Chapter 13
The phone rang just before midnight, an ungodly hour in a rural state. I was on the couch downstairs, half-comatose in front of the TV, surrounded by old newspapers, empty bags of junk food, a couple of dirty plates, and a bowl of melted ice cream. For the past three days, I’d been either checking in at the state police barracks, as required, or hunkering down here, eating poorly, not shaving, reading in the paper about everyone’s outrage at rampant police corruption, and waiting.
I didn’t mind the late-hour interruption.
“It’s me,” said Kunkle’s voice. “Just listen.”
I stayed quiet.
“Go for a walk up the street. Now.” The phone went dead.
I hung up the receiver slowly. Something had come up in the Boris case, and Willy wanted to fill my ear with it, in direct conflict with a court-set condition-something I wasn’t inclined to dismiss lightly.
I got up, went to the bathroom, and washed my face, watching myself in the mirror as I toweled off. The moment I’d been entertaining-purely as a notion-had finally arrived. Without the excuses of adrenaline or ignorance, on which I could have blamed my confrontation with Alonzo, I was willfully considering a violation of the rules I’d followed my whole life. The mildness of the affront made no difference. Brushing aside a court order was a big enough event that if the judge ever caught wind of it, he’d make sure I’d never forget.
I left the bathroom, put my shoes on in the living room, and, leaving the TV on and the house security system off, slipped out the back door. I cut through a small thicket of young trees on the edge of our property and emerged onto Orchard Street. From there, I headed uphill, away from the veiled glow of Western Avenue below.
It was a dark, clear night, and the stars overhead gave me more than enough light to see by, although I wouldn’t have used a flashlight in any case. Taking Kunkle’s cue, I was being unusually cautious. Coffin knew the burden of the restraints he’d put upon me-cooked up, no doubt, as much to force my hand as to keep me under wraps. In the l80 days we had until trial, nothing much was going to stimulate any headlines-unless I did something to change that.
Several times during my walk, I paused under a tree, enveloped in shadow, and waited. I saw a pet or two roaming its territory, a couple of ’possums and a family of raccoons. Once, a car drove by, forcing me into the bushes. But generally, I remained alone.
Willy hadn’t specified where he’d contact me, and I hadn’t expected him to. A Vietnam vet who’d specialized in long-range recons behind enemy lines, he was given to lurking in the night, finding, I expected, a form of inner peace that escaped him during the day. A friend of mine had once said there were two types of human beings-the simple complicated, and the complicated complicated. If ever there was a man who defined the latter, it was Willy Kunkle. In my experience, he was unique in regularly reliving his nightmares in order to quiet his own inner rage.
We met up near the crest of the road, where it borders one edge of Meetinghouse Hill Cemetery. I saw his shadow separate from one of the headstones to beckon me, and I climbed over the low stone wall to join him. In this vast, open spot, the stars gave a ghostly glimmer to all the marble and granite markers surrounding us like frozen gnomes.
“You check your tail?” he asked in a bare whisper.
“Several times.”
He set off for the back of the cemetery, where the newer graves petered out at the edge of a field still popular with the local deer. I followed, my feet silent on the soft, immaculate grass. I found myself breathing shallowly, my mouth open, further adding to the absolute silence.
We finally stopped by a low bench inscribed with two names, located in a broad, flat area from which we could see anyone moving. The entire world seemed to end at a distant belt of trees, colored only in pewter gray.
“What’ve you got?” I asked in a low voice.
“First is what we don’t got, which is Ron and J.P. Ron’s out because that’s the way Sam and I want it-he’s got a young family, and he’s too squeaky clean anyhow. He’d probably turn beet red before telling a lie, and then fuck it up anyhow. J.P.’s too much of a company man. He might be okay, but now’s not the time to find out. And neither of ’em have military training, which the three of us do. I think that counts.”
I didn’t argue. The fact behind all this supposed calculation was that he and Sammie had decided to stick their necks out for me, for whatever reasons. I knew from experience I couldn’t change their minds. The least I could do was to follow their ground rules.
“We got pretty good evidence Rarig’s dirty,” Willy went on. “Ron traced his career till he got into the Army and was shipped overseas. He was in on the D-day landings at Omaha Beach as a radioman and supposedly made it out alive, but that’s where we think somebody pulled the switch. His whole unit was basically wiped out. They landed in the wrong place or something-I don’t know-but they caught all hell and were written off.”
Willy hunched over slightly on the bench, his body language expressing his pleasure. “But here’s the good part: where the official Army unit history brags about him being a survivor, Ron dug up a hometown news article, written at the time, that has him listed as killed in action. There was a retraction a few days later, but we’re thinking the paper got it right, and the feds had to scramble to cover it up. And I said, ‘unit history,’ right? That’s because that’s all there is on him. The Army lost his enlistment records-everything having to do with his identity. And remember Sammie telling you we were getting some high school yearbook photos faxed to us? Never happened. They called us back and said the books’re missing for that year, not only from the library, but from the principal’s office as well. Before, the only complication was finding a way to have ’em copied.”
“What about after D-day?” I asked.
Kunkle laughed softly. “All of a sudden, we have tons of records: wounded in action, shipped back to DC and straight into a career at the State Department. From that point on, we got rental information, mortgages, country club memberships, driver’s license, registration forms-you name it. Like he was compensating for having no past early on.” He paused and then added, “He never married, by the way.”
I played devil’s advocate. “None of which tells us much. We thought he was a spook almost from the start.”
Willy was unfazed. “Yeah, well, the spook’s in business again. We been keeping a watch on his place, taking turns. This afternoon, he got a visitor. Looked like a typical guest-old lady, white hair, bag of golf clubs in the trunk-but her plates were from Maryland. I checked her out, just for kicks. Name’s Olivia Kidder, and her place of employment is the CIA.”
I raised my eyebrows in the darkness. This was either a curiously coincidental time for old buddies to reunite, or a sign that something was finally in motion.
“How’d you find out where she worked?” I asked a moment later.
“Routine check. I think most of their employees are out in the open. I don’t know what she does there, ’course. Hope to hell it isn’t a janitor or something. Anyway, the plan we cooked up was to hit ’em tonight-see what they got to say. That’s why I called.”
“Sammie’s still there?” I guessed.
“Yup. Kidder’ll probably spend the night-long drive and all-but we didn’t want her to split tomorrow without having a crack at her. I mean, what’ve we got to lose?”
I thought back to the conversation I’d had earlier with my reflection in the mirror. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
Heading north in Willy’s car, I began feeling increasingly at ease with my decision. My chances of success were dim, but at a time when most aspects of my life were in serious disarray, the simple act of riding through the gloom was enough to make me believe in the possible again.
But not without misgivings. The sense of betrayal I’d felt on the night of the jewel theft, coupled with the maneuver Fred Coffin had pulled in court, was not to be eclipsed by some fresh air and a drive-especially when that drive could be taking me straight into more trouble.