“Krull, you hear me? Call him. Here.”
There was a phone on Delray’s desk and this phone Dutch Boy pushed in Krull’s direction, but Krull lifted his hands away. With a shake of his head Krull indicated he didn’t know where his father was, didn’t know how to call him, Krull was on his feet now disliking the way Dutch Boy was crowding against him, taking up too much space where he wasn’t welcome. Seeing behind Dutch Boy’s dyed-brass head a heavy wrench on a shelf, if Krull could maneuver in the right space he could (maybe) lay open Dutch Boy’s skull in a single blow and the problem would be solved for Delray if not for Krull.
Pumped with adrenaline Krull was thinking he didn’t care if he killed Dutch Boy but he’d care like hell if he got caught. Piss away his young life at Potsdam or Attica and maybe he’d die there. That would break Delray’s heart, losing his only son. Could not risk that.
Dutch Boy’s name was Dennis. In school he’d been Dennie Greuner afflicted with a stammer like a seizure, provoking laughter in other children.
He’d been skinny, sickly-looking yet somehow he’d prevailed and in high school he’d suddenly grown taller, acquiring a malevolent sort of strength like a toxic gas set to explode with the slightest spark.
Quietly Krull said his father was a sick man.
Quietly Krull asked how much did his father owe.
Dutch Boy named a sum. Krull whistled thinly. Hoping that, whatever Delray had done with the money it had been worth it.
NEXT MORNING there came a call for Aaron Kruller from the Watertown Veterans Administration Hospital Alcohol and Drug Rehabilitation Clinic informing Aaron that his father Delray had departed from the facility sometime the previous night. He’d told no one where he was going. He’d told no one that he was leaving.
Krull hung up the phone. Felt like he’d been kicked in the belly.
“Fuck you, then. That’s it.”
The previous time, Delray had done more or less the same thing. At the same detox clinic. He’d lasted a little longer, but he’d left before he was released. Same God-damned thing he’d walked out. And Zoe had taken the call, and Krull had heard her scream.
This was it. This was the end. Let him drink himself to death. Krull wasn’t going to care.
He’d made arrangements to pay Dutch Boy in installments. Five hundred dollars each. He’d made the first payment. There were six more installments to come. He hadn’t told his aunt Viola or any of the Krullers about the money. Couldn’t bring himself to tell Viola the bad news. Headed to hell, after her. Drinking beer till his head buzzed and his gut was bloated like something dead and swollen in the water thinking how it was so, Zoe had plunged into hell and was pulling them after her like dirty water swirling down a drain. The kind of family situation, you could call it an inheritance, you’d naturally need to get high and stay high as long as you could.
46
MAY 11, 1990
THESE WEEKS LATER, Delray was still missing.
In the wind you could say of the old man. Krull believed that Delray was still alive, though. Somehow, he knew.
On broken wings Krull was descending. Not in graceful arcs like the wide-winged hawks circling their small-mammal prey preparing to dive and clutch and tear but a drunk-jolting slip-sliding-down through rough currents of air. He’d had a hit of crystal meth in some very early hour of the morning but it was long past morning now.
“Krull? You O.K.? Look here.”
Too much effort to turn his head. And when he turned his head it was some later time. Still, there was a sun. Bleeding into the darkness below like a burst egg yolk so he didn’t need headlights yet. Not wanting to switch on his lights until absolutely lights were needed, it was a principle Delray upheld as well.
Moving target. Couldn’t remember if this was a good thing or not-so-good.
It was a warm-balmy May day. Should’ve been an ordinary day except Krull had wakened to a premonition. Zoe had had these also: premonitions. Like superstitions. Like axle grease lodged beneath your fingernails, so deep you can’t ever pick or pry it out.
“Krull, shit. Open your eyes, you’re gonna crash us.”
Krull wasn’t what you’d call a meth-head. Krull was not. Not a serious user of any drug. So not susceptible to premonitions and superstitions but still he had a feeling, when Dutch Boy called him.
Driving out the Sparta-Boonville Road. Glacier hills like the shrugging backs of ancient beasts, drumlins and deep ravines. In the city which was steep hills lifting from the river you could go for days without seeing the sky. Had to crane your damn neck, make an effort to look up. In the country navigating these long slow hills you could see more. There’s the illusion, you could see into the future.
“Pull over, Krull. Christ! I’ll drive.”
Krull shoved whoever it was away. Krull muttered laughing what sounded like Fuck you fucker! But it was in good spirits.
The way Dutch Boy spat the name Krull—K-Krull—over the phone, almost you could see the outraged spittle.
“He’s a shithead. He’s fucked. Fuck him.”
Krull was driving a 1988 Dodge minivan, he liked. Handled easy for a vehicle of its size. Registered in the name of Aaron Kruller. Four thousand down payment supplied by Dutch Boy. In cash.
Except Krull was in that paranoid state, wasn’t sure if he’d already accomplished his mission and was to be rewarded or if he hadn’t accomplished his mission and was to be reprimanded. As in a dream he wasn’t sure what the mission was, or had been. Something important, urgent. Dutch Boy said This one you don’t want to fuck up.
Like skidding on black ice. Getting turned around. Your vehicle in motion so you’d have a hell of a time saying which direction you’d been traveling in, and why.
“Ma’am sorry. It’s a cash transaction.”
At the doctor’s house on Fairway Lane he’d said this. The doctor’s wife Lorene had invited Krull inside though Krull had clearly been in a hurry and his work-boots heavy as horse’s hooves were muddy tracking up the prissy oatmeal-colored carpet. Just inside the rear door of the doctor’s house on Fairway Lane you could see some kind of luxury-hotel look through paneled glass, an indoor swimming pool?—glimmering aqua.
This wasn’t the first time Krull had delivered to the split-level glass-and-brick house overlooking fucking Sparta Hills Golf Course but the first time the doctor’s wife Lorene came on to Krull swaying and leaning against him so crudely, such a yearning to be loved or anyway stroked, touched, fucked she’d actually leaned her face to his, touched his lips with her lips, would’ve kissed Krull with her tongue except he’d been as shocked as if a snake had poked its forked tongue out of the female’s mouth or if a snake had slid up his leg and into his crotch. “Jesus! Ma’am get back.” His age and size and Indian-looking as he was Krull was easily freaked-out by females careening near him, drunk or high, you heard such tales of rape accusations, sex-assault and death threat accusations, anything a female declared a male had done to her would be believed, today. And this was a fully white woman, and Krull’s skin was heavy-dark with blood and his shadowy beard he’d have had to shave twice a day, fuck that Krull had better things to do. So shoving the doctor’s wife Lorene—now astonished, hurt like he’d slapped her face—as if Krull was supposed to walk away with no payment for the delivery except a wet tongue-kiss and the promise of sex! And Dr. Jacobi’s wife pushing forty at least. To Dutch Boy he’d repeat his terse response like a TV ad lib, “Ma’am sorry. We just do cash transactions” to make Dutch Boy laugh.
Provoking laughter in Dutch Boy was like provoking laughter in some damn beef cattle still with its horns. Slow and stupid but dangerous just to approach. A wrong move, you can wind up on the horns.
Krull was known as Dutch Boy’s lieutenant. Dutch Boy’s right-hand man. Only man Dutch Boy could trust. He said.
And a guy to make Dutch Boy laugh.
Only when he was high, Krull was funny. If you could call it funny. Weird like something on late-night TV. Switch on the
set, there’s Krull.
“Krull, c’mon. Pull over here. I’ll—”
Krull wanted to laugh but his teeth were chattering. Yet so warm he’d yanked up his T-shirt to his armpits. The skin taut against his ribs was slick with sweat. Shit he’d been losing weight, it was fucking hard to sit still long enough to eat. If you had the appetite to eat. Meth-smoke dulled his taste and his tongue felt numb like some dead thing crawled in his mouth though he had an urge to talk, an itch to talk, only just not any words to say. When the frantic woman pressed against him before even she’d tried to slide her snake-tongue into his surprised mouth she had reached around him adroit as a mother reaching around an intransigent child to clasp him tight against her, mother-hands flat together at the small of his back as she gripped him tight saying she was so lonely, Christ she was so lonely, she could love him, please let her, she’d been crazy for him since the first time she’d seen him, Krull had had to push the woman away, shocked. The hungry female mouth so yearning to swallow his own.
Years ago, Zoe’s friend Jacky DeLucca. Krull still dreamt of that female he had not seen since.
He’d never found out if Delray had been the one who’d beaten DeLucca. It wasn’t something you could ask of your old man.
Never found out if, before Eddy Diehl had been shot down, he actually had confessed to killing Zoe. If that was maybe why he’d been shot down. But the story had been altered afterward. Out of spite, to ruin Delray Kruller. Out of spite, Delray’s enemies in the sheriff’s department. Some boyfriend of Zoe’s cousin, that was the connection. All of Sparta was a spiderweb of such connections.
In the center of the web was the spider Death.
After Diehl died his family had moved away from Sparta. The ex-wife, the son Ben and the daughter Krista.
The girl, Krull had almost strangled. Almost fucked. No but he had not, it was only just his hands.
He had not. She would confirm this.
These weeks he’d given in, said yes to Dutch Boy. What had happened to Dutch Boy’s previous lieutenant wasn’t commonly known.
If Krull had been to the doctor’s wife this afternoon and he had the cash on his person, then he’d made the transaction. If Krull still had the dope, he hadn’t made the transaction. If Krull didn’t have either the cash or the Baggie with the rock crystal he was in serious trouble.
Whoever was pulling at his hands, Krull shoved aside. Trying to talk reason to Krull and Krull lost patience suddenly cursed him laughing angrily and reached over to open the door, God damn door handle Krull grabbed and tried to lift the wrong way, then managed to get it, the door swung open, shithead shoved out screaming, Krull jammed the accelerator to the floor.
He’d been there, at the doctor’s wife’s house. He remembered now. It had been real enough. She’d half-fallen, her hair in her face. Her eyes leeching onto his like she’s drowning and Krull was the one to haul her up but had not. You sorry bastard. You redneck shithead out of the doctor’s wife’s peach-colored face.
There was the wish that Delray might return. Krull would appeal to Delray frankly what to do about Dutch Boy. Except if Delray hadn’t disappeared, there wouldn’t be Dutch Boy in Krull’s life.
Duncan Metz was gone, out of Sparta. There was a rumor he’d been told to leave, or he’d be hurt. Maybe he was in Buffalo. Maybe in Erie, Pennsylvania. Dutch Boy had Metz’s arsenal, he called it. Military rifles, shotguns and semi-automatic pistols. A single-shot Remington pistol with bolt action. And more.
You plotted killing your enemy before he realized he had a good reason to kill you. Except the risk is, your enemy has already realized. Your enemy is waiting for headlights to approach his house in the countryside darkening like something congealing while the sky is still light and clouds marbled and massive like sculpted rock.
In the wind. But where, no one knew.
You’d have thought that Delray would contact some of his relatives in Sparta. But no word came of him. Then, mid-April Krull heard that Delray had “passed through” Long Lake seeing a cousin and his family there but by the time Krull drove up to Long Lake, in the Adirondacks, Delray had “moved on.”
What condition was his father in, Krull asked.
Knowing from the look in his relatives’ eyes, this was a painful question to answer.
Another time in April Krull learned of Delray turning up unexpectedly at another relative’s home in Plattsburgh, near the Canadian border; this Kruller cousin had enlisted in the army and was shipped to Vietnam at about the time Delray had enlisted. His wife called Krull to say that Delray had “come and gone” and he’d shown signs of “heavy drinking” and “talked kind of confused, sometimes.” Krull asked if Delray had said anything about rehab, returning to rehab and Watertown, and if Delray had said anything about returning to Sparta, anything about him, and the woman said, “Him and Luke, they didn’t waste a lot of breath talking but mostly just drank. Luke has this bad habit of talking past you—y’know what I mean?—he’d say something about Vietnam, that damn war they were in, and Delray would only just grunt and laugh like it was so long ago, what the hell’s it matter any longer. I tried to feed Del some, he wasn’t eating a whole lot, I asked how was his family back in Sparta, how was his son—that’s to say you—and Delray said this thing to chill your heart—‘That’s a long time ago, too.’ I thought maybe it was an error of mine to call Delray’s attention to, y’know, your mother and all, but he didn’t take offense against me. Later in the night I woke up hearing him and Luke still downstairs laughing—or maybe not laughing but something else. Next morning Delray was gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Aaron, how’d I know? Del din’t even make clear where he’d come from.”
First of May Krull heard from a customer at the auto repair who’d known Delray since high school, that Del had moved in with some woman at Saranac Lake and was working as a mechanic there. “Why the fuck would Pa do that,” Krull said, “—he owns his own place here.” By the time Krull could get away to Saranac Lake driving all the hell out route 28 and north into the mountains on treacherous looping roads it was days later and in Saranac he dropped by every garage and body shop and diner, bar and tavern in the vicinity showing photos of Delray at a younger and healthier age so he had to explain how Delray was likely to be looking now. No one in any of the garages remembered having seen Delray which was a bad sign but in a lakeside tavern a young female bartender claimed yes, could be she’d seen this man, he’d been in the tavern several times by himself and not with any woman, she remembered his face “kind of beat-up, wounded-looking”—but he’d left her dollar tips, he was a generous man.
Krull had to smile. Generous! The less cash Delray had, the more he tossed around. There was a reckless giddy air to Delray at such times, like a man on his way to the gallows.
The woman said she’d asked Krull’s father his name and he’d just laughed and mumbled what sounded like “That’s a long time ago.”
Krull spent a day and a half at Saranac. Not wanting to spend money on a motel he slept in his car. Needing a shave and smelling of his clothes, desperation and beer he’d had to drink, in pursuit of the old man, God damn he was determined to find Delray except the search was just one tavern, bar, diner or restaurant after another along the main-traveled highway, a futile quest Krull came to see for this wasn’t TV where after a few inquiries a son would find someone—like the female bartender—to help him locate his father and bring him back home and check him back into rehab to save his life. Instead what Krull encountered was strangers of whom some had time for him and others did not; strangers who were mostly sympathetic and wishing to be helpful and pitying, especially women staring at the wrinkled old snapshots Krull spread out before them saying Oh is this your father? Looking for your father is he sick? Saying There is a strong family likeness here, you and him. You can see it in the eyes.
Looking at Krull as if he, Krull, was the sick one, not Delray. Or maybe Krull had caught the sickness from Delra
y and already it showed in his young face.
The kind of family situation where your remedy is to get high. Stay high for as fucking long as it’s feasible.
KRULL RETURNED HOME to a surprise and not a good surprise.
“…hate to let Del and you down Aaron but hell: how’d I know when Del is coming back? Or if Del’s coming back? I got my family to look out for, see? This body shop in town, I can start next Monday. You tell Del, next time you talk to him, that….”
Joe Susa! Krull was stunned. Krull had not expected this. Joe Susa was the most skilled of Delray’s mechanics.
Twelve years of working with Delray, maybe that was enough. Krull saw in the man’s eyes how deeply distressed he was, how guilty he felt and what damned relief, at the prospect of quitting Kruller’s Auto Repair.
…kind of beat-up, wounded-looking…
Like tracking a wounded animal. An old buck. The gut-shot old buck leaving a blood trail through the woods, in the snow stubbled with broken limbs, swatches of leaves. Krull had never gotten into hunting but knew it was a code of hunting, especially the Seneca Indians believed that the hunter is morally bound to locate the animal he has wounded and put the animal out of its suffering.
Except you have to find the wounded buck, first.
47
“O.K.! I AM COMING.”
Krull was in the habit now of speaking aloud. No one else to speak to, he could trust.
At Booneville Junction twelve miles west of Sparta there appeared to be no inhabitants only a rotting granary of about the height of a three-storey house beside the Chautauqua & Buffalo railroad track. On all sides were overgrown fields. The Booneville road was cracked and crumbling. Here you turned left onto Seven Mile Road which was narrow and unpaved leading back, after a mile, to what must have been once a farming-family enclave. Of six houses two had collapsed into their stone foundations and one had burnt down to its foundation and another had begun to burn from the roof down, gutting out the attic, exposing rooms so that you could see fire-scorched wallpaper, splintered glass in what remained of windows, blackened curtains delicate as lace stirring in the wind. In his jittery mood Krull stared at a window of this devastated old farmhouse thinking that a woman was watching him from there, drawing back the black-lace curtain, beckoning.