Vineyard Fear (13 page)

“I never knew you used big words like ‘reticence,' ” I said. “I'm impressed. Why don't you call the
Gazette?
See if they've got a new reporter named Patterson.”

The chief frowned, dialed, spoke, hung up, and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. “You're right,” he said. “No Patterson. Damn.”

“Nervy,” said the corporal. “Guy wants to know what people know, calls the cops, gets nowhere, calls Fonseca, gets everything. How'd he know to phone Fonseca?”

“He saw the Bronco pick me up and take me out of there,” I said. “Manny's logo and phone number are painted on the doors.”

“That's probably it.” The corporal looked at me. “Well, your pants can stay dry now. This guy knows that he made a mistake, so he won't be bothering you anymore. Chief, we'd better . . .”

He was interrupted by a young policemen at the door to the office. The corporal glared, but the young cop wasn't looking at him. “Chief, they found the car. Up in Vineyard Haven, parked right on Main Street. New York plates. They're running a check on them right now.”

“Good. Let me know when the report comes in.”

“How'd he ever find a parking place on Main Street in Vineyard Haven?” I wondered. “I can never find a parking place on Main Street.”

“You can go now,” said the corporal to me. “We don't need you anymore.”

“I never needed you at all,” I said. “By the way, cigars are bad for your health. Cancer of the mouth and throat. Give it some thought, if you can. See you, Chief.”

The corporal was between me and the door. I walked up to him. Our eyes were on a level. He didn't move.

“Excuse me,” I said. We stared at one another. Then he stepped back half a pace, I stepped around him, the
chief muttered, “Jesus Christ, you two!” and I went out the door.

I felt curiously alive yet empty. The shootist would no longer be after me. I hadn't realized how tense I had been. The air seemed charged with energy and the street in front of the station was mysterious and lovely. I got into the Land Cruiser and drove home. The highways and then my long driveway seemed endless.

The shootist would no longer be after me, but he would still be after John Skye. I was relieved, yet simultaneously appalled. How would Blondie now go about his hunter's quest? Would he stay on the island in hopes that John would return? That would be a dangerous course of action, but a resourceful man—and Blondie seemed very resourceful—might pull it off if he had money enough to pay Vineyard rents. Or would he go to Weststock and wait there, knowing that John would have to come back to his classes in September? One more young man in a college town would not be noticed. Just another grad student arriving early to get a good choice of quarters.

Both of those plans required a lot of money and a lot of time. Few people had both at their disposal. Even schoolteachers usually had summer jobs. So, would Blondie try to find out where John was now and go find him there? Not much chance of that, since John had not told the college where he was really going. As far as I knew, I was the only one who had John's address. Would Blondie just go home, wherever that was? Go back to his job, whatever it might be, then come back to New England in the fall to complete his work?

Why not?

I went back to the schoolteacher idea. If Blondie was a schoolteacher, it could explain why he had so much free time. Maybe he was a schoolteacher who didn't have to work summers. Not all teachers had to. Academia. Maybe the chief was right to wonder about some disgruntled student or colleague of Skye's. Skye's world was filled with
people who didn't work in the summer. Suppose John Skye's enemy was from Weststock. That made sense, since most of the people John met and therefore might anger were in Weststock, and scholars were famous for their feuds.

But how many of these academic adversaries performed assassinations? Scholars probably committed as many killings in hot blood as did any other group, but Blondie's efforts were those of an icier sort. I remembered the line “Revenge is a dish Italians prefer to eat cold.” Blondie might not be Italian, but he was a cool customer.

I drove into my yard, parked, and got my .38 out from under the seat. I was glad not to need it anymore.

Something moved in the corner of my vision. I spun away behind the Land Cruiser and lifted the pistol. A man was running with uneven strides from my house toward my shed. I raised the pistol and shouted a shout I'd not shouted in years: “Stop! Police!”

The man ran on. He carried something in his left hand. I raised the pistol barrel and fired into the air. “Stop! Police!”

He ran behind my shed, where I fillet my fish and keep my smoker.

I ran around the house and looked from the far corner toward the shed. There was no cover between the house and the shed. Damn. I ran toward the shed, looking everywhere at once, pistol thrust forward. I got to the shed door, ducked low, whipped a look around back, jerked back, looked again, and saw the figure running through the trees, moving very fast with his odd, loping gait. I ran out and shouted again, then aimed well over the man's head and let go another shot. He spun around and raised his left hand. I saw flame dance from the object he held, and I dived for the ground and heard the smack of bullets hitting the shed behind me.

Jesus Christ! An automatic weapon! And me with a .38! I burrowed into the oak leaves and tried to be very small.
I heard another burst of sound from the gun and tried to get deeper into the dirt. After a while I realized I was listening to silence.

I picked my face up out of the leaves and looked where the man had been. He was gone. I rolled over and looked at the side of the shed behind me. High across the wall was a row of bullet holes. I got up and went to the wall and put my arm up. The holes were too small for my finger to fit into them. On the other hand, they looked plenty big enough.

The cops might nail him on the road. I ran to the house and got to the phone. Dead. I wasn't surprised. I ran outside to the Land Cruiser and stopped short. The left front tire was in shreds. I sighted between the house and the shed, and, sure enough, found myself looking right at the spot where the gunman had turned and fired. His second burst has been aimed at the tire.

I went back inside to the phone. My address book was beside it, open to the S's. I put the .38 back in the gun case and went outside again. I got out the jack and lug wrench and mounted my spare tire. It wasn't the world's best tire, but it beat the hell out of the one it replaced. It was three miles to the police station. To avoid some of the A & P traffic jam, I ducked right at Al's Package Store and took the back route, thus saving at least thirty seconds of travel time. I arrived at the station for the third time that day, and inside found the chief and the corporal still at work. I told my tale.

“I see why you quit the Boston PD,” said the corporal. “You yell ‘stop,' and he doesn't stop; you fire warning shots and he shoots real shots.”

“Real shots, but not at me. He stitched my shed at least eight feet up. All he wanted to do was stop me, and his plan worked like a charm. Then he blasted my truck so he'd have time to make it away without worrying about me following him or getting to a phone to call in you
intrepid minions of the law. He could have hit me as easily as he hit the tire, but he didn't.”

“A nice guy.”

“I wouldn't go that far, but at least we know he doesn't like to shoot anybody he doesn't have to shoot.”

“Except your friend John Skye.”

“Yeah. And now he has John's Colorado address.”

“How'd the guy know you had it?” asked the corporal.

“He talked to Manny Fonseca,” said the chief, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his briar. “Yeah, that's how he knew. Manny must have told him who you were and why you were out there at John's house. Guy figured since you take care of John's place, you'd know where he was, and Manny told him where you lived. Guy probably told Manny he wanted to interview you. Something like that.”

“Guy moves fast,” said the corporal. “Leaves the car in Vineyard Haven, makes a couple of phone calls, gets himself some new transportation, car, maybe even a moped, parks it, and walks into your place. This guy likes to walk in the woods. Snips the phone wires, gets Skye's address, and takes off just as you pull in. He cut it pretty thin, didn't he? What if you'd come in sooner, before he had a chance to find the address book? Would he have taken you out because he had no other choice? What did the guy look like?”

“He looked about average. Vineyard summer clothes. Jeans and pullover shirt. Light jacket, like golfers wear. Everything blue. Left-handed, I think. Yellow hair. Maybe that wig, again. Shades. About thirty. Runs with an odd stride, a limp. When I first saw that, I thought it was Cramer, but it wasn't.”

“Cramer's in Iowa City.”

“I know that. I'm just telling you what went through my mind. I knew it wasn't Cramer as soon as I thought it. It was the limp that made me think it. Smaller guy than Cramer. He had some sort of automatic weapon.
Looked like it was twelve, fifteen inches long. About .30 caliber, from the looks of the holes in my shed.”

“Weapon fits,” said the corporal. “Explains why you couldn't count the shots out at Skye's place. A short burst.”

The chief was already sending out the description. Our man was armed and should be presumed dangerous. The corporal looked at his watch. “Maybe we'll be lucky.”

“Maybe the moon is made of green cheese,” I said.

He looked at me. “A Dr. David Rubinski from Newark rented the blue car on the afternoon of the twenty-ninth. Charged it on his Visa card. We talked to his wife. The real Dr. Rubinski thinks he lost his wallet at his health club on the morning of the twenty-ninth. Driver's license, credit cards, money, everything.”

“Ah. And did you talk to the real Dr. Rubinski?”

“We did. At his office. Turns out he did all the right things. Called his credit card companies, his bank, everybody. But by that time our guy had rented his car and headed north.”

“You talked to the car rental agency?”

“How do you think we learned all this? They rented it to a Dr. Rubinski, all right, and their Dr. Rubinski had a beard just like the Dr. Rubinski in the driver's license photo.”

“Only the real Dr. Rubinski was back in New Jersey at the time. Who was at Rubinski's health club that morning?”

“We're checking that out. Which is to say that the New Jersey guys are checking it out for us. Rubinski works out early, about six every morning, before going on his rounds at the hospital. Maybe we got a break, since not too many people are usually at the club at that time. Maybe one of them was a guy with a limp. We'll see.”

The chief lit his pipe. “I think we'd better get in touch with John Skye and let him know about all this.”

I handed him the address and telephone number John had left with me.

“Hummph,” grunted the chief. “Durango, Colorado, eh? An RFD box number on a country road. That doesn't tell us much.” He dialed a 1, a 303, and a seven-digit number. He waited. Then he held the phone away from his ear and we could Rear it ringing. He let it ring some more, then put it down. “Nobody home.”

“It's his mother's ranch,” I said. “He grew up out there. Maybe they're all out on the south forty, or something.”

The corporal looked at me. “The south forty?”

“I'll try the Sheriffs Department,” said the chief. “No, I won't. I don't know the county. I'll try the Durango police.”

He talked to the Durango police, told them his story, got the Sheriff's Department number and called them, and told the story again. Then he listened for a while and scribbled on his notepad and hung up. He looked up at us. “Lots of Skyes out there. I got a number for one of them.” He dialed, waited, and then spoke, introducing himself and asking how to get in touch with John Skye. He listened, said, “Thank you. Have him call me when he comes back,” and hung up. Again, he looked up at us. “John Skye's gone camping with his family. Up in the mountains. Someplace called the Hermosa range, where his daddy used to run cattle in the summertime. Going to do some trout fishing and hiking. The twins are going to ride every day. Won't be back for a couple of weeks.”

“Somebody may be waiting for him when he comes back to the home corral,” said the corporal.

My very thought.

“I'll send the Sheriffs Department and the Durango police and the Colorado State Police the information we have,” said the chief. “Maybe they can get somebody up to Skye's camp or cabin or whatever and let him know what's going on.”

“Then what?” I asked. “Who'll they be watching for?
A guy with a beard, a blond wig, shades, and a machine gun, who runs with a limp, wears blue Martha's Vineyard vacation clothes, and goes by the name of David Rubinski?”

“Yeah,” said the chief, irritated. “Something like that. By then, though, we may know more about the guy.”

“You got any better ideas?” asked the corporal.

“Yeah,” I said, “I do. I'm going out there myself. At least I know more or less what Blondie looks like.”

“Blondie?” The corporal arched a brow.

“You better stay here, J.W.,” said the chief.

“Good advice,” said the corporal. “As a cop you ain't too effective.”

“I'm not a cop anymore,” I said. “I'm just a young man going west, like old John Soule advised.”

“You ain't so young. And I thought that was Horace Greeley that said that.”

“Another example that life isn't fair. Horace got the credit, but he was quoting John. Anyway, I'm taking their advice.”

“Maybe that's a good idea,” said the corporal. “Maybe if you get out of state, we can have some peace and quiet around here.”

The chief sighed. “I'll write you a letter,” he said. “You can show it to the cops out there. It won't be official and they can ignore it if they want to, but maybe it'll get you some cooperation you might need.”