Cutter's Run (20 page)

“No, sir. I didn’t.”

“But you know who did.”

Hood frowned. “If I’d a knowed who done that, I guess I’d’ve plastered his ass with a load of number nines. That’s my property up there, regardless of who’s livin’ in it.”

“You’re saying you don’t know who made the swastikas?” said Dickman.

Hood nodded slowly. “Yup-suh. That’s what I’m sayin’. That’s just what I’m sayin’.”

“You quit the Klan, huh?” I said.

He nodded.

“Then what’s that Confederate flag doing in your kitchen?”

“You lookin’ into my house? You can’t do that. That’s my fuckin’ house, and what I got in it ain’t nobody’s business.”

“So you still are with the Klan, is that it?” I said.

“Nope. I quit. Don’t mean I can’t keep that flag there if I want. Anyways, what if I didn’t quit? So what?”

“We are gravely concerned about Charlotte Gillespie,” said Dickman. “We are hoping that she is all right. Because if it turns out that she isn’t all right, we will round up every goddam white sheet in York County. And before we let them go, we’ll be sure that every one of them knows we had some long conversations with Arnold Hood.” He tapped Hood on the leg. “Do you get my drift, Arnold?”

“I guess so,” he said mildly.

“So if you happen to know anything that might help us in this very important investigation, you had better unburden yourself.” Dickman leaned toward Hood, so close that their noses almost touched. “Because if I should find out that you knew something but didn’t tell me,” he said softly, “I will be very upset. And I assure you, Mr. Hood, that the weight of the law will fall on your shoulders so hard it’ll drive you into the ground clear up to your tits. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Hood mumbled.

Dickman stood up. “I want you to give some serious consideration to what I’ve told you,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll have another conversation.”

Hood looked up at him and nodded.

“Come on, Deputy,” said Dickman. He put his hand on my shoulder, and we started toward the car.

“Deputy?” said Hood. “You didn’t tell me you was no deputy, Mr. Coyne.”

I turned around. “And you didn’t tell me you were a Klansman, Mr. Hood.”

We were almost to the car when I touched Dickman’s arm. “Wait a minute,” I said. I went back to Hood, who was still sitting on his front steps watching us. “Something’s been bothering me,” I said to him.

“Something’s been bothering me, too,” he said. He jerked his head in Dickman’s direction. “You boys. You’re what’s been botherin’ me.”

I smiled. “The other day you told me that you didn’t meet Charlotte until after she’d moved in, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You never showed her the place ahead of time, or took her up there when she was ready to move in?”

“No.”

“That’s a hard place to find if you don’t know it’s there,” I said. “You must have drawn her a map or given her directions.”

“Nope,” he said. “She never asked, and I never offered.”

“That’s hard to believe,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I cain’t help that. I’m tellin’ you, I didn’t know she was a nigger when I rented it out to her, and I admitted to you that if I’d’ve known, I wouldn’t’ve rented it to her. But when I seen her, I didn’t do nothin’. I didn’t make those damn swastikas, and I don’t know where she’s at, and that’s the truth.”

I nodded. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

I started back for the sheriff’s car.

“Hey, Mr. Deputy,” called Hood.

I stopped and turned to face him. “What?”

He was grinning. “You taken a poke at Susannah Hollingsworth yet?”

I shook my head. “Jesus Christ,” I said.

“’Cause if you ain’t,” he said, “you’re about the only man in York County. Had a piece of her myself, oh, back damn near twenty years ago when she was still sweet and tender.”

I looked hard into his eyes. “You’d better be careful, Mr. Hood,” I said.

He arched his eyebrows, thrust out his lower lip, and nodded thoughtfully. “You, too, Mr. Coyne.”

“Is that a threat?”

He shook his head. “Nope. A friendly warning, that’s all. Miss Susannah ain’t that tender anymore. And she sure as hell ain’t sweet.”

W
E WERE CREEPING OVER
the back roads heading back to Alex’s place, and I was staring out the side window pondering what Arnold Hood had said about Susannah, when Dickman said, “Well? What do you think?”

I turned to look at him. “About what?”

“Mr. Arnold Hood’s story.”

“I think that pulling a shotgun on us was incredibly stupid,” I said. “I think that Arnold Hood is an ignorant, crude, bigoted man. But I don’t think he made those swastikas, and I don’t think he did anything to Charlotte Gillespie.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “I guess he strikes me as too stupid to be a convincing liar.”

“He lied to you the first time you met him, didn’t he?”

I nodded. “He did.”

“And you believed him then.”

“You’re right. I did.”

“Arnold Hood is crude and bigoted, all right,” said the sheriff. “But I don’t think he’s stupid:”

“So what do you figure he was lying about?” I said.

He shrugged. “A good liar mixes in truth with the lies. Figuring out which is which is the trick. A mildly self-incriminating truth, like admitting to prejudice and using the word ‘nigger,’ makes the lies sound plausible. I’d start with the reason he pulled that shotgun on us.”

“He didn’t intend to kill us or anything,” I said. “Hell, it was loaded with birdshot. He said he was mad because we removed his ladder. Makes sense to me.”

“A good lie does make sense,” said Dickman. “You didn’t see him when he came around the corner of his house. He was holding that pumpgun down alongside his leg, and I’ve got the feeling that if we hadn’t scrambled into the bushes, he would’ve kept coming until he had us point-blank. A load of birdshot at ten yards makes a pattern about six inches wide. Blow one helluva big hole in a man.”

“You think he
did
intend to kill us?” I said.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Not because of the ladder.”

“Well,” said Dickman, “if it wasn’t because of the ladder, it was something else.”

“Like Charlotte Gillespie.”

“Maybe.”

“Here’s what’s bothering me,” I said. “Hood says that Charlotte just called him up out of the blue and asked to rent his place. She wasn’t from around here. He didn’t advertise the place. So—”

“So you’re wondering how she knew about it?” said Dickman.

“Yes. If Hood’s telling the truth…”

“Those deer hunters,” he said. “The ones who rented it. They were from Portland.”

“She could have known one of them,” I said.

Dickman smiled. “That’s pretty good thinking, Deputy. Arnold should be able to give us some names.” He shrugged. “Not sure where that would lead us. But worth a follow-up. I’ll take care of it. I want you to steer clear of Arnold Hood for a while.” He glanced at me. “Got it?”

“What?”

“You stay away from him, Deputy.” He pulled into the driveway and stopped beside my Wrangler. He left the motor running and glanced at his watch. “You’ve got just about enough time to get to Pine Point without breaking the law. It wouldn’t do for a York County deputy sheriff to get nailed for speeding.”

I nodded and got out of the car. I bent to the window and said, “I’ll fill you in.”

“Damn right you will. Why do you think I deputized you?”

He shifted into reverse, lifted his hand, and backed out of the driveway. I turned and went into the house.

Alex was not behind her bookcase partitions. I found her on the deck with her heels up on the railing and her rocking chair tilted back. A sheaf of papers lay on her lap, and her head rested against the back of the chair. She was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes. I figured she was napping and decided not to disturb her.

I went upstairs, washed my face and hands, and combed my wet fingers through my hair. It was a few minutes after four-thirty. I didn’t want Ellen Sanderson to have to wait for me at Pine Point.

Downstairs I snagged a Coke from the refrigerator, then went out onto the deck. Alex sat forward, slipped her sunglasses down onto the tip of her nose, and looked up at me over the tops of them. “I was just going over some stuff,” she said, putting her hand on the papers on her lap. “Guess I dozed off. The sun feels good. So how’d you and the sheriff make out?”

“Well, it turns out that Arnold Hood belongs—or once belonged—to the Klan. He tried to shoot us. I got hit in the leg. I’ll tell you all about it. But now I’ve gotta go meet Ellen Sanderson. Don’t want to be late.”

I bent to kiss her, but she twisted away from me. “Not so fast,” she said. “You tell me you got
shot
—and then you think you can breeze out of here without telling me the story?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m all right, and it’s really kind of a funny story. When I get back, I’ll tell it to you with all the proper embellishments. Okay?”

“I guess I have no choice.” She thrust out her lower lip in a parody of a pout.

“If you’re good, I’ll even show you my wound,” I said.

“Wow,” she said. “There’s an incentive.”

I glanced meaningfully at my watch, and this time when I leaned down, Alex gave me a good shot at her mouth. When I kissed it, her arm hooked around my neck and held me there, and I couldn’t help remembering how Susannah’s mouth had tasted, and how her lips and tongue worked differently from Alex’s.

And I knew I was a despicable man for comparing them. Returning Alex’s kiss felt like a lie.

I gently put my hands on her shoulders and broke it off. “Keep that up,” I said in what I intended to be a cheerful tone, “and I’ll never get to that meeting.”

She nodded and smiled. “Well, good luck, Deputy.”

“Be sure to lock the doors and—”

“Don’t worry about me, Brady.”

“Well, I do.”

She nodded. “Sure you do.”

I kissed the top of her head and got the hell out of there. I hadn’t really lied to her yet. But I had not told her some important truths, which amounted to the same thing, and it left me with a knot in my stomach and an acid taste in my throat.

Some people, I knew, could lie without compunction. Their only worry was getting caught. Perhaps Arnold Hood was like that. But I was not. I had, of course, told my share of lies, and regardless of the fact that I had rarely been caught, every one of them had managed to punish me.

I followed Route 160 out of town, hooked onto Route 25 heading east, and followed it over the gently rolling landscape through Kezar Falls and Limington and Standish, and as I drove I tried to put thoughts of Alex and Susannah out of my mind and focus on my upcoming interview with Ellen Sanderson.

Route 25 passed under Interstate 95 in Westbrook. Following the directions Ellen had given me, I continued on to Route 1, headed south, and after a few miles came to a left turn marked by a sign that read “Pine Point and Prouts Neck.”

Ten minutes later I pulled into a parking area that fronted a narrow beach along a tidal river. On the left a large gray-shingled building crowded against the high-tide line. This, I assumed, although I saw no sign, was the clam shack. An open veranda faced the water overlooking a small marina. A few sportfishing boats and sailboats and other recreational craft were moored there.

I climbed out of my Wrangler and headed toward the building. Running alongside it into the water was a concrete boat ramp, where a pair of guys with long-billed caps were wrestling a Boston Whaler up onto a trailer. A few fly rods bristled from the Whaler, and I was tempted to go down and ask about the fishing. I’d heard there was excellent striped bass fishing in this area.

Then I heard a voice calling, “Mr. Coyne?”

I turned around and made a visor of my hand against the low afternoon sun.

“Over here.”

I looked up to the veranda on the back of the clam shack and saw a hand wave. I waved back, then climbed the stairs and sat down across from Ellen Sanderson.

When I’d met her in her office, she’d had her hair up in a complicated bun, and she’d been wearing a dark blue business suit with a silk blouse underneath. Now she was wearing jeans and a bulky sweatshirt with “Colby College” on the front and long dangly silver-and-turquoise earrings. Navajo, I guessed. Her dark hair, which was lightly streaked with gray, hung down her back in a loose flowing ponytail, held in place with a turquoise silk kerchief that matched her earrings.

If she hadn’t waved and called my name, I probably wouldn’t have recognized her. I held my hand across the table to her, and when she took it and smiled, she looked younger and prettier than I’d remembered.

“Thank you for coming,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Thank you. I called you, remember?”

Her eyes matched the turquoise in the earrings and the kerchief. They crinkled when she smiled. She was sipping from a dewy glass through a straw. “What’re you drinking?” I said.

“Gin and tonic,” she said. “It’s about my only indulgence. Isn’t that sad?”

“Everybody needs a few indulgences,” I said. “The best kinds are those that don’t bother anybody else.” I looked around and spotted a college-age girl wearing a white T-shirt and black Bermuda shorts standing near the wall and holding a tray. I waved at her, and she nodded and came over. “Drink, sir?”

“Gin and tonic sounds good,” I said. I turned to Ellen. “Ready for a refill?”

“Sure,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

When the waitress left, Ellen said, “For courage, I guess.”

“The drink?”

She shrugged and nodded.

I leaned forward. “In the first place,” I said, “I’m a lawyer. Nothing you say to me will get back to the wrong people. I promise you that. In the second place, I’m sort of a temporary law-enforcement person. I have just one case. I’m trying to figure out what’s happened to Charlotte. I hope you can help.”

“I trust you,” she said. “I trusted you when I met you the other day. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But I really don’t know if I can help you or not.” She reached down beside her and pulled a big leather bag up onto her lap. She rummaged inside it, slipped something onto her lap, and put the bag back on the floor. She glanced around the veranda. Then she picked up her napkin, dabbed her mouth, and put the napkin on her lap. She darted her eyes around again and then picked it up and put it on the table between us. “It’s under the napkin,” she said. She gave a small nervous laugh. “I’m being silly, I know.”