Gatekeeper Page 18

  "Oh, no," he half sobbed, beginning to comply. "Don't kill me. I was just kidding."

  That line cleared her head a little. She gave him a shove with the gun, jerking his head back and throwing him off balance. He staggered and fell over onto the floor. As he went down, she followed him, so she was kneeling by his head when he landed. He was bleeding from the nose, so she poked the gun under his chin, forcing him to extend his neck.

  "That's not a smart thing to say to a woman, Nelson. We don't consider rape a joke."

  "Rape?" he squealed. "I was just making an offer."

  Gail reached for the cordless phone on a small table by the sofa. "Yeah, well, you can try that on the police. Guess who they'll believe."

  "Oh, shit," Debbie exclaimed. "You're not calling the cops? Come on, Gail. We'll make it up to you."

  Gail looked at her, her face hard and intense. "That you will. But not him. He's mine. Now, get the hell out of here."

  Debbie hesitated, caught off guard.

  "Now," Gail shouted at her.

  Debbie turned on her heel and fled out the open door. Gail watched the dark rectangle through which the girl had just vanished, took a deep breath, and glanced down at Nelson, whose Adam's apple was working furiously in its exposed position.

  "How're you doing?" she asked him.

  "Good, good. Fine."

  "Excellent," she said quietly, and dialed 911.

  * * *

  The Rutland fairgrounds are huge. They cover twenty acres of prime real estate in the middle of the city, just off the west side of heavily commercial Route 7, and except for a few days out of every year, they stay empty and unused, locked up behind thousands of feet of chain-link fence. A throwback to a rural heritage, they were created in the mid-1800s to attract farmers from miles around, offering them a place to show off their produce and livestock, have a little fun, and help make Rutland the agricultural center it became before the marble quarries and the railroads stole the show.

  Not that any of that was of much relevance lately. The Rutland County Fair has become a pale shadow of its prior self, but is held nevertheless because of a wonderful bit of quirkiness. The Rutland County Agricultural Society's 1846 charter dictates that a county fair is to be held for at least one day every year, or the land will revert to the heirs of the property's original owners. Suggestions have been made to move the whole operation out into the sticks, but so far, by merely holding their annual fair, the society's members have literally been able to hold their ground.

  And so it sits, a Realtor's black hole—among the most valuable patches of turf in Vermont—beside the garish, crowded, traffic-clogged, but highly profitable snarl of Route 7, resistant so far to all attempts to change its status.

  This striking disparity between urban glut and total emptiness is most noticeable at night, of course, which is why Joe arranged to meet Sam in the fairgrounds' center field, having had one of the gates discreetly unlocked for the purpose. For the field was not just vast and unpopulated—it was also an ideal spot to see anyone approaching from a distance without being seen in the surrounding gloom.

  Sammie Martens took her standard precautions against being tailed or observed by chance, parking far away, walking in a pattern that didn't betray her destination and allowed her to double back several times to check for tails.

  After a half hour of this, she finally reached the gate and slipped inside. The contrast was immediately striking. Although she'd entered from a dark and quiet street, the pitch black enormity facing her felt almost like the sea at night, with the distant city's traffic appearing as fishing boats hugging the shore. She stepped free of the buildings lining the fence and walked forward tentatively, almost expecting to get wet. What she felt underfoot was just grass, however, and the farther out she got, the more liberated she began to feel, as if she'd left behind her complications in exchange for temporary solace.

  She met Joe standing in the middle of the huge field, solid and still.

  "Hi, Sam. Any trouble getting here?"

  "No, boss. Good to see you." They didn't touch, although for a brief moment, she fought the urge to give him a hug.

  "Nice night, huh?" he commented, tilting his head back.

  She did the same, and took in the half sphere of stars overhead, usually muted by Rutland's own nightly glow. "That why you chose this as a meeting place?" she asked.

  "Didn't think it would hurt. How're you holding up?"

  "Fine. Things haven't really cranked up yet. We got our first shipment. You probably saw that. I'm supposed to be rounding up customers now."

  "You're covered," Joe told her. "I have Peter Bullis steering some of his CIs over there to make buys, all claiming you sent them. As for helping you dig up the competition, I think we hit a gold mine with this young B-and-E maverick of Peter's."

  "The Schemer?" she asked.

  "The one and only. He was as good as advertised." Gunther handed her a sheet of paper, which she could only make out as a pale rectangle.

  "It's a list," he explained. "Names and addresses, or at least locations. I wrote it by hand with a pencil to make it look like the kid did it himself. You can claim to Manuel that's how you got it, if he asks, since we're putting George Backer on ice for a while. Peter's checked everything out, of course. He vouches for it all."

  She folded the page up and put it in her back pocket. "How many names are there?"

  "Eight. Only major players. He has dozens more, all filed in his head. Kid's amazing. He has dates, the ways the houses were laid out, exactly what he stole. Lester said it was like listening to a chess champion of theft. Incredibly engaging, too. Bullis had already warned us—said we'd probably want to take him home after meeting him. Almost right, from what I saw."

  Sam was understandably skeptical. "What's Lester's take on him?"

  "Told me he feels like the real McCoy. That list is supposedly only those people who actually deal on a significant level, whether they import the stuff themselves or just handle it once it hits town. Spinney and Bullis are still extracting more background information—what Backer can tell them about supply lines, way stations, and anything else." Gunther pointed at her pocket. "The names with an 'H' next to them are people the kid thought had been contacted by or were already working with Hollowell before he was killed."

  "Any red flags?"

  "Not that we've found so far. You'll have to play it by ear in any case. They aren't all skanky dopers living in dumps. Some of them are businesspeople in town—respectable citizens, so called."

  "You have paper on them?" she asked.

  "If you want that. I thought ignorance might be bliss in this case, though, since you'll be approaching them as a competitor. Might look suspicious if you knew their rap sheets."

  She nodded. "Good point."

  "You getting on with Manuel?" Joe asked after a pause.

  She looked up at his darkly shadowed face, wishing she could read his expression. This was the second time he'd asked that. "Yeah. He's an interesting guy. Surprising."

  Joe nodded, pondering the possible meanings of the word.

  Sam then dropped her small bombshell. "Willy came by to tell me to bail out."

  "When?"

  "Last night. Right after I ditched the phone."

  "You think anyone saw him?" Joe was clearly perturbed, and Sam wondered why she'd even brought it up. Willy was going to get a serious thrashing for this one.

  "Unlikely. You know how he can come and go when he wants. One moment he was in the back seat of the car, the next he was gone. Joe, do me a favor, will you?"

  "What?"

  "Don't go after him for this. He's feeling left out is all. He wouldn't blow my cover. You nail him, and it's only going to cause me grief down the road. I only mentioned it because I felt I had to."

  Joe was immediately conciliatory. "No, no. I see what you're saying. I'd like to rip his head off, though."

  She laughed, grateful for the opportunity. "Yeah, well, join the crowd.
Just find another excuse and leave me out of it."

  "You got it." He looked around at the distant ring of lights. "I guess we better wrap this up. You sure you're all right?"

  "I'm fine, boss."

  "Okay, then." He almost sounded disappointed. He quickly looped his arm across her shoulders and gave her a hug. "You better scat."

  She smiled at that, as if he were releasing her to the playground. "See ya, Joe."

  * * *

  Gunther watched her vanish into the surrounding gloom with mixed feelings. If he'd ever had a daughter, he could've done far worse than Sam, which was why his concerns for her played more to his paternalistic side than the supervisory one. She could be impulsive and headstrong, of course, but many good cops were. It was more her emotional welfare that worried him. She'd matured over the years. That was true. And maybe it was just his having known her for so long that made him uncertain now. But he always sensed with her an undercurrent of longing to be someone else, and with it a certain fatalism that she was stuck on a course she could do nothing about.

  They'd never discussed this in detail, not along those lines, at least. It had never seemed appropriate.

  But it did keep him wondering.

  Letting out a small sigh, he turned on his heel and began crossing the ghostly fairgrounds to where he'd parked his car.

  He was halfway there when he felt his cell phone vibrate on his belt.

  "Hello?"

  "Joe? It's me. Gail."

  He stopped in his tracks. He could tell from her voice something was wrong. "What happened? You okay?"

  "Yeah . . . Well, not really. I mean, I'm not hurt or anything. I just had a bad experience."

  "Tell me."

  "It's stupid. I am such a fool. I almost didn't call you because I didn't want to admit it. Even my sister saw it coming."

  He stayed silent, giving her time to get to where she was going. He was happy enough they were finally talking—the topic seemed almost secondary.

  "It's Debbie Holton. I caught her and her boyfriend robbing my home. They were wrestling with the big TV set in the living room when I walked in on them, for Christ's sake. It must weigh a ton."

  "They broke in?" he asked.

  She sounded mournful. "No. She was staying with me. I took her in. It was just a con they cooked up to rip me off. I feel like such a jerk."

  "You were hurting. They took advantage. That's not being a jerk."

  There was a long silence he let pass before finally saying matter-of-factly, "There's more."

  "I used that gun you gave me."

  Something in his chest collapsed. "You shot someone?"

  "No. Almost. I shoved it up the boyfriend's nose and pushed him off his feet."

  He burst out laughing with relief. "Jesus, Gail. Nice job."

  But she didn't join him. "He had a knife on me, Joe. I thought it was going to happen all over again. He even touched me with its point, just like before."

  He held his other hand up to his forehead. "Ah, shit. I am so sorry. You have anyone to talk to?"

  "Yeah. I have friends here right now. I just ducked out 'cause I wanted you to know."

  "I'd like to come see you, if that's all right."

  "I was hoping you would."

  He was relieved by her acceptance. Years back, that hadn't been the case. It had taken a long time for her to take him back into her life.

  "I'll be there in a little over an hour."

  Chapter 17

  Lester Spinney killed the lawn mower motor, wiped his face with a rag from his jeans pocket, and walked to the open door of the garage to admire his handiwork. It wasn't much of a yard but still looked good. He'd taken his time putting in flower beds, pruning the two small trees, and tending to the grass obsessively enough that he could claim in all honesty that it was the most attractive lawn at this end of Summer Street, and maybe for several blocks around. He had to ruefully concede the qualifiers, however. As with most of Springfield, Summer Street was nothing if not inconsistent. To the west, closer to downtown, there was a string of nineteenth-century mansions. There was no competing with their lawns. Immediately around him, however, were blocks where an abandoned car in the front yard fit in like a birdbath would elsewhere. Spinney's pride, therefore, was rightfully constrained to as far as his eye could see.

  Susan would have nothing to do with it. To her, anything that was covered by snow half the year didn't deserve that much attention. But she understood its therapeutic value, and so allowed him his excesses with fertilizer, grass seed, bug killer, and whatever other paraphernalia he deemed crucial to his pet's survival.

  He reached over to a workbench near the door and retrieved a can of soda he'd perched there earlier. It was still faintly cool and certainly felt good going down.

  "Dad?"

  He glanced to his side to see his eleven-year-old daughter looking up at him.

  "Hi, sweetie. What's up? You still cleaning your room?"

  "I was. I found this." Wendy held up a short brown cylindrical object. Her voice betrayed that she already had a pretty good idea what it was. "It kind of looks like a dog poop."

  He took the fat joint from her, actually a cigar emptied out and stuffed with marijuana, called a blunt in the street. "Looks like it's seen better days," he replied, keeping his voice light. "Where'd you find it?"

  "On top of that box thing that's over the curtain rod. Above my window, you know?"

  He smiled down at her. "Wow. You were cleaning up there?"

  "I was going to surprise Mom with my thoroughness."

  He laughed and tousled her blond hair. "Thorough hardly touches it, Wendy. I should have you clean this garage."

  "Dad."

  He dropped the blunt into his T-shirt pocket. "All right. Don't worry about this, okay? It's probably been there for years. I'll get rid of it."

  But her face betrayed a continuing concern. "That's not the only one."

  His smile faded as her full meaning sank in. "Ah."

  "And I've seen him smoke them, too."

  He crouched down to get on her level. "So you weren't just dusting."

  She looked at the concrete floor. "No. I don't want him to do it anymore. They told us in school what it does."

  He gave her a hug. "I don't want him to do it anymore, either, sweetie. But don't worry about giving me this, okay? You're a good daughter, and even better, a really good sister. This proves you love Dave a whole lot."

  He straightened up. "You better show me where the others are, though. Where is he, by the way?"

  Wendy began walking toward the door connecting the garage to the kitchen. "He went camping, Dad. Don't you remember? He left after Mom went to work this morning. He'll be gone for a few days."

  * * *

  Sam sat in her car for a while, reconnoitering the layout. It was a good place for this kind of business, really—a body shop and used car parts store with lots of people coming and going, some regulars, others unknown. And the place was a tangle of odd pieces of equipment, offering more hiding spots than a Chinese puzzle box, all just lying about.

  She glanced down at the sheet Joe had given her. Ralph Meiner had both an "H" and a star next to his name, which Sam assumed put him higher on the list than most. Joe hadn't mentioned anything about stars, but there were three names so adorned. And as for Meiner's, all she had to do was look above the front door opposite to see it repeated with "Proprietor" written next to it.

  She got out of her car and checked for traffic before crossing the street, thinking how pleasant it would be when she could stop wearing Greta's tight clothing and painful shoes.

  "Hey," she addressed the first person she came to, a filthy man carrying a hammer and covered with a splattering of paint, grease, and just plain dirt. "You tell me where Ralph is?"

  He stared at her as if she'd dropped from a cloud. "Ralph?"

  "The boss."

  He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "Out back."

  He swiveled on hi
s heel as she walked past, his eyes glued to her.

  She went through an open gate alongside the garage and traveled the length of the building, ending up in a large enclosed area to the rear, so cluttered with old cars, either in whole or in parts, it made the front of the establishment look pristine. She stood there looking around, waiting for some sound or movement to direct her.

  "I help you?"

  She stared straight ahead of her and finally discerned a man standing next to a pile of rusty, twisted metal, his bearded face and stained overalls making him blend almost perfectly into his environment.

  "You Ralph?"

  "Who's asking?"

  "Greta Novak. I was a friend of Jimmy Hollowell's."

  "That makes one of us."

  "You didn't like Jimmy?"

  "Did you?"

  "Not especially."

  Meiner separated himself from his camouflage and walked toward her, wiping his palms across the voluminous belly of his overalls. "I'm Ralph. What're you after?"

  "A business proposition."

  The closer he got, the worse she thought he looked. His eyes bloodshot and dark-rimmed, his chest under the tangled beard lined and hollowed out, despite the unhealthy bulk of his body Ralph Meiner was apparently a man who took life straight in the teeth.

  He smiled thinly as he stopped about four feet from her. "Being a friend of Jimmy's, I can guess what kind of business it is. Why come to me?"

  "You're a big operator in this town."

  He laughed and looked around. "Damn. I'll have to let my banker know about that. Who would've guessed?"

  She gave him a sour expression. "Cute. You want to screw around, I better go someplace else."

  "Like where?"

  She recalled another name from George Backer's list. "Stu Nichols."

  He raised his eyebrows. "You think Stuey's in my league?"

  "I think Stuey and me combined could bury you."

  He laughed again and shook his head. "That is some way to talk. We don't even know each other, you and me."