Cutter's Run (12 page)

“Who?”

“You know who.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know anybody with that name.”

“Then why’d you paint a swastika on her sign and her outhouse?”

“I told you. It was just—huh? What about an outhouse?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He shook his head. His eyes held mine. “I admit I did that to your car,” he said. “We were driving by and saw that sign, and then we saw that old Wrangler parked there under it. Weezie put me up to it. It was stupid. I was just showin’ off.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, mister. I really am.”

“Who’s Weezie?”

“My girlfriend.” He smiled quickly. “My old man—” He jerked his head in the direction of Norman, who was leaning against the side of my Jeep smoking a cigarette.” He thinks I’m queer because I wear earrings.” He smiled. “But he’s ignorant. Me and Weezie, see…” He arched his eyebrows.

“I get the picture,” I said quickly.

“We’re gonna get married,” he said.

“Well, congratulations,” I said, without trying to disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Anyway, you’re telling me you did not paint a swastika on that sign or the outhouse?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know nothin’ about that.” He shrugged. “I told you it was stupid. I was just—you know, showing Weezie what a hot shit I am.”

I grabbed Paris’s other arm, so that I was holding both of them. My hands went almost all the way around his biceps, and I squeezed them until I brought tears to his eyes. “Listen to me,” I said. “I’m sick of your bullshit. I’ll give you one minute. Then I’m going to call Sheriff Dickman. I’ll press charges against you, and he’ll arrest you, I promise. Understand?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want to know who painted the fucking swastikas on Charlotte Gillespie’s property.”

“Honest to Christ, mister,” he said. “I didn’t do it.”

“Who, then?”

“I don’t know. Fuck, man. You’re hurting me.”

I stared into his eyes for a moment. He held my gaze. If he was lying, he was good at it.

I let go of his arms. He reached up and began to rub them. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll hold off talking to the sheriff for a day or two. Meantime, suppose you check around, see what you can find out about those other swastikas. You get me some answers, I won’t press charges. What do you say?”

“Sure. Okay.” He gave me a quick smile. “I really am sorry about your car, man. It wasn’t personal. I don’t even know you.”

I nodded. “I want to know if it was personal for whoever did those other ones. Understand?”

He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out. I promise.”

“I just want a name,” I said. “That’s all. We got a deal?”

“I’ll pay for your car.”

“Bring me a name and you don’t have to pay.”

“I want to pay. It’s my stupid thing, and I should pay.”

I nodded. “Okay. I’ll get it taken care of and let you know what it costs. But I still want that name.”

He held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

I took his hand. His grip was firm, and he held my eyes as we shook. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s talk to your father.”

We went over to where Norm was standing. “We’ve worked it out,” I said to him.

He glowered at Paris. “I didn’t raise no goddam vandal,” he said.

“He’s going to take care of it,” I said. “Do you have a VCR?”

“Huh?”

“Do you have—”

“Shit, I know what a VCR is. Course we got one. What about it?”

“I want you to rent a movie and sit Paris down and be sure he watches it. I want you to make him pay careful attention. And when it’s over, rewind it and make him look at it again. Okay?”

Norman frowned. “You want him to watch a movie?”

“A particular movie,” I said. “It’s called
Schindler’s List,
and it’s a very good movie. You might enjoy it yourself.”

Norman shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“After you’ve watched it,” I said to Paris, “you come on over here and we’ll talk about it.”

“I’ve heard of that movie,” he said.

“Yes. It won a lot of awards.”

He turned to Norman. “I’m going to pay for the car.”

“Damn right you are.
I
sure as hell ain’t.”

I held out my hand to Norm, who hesitated for a moment, then took it. “Thanks for coming over,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

“I don’t like it,” he said. “It ain’t the way this boy was brought up, vandalizing someone’s property.”

“Especially with swastikas,” I said.

Norman shrugged. “With whatever.” He turned to Paris. “Come on, boy. You got a lot of work to do, you want to earn enough for this man to get his car painted.”

They turned, went to the truck, and climbed in. As Norm started it up, Paris leaned out the window. “We got a deal,” he said.

I waved and nodded, then watched as Norm backed out and rattled away.

I turned to the house and saw Alex standing on the porch. She had changed into shorts and one of her own T-shirts.

“What was that all about?” she said.

We went inside and I summarized my encounter with Norm and Paris LeClair as I poured myself another mug of coffee.

“Do you believe him?” she said.

“Paris?” I nodded. “Actually, I do. I could be wrong, but I don’t think he did the other swastikas.”

Alex frowned. “I don’t get it, then. Who…?”

“I don’t get it, either. Young Paris LeClair did not strike me as an evil kid. He doesn’t even know what a swastika is. I have the feeling that whoever painted the outhouse is evil.”

She grinned.
“Schindler’s List.
Aren’t you clever?”

“Probably wasted on him.” I shook my head. “Kids always seem to hate history. I know Billy and Joey did. They had teachers who pounded names and dates and battlefields into their brains, made them memorize the Preamble to the Constitution and the seven causes of the Civil War and the twelve main exports of Bolivia, and damned if they could tell you what it feels like to risk your life for something you believe in. Or, for that matter, if they could tell you what it is they do believe in.”

She patted my arm. “You should’ve been a teacher.

“Well, I’m hoping to teach something to young Paris LeClair.”

I
TRIED TO CALL
Sheriff Dickman to report the vile message on Alex’s answering machine. He hadn’t come in yet, so I left a message with the dispatcher, who said she expected him to check in soon.

Alex said she intended to put in a long day at her desk. “Find something to keep yourself busy,” she said. “Like maybe tracking down the bastard who’s leaving me messages.”

“Will you be okay?” I said.

“I’ll lock the doors and keep my phone and my can of Mace handy. I lived alone in Boston for twelve years, don’t forget. I’m not afraid. I’m just mad. Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

So a little after eight, I drove to Leon’s store. I plucked a
Globe
from the rack and took it to the counter. Leon squinted at me as I paid him. “Had any visitors lately?” he said.

I nodded. “Norman Le Clair and his son Paris dropped in on me about an hour ago. Had the feeling you might’ve had something to do with it.”

“I give it some thought,” he said. “Remembered young Paris and that wiggly-butt girl of his gigglin’ about something when they was in the other day. Something about spray paint.” He shrugged.

“QED,” I said.

“Sure,” said Leon. “Whatever. So I had me a chat with Norm.”

“Paris admitted he painted my car,” I said, “but he swears he didn’t do Charlotte Gillespie’s sign or the outhouse.”

“You believe him?”

“I’m inclined to. He didn’t seem bright enough to be a good liar.”

“Oh, he’s bright, all right.” Leon scowled. “I wouldn’t trust that boy, with his yellow hair and them damn fool earrings.”

I shrugged. “I could be wrong.”

Leon shook his head slowly. “Well, if it ain’t that boy, I don’t know who it could be. I’ll check with Pauline.” He rolled his eyes. “That old witch hears everything and don’t forget a thing.”

“I appreciate your sending Norman and Paris over,” I said.

He shrugged. “Just the neighborly thing, Mr. Coyne.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “Let me have a can of black spray paint.”

“You want Rustoleum or the cheap stuff?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Two bucks.”

“What do you think?”

“Rustoleum for that Wrangler of yours. If I was you, I’d get me three cans, do the whole thing.”

“One can,” I said. “That car’s not worth three.”

After I left Leon’s store, I headed over to the animal hospital. A chubby young woman sat behind the low counter talking on the telephone. She wore a white smock, and her curly blond hair was cut short and tight to her scalp. It looked like a helmet.

She had her mouth close to the phone and seemed to be whispering. She glanced at me, lifted a finger, then swiveled around, putting her back to me.

After a couple of minutes, she hung up and turned. “Can I help you?” She wore a plastic nameplate over her left breast. Betsy was her name.

“I’d like to talk to Dr. Spear.”

“Laura’s with an animal right now. Somethin’ I can help you with?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Actually, I’m looking for the assistant who returned Charlotte Gillespie’s dog.”

Betsy frowned. “Charlotte Gillespie?”

“The dog’s name was Jack,” I said. “He was a little yellowish puppy with a pointy nose. He’d been poisoned. It was about a week ago.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “He was cute. Wicked sick, though. He died.”

“Yes, I know. Was that you?”

“Me?”

“Who returned the dog’s body?”

“Why?” She looked up at me, then dropped her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?

“No,” I said. “I just want to know who came for the dog.”

“He knew the dog’s name,” she said. “He said the owner had asked him to come for it. Laura said it was okay to give him the puppy.”

“But he didn’t give you his name.”

“No. He just said he’d come to fetch the dead puppy.”

“What did he look like?”

Betsy’s eyes darted around the room as if she were looking for somebody to help her. They finally settled on her lap. “I don’t remember,” she mumbled. “I think he was wearing sunglasses and a hat.”

“Was he young or old? Big or small? Fair or dark?”

She shook her head. “I can’t remember at all.” She looked up at me. “We were wicked busy, and I hardly noticed. I mean, I asked Laura—Dr. Spear—and she said it was okay to get the dog from the fridge and give it to the man, so that’s what I did. I hardly even looked at him, you know?”

“You must remember something,” I said.

“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t. Honest.”

I nodded. I didn’t believe her. It occurred to me that someone who’d leave a threatening telephone message might also find a way to scare a young woman like Betsy into forgetfulness. Betsy seemed frightened, and the last thing I wanted to do was endanger her.

“Well,” I said, “thanks anyway.” I took out one of my business cards, wrote Alex’s phone number on it, and handed it to her. “If you remember anything, maybe you’d give me a call?”

She took the card, glanced at it, and slipped it into the pocket of her smock. “Sure,” she said. She smiled quickly. “I’ll think about it. But I doubt I’ll remember anything.”

I was back at Alex’s wiping the dust off the swastika on my Wrangler when Sheriff Dickman’s truck pulled into the driveway. He got out, opened the back door, reached in, and came out with a big grocery bag. He had to hug it in both of his arms. He looked my way, nodded, and said, “Mornin’.” He took the bag to the front steps and put it down. Then he came over to me.

We shook hands. “What’s in the bag?” I said.

“Just some stuff from the garden. Hope you can use it.” He pointed his chin at my can of Rustoleum, which sat on the Wrangler’s hood. “Looks like you’re planning to cover up the evidence of a crime.”

“The culprit has confessed,” I said.

Dickman’s eyebrows shot up.

“He did not confess to the No Trespassing sign or the outhouse door,” I said. “An ignorant kid who has no idea what a swastika represents.”

“Assuming your culprit is telling the truth.”

“Yes,” I said. “Assuming that.”

“So is that why you called this morning?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s have some coffee. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Dickman followed me to the house. I hefted the bag of vegetables. I could barely lift it. “We’ll be able to feed the whole town,” I grunted.

“It’ll all keep for a few days. Just don’t put the tomatoes in the refrigerator. The cold sucks the sun-taste out of them.”

He held the door for me. I put the bag of vegetables on the kitchen table, poured two mugs of coffee, and led him out onto the deck.

Dickman gazed out over the valley and woodlands. “Nice view,” he said.

“We get some pretty sunsets,” I said. I lit a cigarette and took a sip of my coffee. “Alex had a message on her answering machine last night.”

“Huh? What kind of message?”

I repeated it to him.

“Good God,” he muttered. “You didn’t recognize the voice?”

“No. He whispered, and he spoke very slowly, as if he was reading it.”

“I want that tape,” said Dickman. “See if we can make anything out of it. How’s your lady doing with it?”

“She seems okay today. She wasn’t so hot last night.” I took another drag from my cigarette. “I also talked with the girl who gave Charlotte’s dog back. I figure it has to be the same guy who burglarized that animal hospital. She said it was a man wearing sunglasses and a hat, but claimed she couldn’t remember what he looked like.”

“Claimed?”

“I think she was lying. She seemed frightened.”

I glanced at Dickman. He was smiling.

“What’s funny?” I said.

“I bet you’re one helluva lawyer, Mr. Coyne.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m pretty good.”

We sipped coffee and gazed off into the distance for a minute. Then I said, “Something’s happened to Charlotte, Sheriff. From the looks of that cabin, she left in a big hurry.”

“Or got taken away.”

I nodded.

“No sign of a struggle or anything?”

I shook my head. “It just looked like she was reading quietly at the kitchen table and was interrupted.”