't they have barged in here already?”

“You're whistling in the graveyard, Klein.” MacClough knocked my theory down. “They wouldn't barge in. They'd have no way of knowing whether you were armed or how heavily armed. They wouldn't know if you and the Gupster were here alone or whether you had reinforcements. No, they'd wait for you and grab you on the way out.”

“You mean kill me on the way out.”

“Maybe, but not likely, not unless you resisted. They'd probably wait until they had you in private.”

“God, that's a comfort.”

MacClough pulled his .38 and signaled me to be quiet. The bulkhead door flew open and a panicked Guppy stepped through.

“He's gone!”

“Who's g—”

“Zak!” Guppy gasped. “Zak is nowhere to be found in the house.”

“What is it with the fuckin' Kleins, the gene for martyrdom dominant in your family or what?” Johnny's face twisted with worry and what looked to be hints of pain.

“Guppy, can you run through all those Isotope Web sites and chat rooms?”

“I thought we were in a rush?”

“We are,” Johnny said, “but do it anyway.”

I knew the way MacClough thought. He was looking for something specific. And after only two minutes of scanning, Guppy found what MacClough had been hunting for.

“Oh my god!” Guppy barely got the words out. “Look.”

This is what he pointed to on the screen:

Your nephew's here for a visit. Love Valencia. He says there is no disc, but we cannot take that risk. Bring it inn and we'll trade you for him. If not, he'll fade away.

Their mispelling of “inn” was not lost on us. One or all of us were about to jump into the lion's mouth to pull Zak's head out.

Training Wheels

When I came in, MacClough was standing behind Guppy, his yellowish hands enveloping the caramel skin of Guppy's hand. Guppy's hands were draped around the blueblack gun-metal of MacClough's old .38. In unison, they repeated the steps of releasing the safety, pulling back the hammer, and firing. I winced as the hammer struck. There was nothing but a click. Johnny had emptied the cylinder.

“You got it?” he asked his student.

“Yes,” Guppy answered with no confidence.

As MacClough reloaded the pistol, he told Guppy to go over the plan. Dutifully, Rajiv repeated his part in our hastily designed escape.

“Everybody ready?” MacClough didn't really want an answer.

Guppy and I lied that we were.

“Okay, Klein, into the broom closet.”

“Good luck, guys.”

“Go to hell.” MacClough winked and patted my cheek affectionately.

“I'll save you a seat.”

“More likely I'll be savin' one for you.”

He closed the door on me. As he did so, I caught a glimpse of Guppy's face over John's shoulder. He was scared.

Dank and claustrophobic, the broom closet felt like a coffin with training wheels. An empty bottle of Soft Scrub was my only friend. It could have been worse; the kitchen sink might've been closer to the back door. I don't even want to think about how I would have had to contort myself to get under there.

As I listened to MacClough's and Guppy's steps fade away, I visualized how the scene might play itself out. At the threshold of the front door, John stares into Guppy's eyes, promising him things will be all right. Guppy believes him. John has the gift of transferable confidence. He could almost will you to believe. I believed, somewhere. Guppy says he's ready and John pats his shoulder. MacClough reminds Guppy of what he needs to do. Guppy, sage and brilliant, is annoyed at MacClough's constant reminders. John likes the anger in Guppy's black eyes. He likes the people he works with to have an edge to them.

MacClough takes three deep breaths; not two, not four, three. They're breaths so deep you'd swear he was going to the chair. Then, without a word, MacClough, hiding his face with a ski mask and hood, bursts out the door in to the front yard. He heads for Guppy's car. The cops, startled and caught unprepared, draw their weapons, but not before MacClough's in the driver's seat. One cop, a rookie, takes a shot. The Subaru's back windshield shatters. Angry shouts of “Cease fire!” can be heard in the next county. There's a second shot. It misses completely.