I drove on past the house to the canyon, where there was a Forest Service parking area, and watched the house for a half hour through my field glasses. She fed a black Labrador on the back steps, she took some wash off the line, she carried a carton of mason jars out of the shed back into the house, but there was no sign of Harry Mapes.
I went back home and found Alafair asleep and Dixie Lee putting a new set of strings on his sunburst Martin.
I didn’t have to call Dan Nygurski again. He called me at five minutes after eight the next morning.
“You beat me to it,” I said. “I tried to catch you at home yesterday.”
“About Sally Dio.”
“That’s right.”
“About your phone conversation with him.”
“That’s right. So he did use the pay phone down the road from his house?”
“Yeah, he sure did. In fact, he was using it several times a day. Calls to Vegas, Tahoe, LA, Galveston. Notice I’m using the past tense here.”
I squinted my eyes closed and pressed my forefinger and thumb against my temples.
“I’ve sympathized with you, I’ve tried to help you,” he said. “I took you into my confidence. I just had a conference call with a couple of federal agents who are very angry right now. My explanations to them didn’t seem to make them feel any better.”
“Dan—”
“No, you got to talk yesterday. It’s my turn now. You blew a federal wiretap. You know how long it took us to set that up?”
“Listen to what you’ve got on that tape. Solicitation to commit murder. He stepped in his own shit.”
“You remember when I told you that Sal is not Bugsy Siegel? I meant it. He did time for stolen credit cards. He’s a midlevel guy. But he’s connected with some big people in Nevada. They’re smart, he’s not. He makes mistakes they don’t. When he falls, we want a whole busload to go up the road with him. Are you starting to get the big picture now?”
“All right, I screwed it up.”
“That doesn’t bother me as much as the fact that I think you knew better.”
“He walked into it. I let it happen. I’m sorry it’s causing you problems.”
“No, you wanted to make sure he thought he was tapped. That way he wasn’t about to try to whack you again.”
“What would you do?”
“I would have stayed away from him to begin with.”
“That’s a dishonest answer. What would you do if a guy like Dio was trying to whack you out, maybe you and your daughter both?”
I could hear the long-distance hum of the wires in the receiver.
“Did that Missoula detective get ahold of you?” he asked.
“He came out and left his card.”
“I hope he’ll be of some help to you if you have more trouble there.”
“Look, Dan—”
“I have another call. We’ll see you,” he said.
I went into the kitchen to fix a bowl of Grape-Nuts and spilled the box all over the floor. I cleaned up the cereal with a wet paper towel and threw it in the trash.
“I’m heading out for work,” Dixie Lee said.
“All right.”
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.”
“Yeah… well, what do you want to do after Wednesday?”
“What?”
“About Alafair. That job ain’t but four hours a day. I can put them in any time I want.”
“What are you talking about?”
“School’s out for the summer, ain’t it? I can help look after her. What’s the best time for me to be home?”
“I don’t know, Dixie. I can’t think about it right now.”
I felt him looking quietly at the side of my face, then he turned and walked outside to his automobile. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. I locked the house, put the .45 under the truck seat, and drove south once again into the Bitterroot Valley.
This time the black Jeepster was parked right next to the Mercury, and when I pulled into the yard and got out of the truck, woodsmoke was blowing off the stone chimney. Through the front window I could see the woman named Betty drinking coffee with a man at a table in the living room.
The porch rails and the lacquered yellow logs of the house were wet with dew. I stepped up on the porch, knocked on the door, and when the woman opened it I saw Harry Mapes stare at me with his mouth parted over his coffee cup. Then he got up and walked out of my line of sight into a side room.
“Hi,” she said, and smiled with recognition. “You’re—”
“I didn’t tell you my name yesterday. It’s Dave Robicheaux. I’d like to talk to Harry.”
“Sure. He’s here. But how’d you know where I lived?”
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I’d appreciate it if you’d ask him to step out here.”
“I don’t understand this,” she said, then turned and saw Mapes standing behind her. “Harry, this is the guy I told you about.”
“I figured it was you,” he said to me.
He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, and a black automatic hung from his left hand. The chain scars on his face were almost totally gone now.
“Harry, what are you doing?” she said.
“This is the guy who attacked me in Louisiana,” he said.
“Oh!” she said. Then she said it again, “Oh!”
“Come outside, Mapes,” I said.
“You don’t know when to leave it alone, do you?” he said. “My lawyer told me you might try something like this. He also told me what to do about it.”
“What’s that?”
“You try to intimidate a witness, you just create more trouble for yourself. Figure it out.”
“So you’re holding all the cards. Look, I don’t have a weapon. Why don’t you step outside? Nobody’s going to eat you.”
His fingers were long on the sides of the automatic. I had seen only one or two like it since I had left Vietnam. It was a 7.62-millimeter Russian Tokarev, a side arm often carried by NVA officers.
I saw Mapes wet the triangular scar on his lip, his mouth tight, his eyes narrowed as though he were biting down softly on a piece of string. He wasn’t a bad-looking man. He still had the build of a basketball player or a man who could do an easy five-mile morning run. You wouldn’t pay particular attention to him in a supermarket line. Except for his eyes. He was the kind who was always taking your inventory, provided you represented or possessed something he was interested in; and sometimes when you studied the eyes in his kind you saw a hidden thought there that made you look away hurriedly.
“You’re right,” he said, and set the pistol on the arm of a couch by the door. “Because you’re all smoke. A guy who’s always firing in the well. A big nuisance who couldn’t mind his own business.”
He opened the screen door and stepped out on the porch.
“You think it’s going to come out different somehow at your trial?” he said. “You think following me around Montana is going to make all that evidence go away?”
“You’ve got it wrong, Harry. I gave up on trying to nail you. You’re too slick a guy. You’ve fooled people all your life. You burned two people to death when you were seventeen, you murdered the Indians, the waitress in Louisiana, your partner, and I think you raped and murdered Darlene. You got away with all of it.”
I saw the blood drain out of the face of the woman behind the screen. Mapes’s chest rose and fell with his breathing.
“Listen, you asshole—” he said.
“But that’s not why I’m here. You were at the school ground, in that Mercury there, looking at my daughter through field glasses, asking questions about her. Now, my message here is simple. If you come around her again, I’m going to kill you. Believe it. I’ve got nothing to lose at this point. I’m going to walk up to you, wherever you are, and blow your fucking head off.”
I walked off the porch into the yard.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said. “You, too, Betty. You stay
out here and listen to this. My lawyer did some checking on this guy. He’s a drunk, he’s a mental case, he’s got an obsession because he got his wife killed by some drug dealers. Then somebody threatened his daughter, and he accused me and my partner. The fact that he’s an ex-cop with dozens of people who’d like to even a score with him doesn’t seem to enter his head. Let me tell you something, Robicheaux. Betty’s son goes to a Catholic school in Missoula. She and her ex-husband have shared custody. Sometimes I pick him up or drop him off for her. If that’s the same school your daughter goes to, it’s coincidence, and that’s all it is.”
“You heard what I said. No warning light next time,” I said.
I got inside my truck and closed the door.
“No, Harry, bring him back,” the woman said. “Who’s Darlene? What’s he talking about a rape? Harry?”
“He’s leaving. Close the door,” he said to her.
“Harry, I’ll call the sheriff. He can’t get away with saying that.”
“He’s leaving. He’s not coming back.”
Then he walked toward the truck window just as I started the engine.
“You’re going to prison,” he said. “Nothing’s going to change that. You can mess me up with my girl, you can say stuff about blowing me away if it makes you feel good, but in a few weeks you’re going to be hoeing sweet potatoes in Angola.”
I put the transmission in reverse and began backing around in a half circle. The wind blew his hair, and his skin looked grained and healthy in the sunlight. His eyes never left my face. My knuckles were ridged on top of the gearshift knob, and my thighs were shaking as I depressed the floor pedals.
It had all been for nothing.
But there was still time, the moment was still there. To pull the .45 from under the seat, to aim it suddenly at his face, knock him to his knees, screw the barrel hard into his neck and cock the hammer, let him experience the terror of his victims who clawed the inside of an automobile trunk while the metal heated and the flames spread to the gasoline tank. I could feel the .45 leap into my hand as though it had a life of its own.
I shut off the engine and stepped out of the truck. My face felt cool in the bright air. The yellow log house and the ponderosa and blue spruce on the hillsides seemed dazzling in the sun. His eyes dropped to my hands. I held my palms up.
“Did you ever go to the stake in Saigon?” I said.
“What?”
“Some ARVN and white mice would march them out to the stake, tie them to it, and put a round behind the ear. At least that was what I was told. I never saw it.”
“I think you had some head damage over there. You’ve got thirty seconds to be past Betty’s property line, then we call the sheriff.”
“You’d better concentrate on my words, Harry. The executioner was probably a special kind of guy. He could kill people and go home and have lunch. He’s somebody you can understand. You’d recognize each other in a group. But you know I’m not like you, and that’s why you’re not afraid of me. I can come out here and talk about cooling you out, but you know I won’t do it. But how about Sally Dio?”
“Dio? You must truly be out of your mind. Get out of here, man.”
“He was talking about whacking you out. That’s not a shuck. He’s got some new guys up at the lake. They’re the real article, genuine syndicate hit men. You can call Dan Nygurski at the DEA in Great Falls and ask him. Or, better yet, ask him to deny it. If that’s not enough for you, I can give you Sal’s unlisted number and you can talk with him about it. If I’m just jerking you around, you can clear the whole matter up in a few minutes.”
“What’s Dio care about me? I only met the guy twice.”
“Ask him. Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in his and Dixie Lee’s lease deals. He’s probably a borderline psychotic. I doubt if he thinks too straight.”
His eyes looked like they were focused on a thought ten inches in front of his face. Then they came back on me.
“Where’d you hear this?” he asked.
“Stay away from my daughter. Don’t come near that school. I don’t care if your lady friend’s son goes there or not,” I said, and I got back into the truck and drove out on the dirt road.
In the rearview mirror I saw him standing alone in the yard, staring after me, the woman holding the screen door wide behind him.
I went back home, walked down the street to a noon AA meeting, bought groceries for our supper that evening, then sat on the back steps in the shade and tried to put myself inside the mind of Harry Mapes. He was a smart man. He had killed a number of people over the years—his first when he was seventeen and God only knew how many in Vietnam—and he had never spent a day in jail for it. He wasn’t compulsive; he was calculating, and he used fear and violence to achieve an immediate, practical end. Like any sociopath’s, his emotions were simple ones and concerned entirely with desires, survival, and the destruction of his enemies. He remained passive, functional, and innocuous in appearance until he felt threatened. Then he rose to the occasion.
When he saw me east of the Divide, on the dirt road between the Indian beer joint and the home of Clayton Desmarteau’s mother, I scared him in some way. He went to the school ground to keep my mind on other things or, perhaps, to provoke me into attacking him again. Somehow he had also concluded that Darlene had sent me east of the Divide, had put me on that dirt road south of the Blackfeet Reservation, and he feared that somewhere in that hardpan country I would discover what had happened to Clayton Desmarteau and his cousin.
In the last two days I had managed to turn it around on both Dio and Mapes, to use some smoke and their own frame of reference against them, so that in all probability they wouldn’t come around me and Alafair again. But my legal situation remained the same as it had been when I left Louisiana. My victory had become the restoration of the status quo. I lay down on the living room couch in a funk, with my arm across my eyes, and fell asleep.
The image in my dream was brief, like needles of light in the afternoon haze. Darlene kneeling by water, white-tailed deer thudding across the wet ground between the cottonwoods.
I felt feathers brushing across my forearm and cheek. I opened one eye and looked at Alafair’s grinning face. The other day she had found an old feather duster in the house.
“How you doing, you cute little guy?” I said.
“How you doing, you cute little Dave?” she said. She wore jeans and her Baby Orca T-shirt.
I sat up on the couch.
“How’d you get home?” I said.
“Dixie Lee walked down and got me. You was asleep. Dave?”
“What?” I rubbed my face and tried to make the afternoon come into focus.
“We only got two more days of school. We going home then?”
“Maybe so, little guy.”
“We better call Batist and tell him.”
“Alafair, when we go back home, it might be for just a few days. I might have to sell a few things and raise some money so we can take another trip.”
“Trip?”
“To a different place for a while. Down by the ocean, maybe.”
“We’re not going to live at the house no more?”
“I don’t know, Alf.”
I looked at the confusion in her face.
“Let’s take things as they come,” I said. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed later if we move somewhere else for a while.”
I heard the phone ring in the hallway. Alafair picked up her lunch box from the coffee table and started toward the kitchen.
“Miss Regan asked if we eat redfish,” she said. “Why she ask that? What’s she care about redfish? I got pushed down on the school ground. I threw a dirt clod at the boy that did it.”
I let her go and didn’t say anything more.
“Dave, you better take this,” Dixie Lee said in the doorway, the telephone receiver in his hand.
“What is it?”
“St. Pat’s Hospital. They got Clete in ther
e.”
We drove to the hospital on Broadway, left Alafair in the second-floor waiting room with a comic book, and walked down the corridor to Clete’s room. A plainclothes cop, with his badge on his belt, was just coming out the door. He had a blond mustache and wore a white shirt and knit tie. He was putting a small notebook in his shirt pocket.
“What happened?” I said.
“Who are you?” he said.
“A friend of Cletus Purcel.”
“What’s your name?”
“Dave Robicheaux.”
He nodded slowly, and I saw the name meant nothing to him.
“Your friend got worked over,” he said. “He says he didn’t know the two guys who did it. But the bartender who phoned us said the two guys called him by name. Tell your friend it’s dumb to protect people who’ll slam a man’s hand in a car door.”
He brushed past me and walked to the elevator. Dixie Lee and I went inside the room, which Clete shared with an elderly man who had an IV connected to his wasted arm. Clete’s bed was on the far side of the partition, one end elevated so he could look up at the television set that was turned on without sound. One eye was swollen into a purple egg, and his head was shaved in three places where the scalp had been stitched. His right hand was in plaster; the ends of his fingers were discolored as though they were gangrenous.
“I heard you with the detective,” he said.
“He doesn’t seem to believe your story,” I said.
“He’s probably got marital trouble. It makes a cynic out of you. What’s happening, Dixie?”
“Oh man, who did this to you?” Dixie Lee said.
“A couple of Sal’s meatballs.”
“Who?” Dixie Lee said.
“Carl and Foo-Foo. I got Foo-Foo one shot in the rocks, though. He’s not going to be unlimbering his equipment for a while.”
“What happened?” I said.
“I stopped at this bar off Ninety. They must have seen the jeep in the parking lot. They caught me with a baton when I came out the side door. When I thought they were through, they dragged me to a car and slammed my hand in the door. If the bartender hadn’t come out, they’d have done my other hand.”
“Tell the cops,” Dixie Lee said. “Why do you want to protect Carl and Foo-Foo?”