Open Season (33 page)

“I’ve heard that.”

“Colonel Stark and Pam had that once, when she was a little girl. They seemed able to talk to each other without saying a word. It troubled me, because of what he did for a living. I was afraid that one day something would happen to him, that he would be gone forever, and she would be destroyed.”

“What did he do for a living?” She looked surprised. “He was a soldier.”

It was my turn to nod. She didn’t say anything for a moment. I was afraid my interruption might have broken her concentration, but she went on. “Perhaps that’s what should have happened. She would have loved him if he’d died. Instead, they grew older, and began to fight.”

“About what?”

“Nothing. Everything. Private things. She was no longer a little girl. And she grew up to be a young woman. I think that surprised him. He wanted everything to be the same. Of course, it wasn’t.” The hand fluttered up again and settled down. “It’s a little confusing. I don’t know. Maybe he loved her too much—not like a real father and daughter.”

A sour taste came to my mouth. I remembered Susan Lucey saying something that had struck that same chord. “What do you mean, exactly?”

She shook her head slightly and shrugged.

“The Colonel was more than just a soldier, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. Very special, very secret. He would just go off.”

I thought of the bug I’d found in my apartment. Very special. “So they had one last big fight and she left?”

“That’s right.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“I mean, how did your husband react after her departure?”

“He didn’t.”

“What did he do?”

“He left on assignment for two years.”

“And when he came back?”

“He was different.”

“How so?”

“He talked about her all the time. He thought she’d be here when he returned. He couldn’t believe it—that she had really left. He thought I was lying when I told him I hadn’t heard from her since that day.”

“The day of the fight?”

“Yes.”

“What was that fight about?”

She looked at a spot on the wall about a foot above my head. “They fought a lot.”

I took a shot in the dark. “About her behavior… like with men, maybe?”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “Boys her age… the Colonel was a jealous man.”

The odd taste returned to my mouth. “So what happened after he discovered she’d been gone all that time and wasn’t coming back?”

“He was convinced she was dead—that that’s the only reason she hadn’t come back to him. Some man must have killed her.” She emphasized the word “man.” “He started looking for her, calling police departments, checking the newspapers in the library, going on trips. Finally, he left for good.”

“About two months ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know where he was headed?”

“No.”

“Did he mention Boston or Brattleboro or Vermont?”

“He didn’t mention anything.”

“The day he left, did you know he was going for good, or did you think he was just off on another of his little outings?”

“I felt he was going on duty.”

“How’s that?”

“When he’d get his orders to go somewhere I couldn’t be told about, he’d call that ‘going on duty.’ I always knew when that was about to happen because he changed. That’s what it was like.”

“And he’s never gotten in touch?”

“No. But I didn’t expect him to. He didn’t do that.”

“You mean send letters or call home?”

“That’s right.”

“How about when Pam was little?”

“He did then. He’d call her sometimes, but only when she was little.”

“You mentioned he’d go places you weren’t supposed to know about. Was he in Intelligence?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not really.”

“Is he still on active duty?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know who to call in the government about something like this? A superior officer or something? What was it, by the way? The U.S. Army?”

“We started in the Army, but I’m not sure anymore; it stopped being normal a long time ago. I don’t know who to call.”

“Has anyone called you about him?”

“No.”

I closed my eyes for a second. This was one weird couple. “I don’t mean to pry, Mrs. Stark, but I think your husband is in big trouble, and I need to know everything I can about him. I get the feeling he was a little unusual—that is, that he may have had unusual habits. Is there anything you can tell me about him that might help me to find him?”

She frowned and leaned forward in her chair, picking something invisible off the rug and putting it into her cardigan pocket. Then she rose and walked over to the glowing green curtain. I expected her to throw it open and let in the sunlight, but she just stood there, her nose almost touching the fabric. Her hands reached out to either side and her fingers played gently on the folds of the curtain, making it ripple like murky sea water.

Her words, when they came, were slow and carefully chosen. “Our marriage was not a conventional one, Lieutenant. We shared very little. I did as I was told and he supported me. If it hadn’t been for Pamela, we might still be together. Having a daughter was very complicated—I don’t know why. Maybe we all got too close.” She shook her head and repeated. “I don’t know.”

I decided not to press it. “Did your husband have an office or a den I could look at?”

She didn’t move. “Yes. It’s upstairs to the right.”

I got up and left the room. I’d noticed the staircase when I’d come in. The office was a small room tucked under the eaves, half its ceiling sliced away by the slant of the roof. But it was white and brightly lit by two unshaded windows—a positive relief from the funereal gloom downstairs.

Again the walls were like those of a military museum, covered with odds and ends: bayonets, several old rifles, more medals, a couple of helmets, photographs of groups of men in uniform, either in the field or all spruced up as if for graduation. I looked for a face common to all the pictures, figuring that would be Stark, but I couldn’t do it. The hats or helmets and uniforms—not to mention the obvious passage of years—made them all look pretty much alike. I did notice, though, that the uniforms weren’t just American. One shot showed what was definitely a French group, and at least two others had an anonymous Latin American look to them. Our boy apparently got around.

The room was dominated by a large antique desk. I sat behind it and went through its drawers. Its contents were conspicuously neutral. A filing cabinet against one wall was empty except for one .45-caliber Colt semi-automatic pistol. I copied its serial number and left it there. I looked around a little longer with no results and returned to the living room. Mrs. Stark was sitting again in her chair, just as before.

“Was your husband carrying a lot when he left the last time?”

“No. Just his duffel bag, as usual.”

“What about the contents of his filing cabinet?”

“He came for those later.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. He must have waited until I was out of the house. He did that sometimes.”

“You mean sneak into his own house?”

“Yes.”

I passed on that one. “Would you have a photograph of him and your daughter?”

“Yes.” She got up and pulled a framed picture out of a drawer beneath the coffee table. It showed the three of them in front of this house, in the summer. They all wore shorts and T-shirts, but each looked pulled in from a different part of the world. Mrs. Stark, old and demure in Bermudas and a sedate polo shirt; the Colonel, hard eyed, crew-cut, tall and lithe, dressed in Marine-style gym clothes; and Pam, her face cold and remote, turned away from the camera, wearing very brief running shorts and a shirt that revealed her bare midriff. None of them touched one another, none of them smiled, and only Stark stared straight into the lens with the pale blue eyes that had so frightened Susan Lucey—and which I had seen for the first time when Ski Mask pulled me out onto the landing of my apartment.

“What was Pamela like, as a daughter?”

“Angry, like her father.”

“She ever get into trouble?”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah, like at school. You know, the usual things nowadays—drugs, sex, stuff like that.”

She looked straight at me for a long moment. It was the first time she’d made direct eye contact. “That was very controversial.”

I waited for more, but that was it. This woman’s laundry was not for public airing—especially this laundry, I thought. I held up the photograph. “Can I borrow this? I’ll send it back as soon as I have copies made.”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter.”

I pulled a business card out of my wallet and handed it to her. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for your help. Do call me if he gets in touch, will you?”

She took the card without looking at it.

I walked toward the entrance hall with the picture in my hand. She stayed where she was. I hesitated at the door. “Mrs. Stark, is there anything you would like to know about your daughter’s death? You can ask me if you’d like—it’s all right.”

She stood there in the middle of the room, arms slack by her sides, again looking into some nebulous middle distance, as abandoned and as lonely as the only living bird in a desolate forest. “No.”

I let myself out.

· · ·

“Danvers.”

“This is Joe Gunther in Brattleboro.”

“How’d you make out on that DEA stuff?”

“Hit the jackpot. We haven’t nabbed the guy yet, but we know who he is—Steven Cioffi, in case you’re interested. Many thanks.”

“Sure. What’s on your mind? I don’t guess you called to kiss me on both cheeks?”

“No, there is something else.”

“Just so nothing’s left unsaid here, you do realize I’ve helped you out so far as a favor, right?”

“But you are interested in that bug.”

“To an extent, true.”

“And you’re not going to tell me why.”

“True again.”

“So much for altruism. Here’s something for nothing then: Colonel Henry Stark. He’s the one in the ski mask, the owner of the bug, and the father of Kimberly Harris, a.k.a. Pamela Stark. I have a feeling he’s been around in various service branches, but the Army might be the best place to start. Maybe the CIA too.”

“Lovely.” He didn’t sound pleased.

“Of course, we’d be more than happy to request an interminable file search through normal channels for our own humble selves, and hope to get it before we’re all dead of old age, but I’m hoping your curiosity matches ours and that you can cut a few corners.”

“I’ll be back in touch.”

I put down the receiver and smiled at Brandt. “He’ll do it.” Brandt had propped the photograph of the Stark family on his desk. “Hardly
Father Knows Best
, is it?”

“No, but it’s a great shot for our purposes. What do you think about distributing an eight-by-ten blowup of his face all over town—and letting Katz have it, too?”

“What if Danvers says he’s a superspook or something and we’re supposed to keep our mouths shut?”

“If the damage is already done, then that’s too bad. We’re only a bunch of hicks, after all—no sense of global priorities.”

Brandt rubbed the side of his nose and smiled. “I’ll call J.P. tonight and have it ready for tomorrow morning’s edition.” He picked up the picture and looked at it again. “You know, we’re sticking our necks out a little. We still don’t have proof Ski Mask and Stark are one and the same—legally, that is.”

I shrugged. “So don’t put Stark’s name on it. He’s probably going under Smith or Brown or Jones anyway—everyone else is. The worst that can happen is that Colonel Stark will return from some illicit affair in Guatemala, where he’s been subverting the natives for the last two months, and sue us for everything we own.”

“Yes, I suppose. That’s comforting, at least.”

· · ·

The following morning, Brandt met me in the hallway with a copy of the
Reformer
. “Sneak preview; that’s an early run of today’s edition.”

I opened it up and saw Stark staring at me again. SKI MASK REVEALED, SAY POLICE, was the awkward headline; the caption under the picture asked, “Have you seen this man?” and gave our telephone number. It also identified Stark by name. “I see you decided to go whole hog.”

“The name? Yeah, I figured, what the hell, when you’re nine-tenths in, you might as well take the bath.”

“That make Wilson happy?”

“Hard to tell. I think he’s on a general hate binge. I’ve got more, though.”

I had to smile at the light in his eyes. “Oh?”

“I got a call from Danvers at the crack of dawn. He said he couldn’t send us anything on Stark officially—apparently the man’s classified—but he did give me a rough outline, which is all we really need.”

“And?”

“It’s even better—or worse—than you suspected. Stark’s a super-spook of sorts—CIA, maybe, although Danvers won’t say; it might be Military Intelligence. Anyhow, he’s done covert work in Korea, Latin America, Africa, Beirut, you name it. He was in Special Forces during Vietnam and worked a lot behind the lines. Apparently, he’s a real hands-on guy—not an administrator. I also got the feeling that behind all the patriotic crap about someone having to do a dirty job in a dirty world, the guy is regarded as a bit of a maniac—not just a stone-cold killer, but a quote-unquote real strange guy to boot, whatever that means. He’s so good, though, that he has ‘the longest leash in covert operations.’ Those are Danvers’s words again.”

Brandt took back the paper and folded it under his arm. “I would guess with all this mess that the leash is about to get yanked—hard.”

THE PRESS CONFERENCE DID TAKE PLACE
, later that morning, but only Wilson was there to answer questions. He didn’t reveal Cioffi’s identity but only that the police department had zeroed in on one particular suspect—who had apparently already fled—and that hopes were high for “a rapid resolution of the case.”

When asked about Bill Davis, he said that while the case against him wasn’t as “structured” as it had been originally, it still didn’t exclude him from “the realm of guilt.” No evidence had surfaced that didn’t “fit the scenario that Davis had possibly worked with the man now being sought.”