For Every Evil (12 page)

He opened the door. “None of your goddamn business.”

Several hours later, as Hale sped out of Moose Lake on his way to Soldiers Grove, he thought again of the note he’d received earlier in the day, the one from Ezmer Hawks — if that was his real name. He no longer believed it was. It had said, very simply: “Childhood memories. What would life be without them? Glad you like my drawing better than you did my dancing.” Shivering inwardly, Hale realized the message could only be from one person. The only problem was, that one person was dead. With his own two eyes, he’d seen the boy fall from the cliff. There was no plausible explanation for what was happening now. Nothing that would explain the drawings or the phone calls.

He thought again of the boy’s voice. “‘For every evil under the sun, there is a remedy or there is none.’ “ Someone was trying to drive him over the edge. He laughed at the absurdity of his own image. Over the edge — terrific! If he didn’t keep his wits about him, he might really self-destruct. His only hope was to find this recluse, this Ezmer Hawks, or whatever his real name was, and demand some answers. Glancing at the glove compartment where he’d stashed his gun, he felt certain that today, no matter what it took, he was going to put a stop to this terrorism once and for all.

An hour later, the Soldiers Grove water tower appeared in the distance. He was almost there. The first order of business was a phone directory. Perhaps this Hawks character had a published street address. It was worth a try. He pulled into a gas station and got out. The cold wind felt bracing after the overheated car. After perusing the local directory, he slammed the book in frustration. No Ezmer Hawks was listed. The station attendant pointed the way to the post office across the street.

Once inside the small building, Hale quickly found box 183. He bent down and looked through the glass, but it was empty. Only one other person seemed to be around. A man standing behind the front counter. Mid-sixties. Balding. He looked as if he’d lived his entire life in the small town and probably knew everyone. Hale approached cautiously. He wasn’t sure what was the best tactic.

“Can I help you?” The postal employee gave Hale the once-over.

Hale smiled easily. He knew his cashmere overcoat and heavy gold jewelry probably pegged him as a rich outsider. It gave him a certain satisfaction — since he’d grown up in a town very much like this one and didn’t like being reminded of it. “Yes,” he said, feeling in his back pocket for his wallet. “I’m looking for someone.”

The man merely stared.

“Ezmer Hawks. Do you know him?”

“Ezmer Hawks,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I do.”

“He rents a box here. Box 183.”

“Well then, I’m sure we’ve met. I just can’t place the name.”

Hale was becoming impatient. “He’s not listed in the phone book.”

“Is that right?”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you could give me his address.”

The man shook his head. “Nope. We’re not allowed to give out that information.”

Hale laid his wallet on the countertop.

The man’s eyes fell to it.

“You’re sure?” he said, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill.

“Well, that’s policy. But then, I hate bureaucrats, don’t you?” He reached for the money. Taking out a ledger, he flipped a few pages until he found the address. “Hmm. Here it is.” He found the spot with his finger. “That’s funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

Again, the man glanced at the wallet. “Nothing. The address is 4712 East Pine Lake Road.” He wrote it down on a notepad and handed it to Hale. “Make a left when you get back on the highway. The road is about a mile out of town. Turn right and follow it until you get to the house. The road parallels the lake, so you can’t get lost.”

“Thanks.” Hale returned the wallet to his back pocket with a small feeling of triumph. Money could buy almost anything. Even answers from Ezmer Hawks.

Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a mailbox along the side of the road. He pulled his Mercedes over and got out. The name on the box was Westman, but it had been scratched out. What was most important were the numbers 4712. This had to be the place. He grabbed his gun, stuck it in his belt, and headed down the snowy path to the house. From a distance, it didn’t look particularly inviting. It was hand-built and tiny, with shingles instead of wood siding. Huge icicles hung from the roof. As he got closer, he realized some of the windows were broken. And no one had shoveled any of the walks. The latch on the front door was rusted, coming off in his hand as he opened the door. Stepping into the dank front room, he saw the place was deserted. “Damn!” he exploded, realizing he’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. He kicked an old pot across the floor.

If this was the address in the post office log and no other address existed, he was at a dead end. He felt in his pocket for the letter Kate had given him. Sure enough, it was a Soldiers Grove postmark. Hawks had to be here somewhere. Perhaps if he went back to town and spent a few minutes asking around, he might put an end to this little game of hide-and-seek. It was worth a try.

Francie’s Cafe was located on Soldiers Grove’s main drag. On one side was a hardware store and on the other, the Soldiers Grove Washateria. Directly across the road was Dave’s Feed and Seed. As he entered the building, he noticed a familiar form sitting at the counter. The man’s face was partially obscured by a newspaper, but Hale recognized him at once. It was John Jacobi. The sight of the young man startled him into paralysis.

After considering the situation a few moments, Hale decided to sit down next to him. Play it cool. He grabbed a menu and began looking it over.

John read for a few more minutes and then lowered the paper, his hand finding his coffee cup. As he did so, he noticed Hale sitting right next to him. “Mr. Micklenberg!”

“Small world, isn’t it?” Perhaps young Mr. Jacobi was the answer he’d been looking for. If he was, it explained a lot. “What are you doing here?”

John seemed momentarily at a loss. “My … aunt lives in town. I come up fairly often.”

“Quite the family man.”

John seemed confused. “She collects bones and feathers for me — objects she finds in the woods. They’re my models. I need them for my work. I come up here every now and then to collect them — and to have a piece of her pie.”

“That’s all?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s your only reason for coming to this thriving metropolis?” Hale noticed the waitress give him a nasty look. He glared at her until she turned away.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

John put the paper down. “Look, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No. And what I do with my time is
my
business.” He held Hale’s eyes.

Hale could sense the threat. He knew he’d hit pay dirt. “I got your message this morning.”

“What message?”

“The one about childhood memories.” He watched him for a reaction, daring him to come clean. After a few silent seconds, he decided that the young man was a pretty fair actor. But not good enough. “Now I’ve got a message for you.” He leaned very close. “I want you to back off. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m onto you. Stay away from me. No more phone calls. No more cute little camp drawings. You got that?”

John leaned away. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Maybe.” He glanced briefly at a man eating a bowl of soup at the far end of the counter. “You’d be about the right age.”

“For what?”

“But you’re not him. I know that much. I’d recognize him anywhere — even twenty years later.”

“Mr. Micklenberg, don’t take this wrong, but you’re … babbling.”

Hale gave an angry snort. “What were you? Friends?”

John blinked.

“You can’t know anything. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to talk to you.”

“That’s a good point. Maybe you should just order some chili and mind your own business.”

“You must be independently wealthy to be able to take time off anytime you please and drive up here.”

“I have a job.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“I work for the Bergdorf Brewery in St. Paul.”

Hale stifled a laugh. “The working man’s artist. God, it takes me back to the Sixties. And you know what, kid? It still nauseates me.”

“It’s an honest day’s work. You’d be surprised. There’s an art to making a good beer. Like other things.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.”

“Don’t toy with me.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” A small grin appeared.

“I can play rough. I’ve got enough money and power to destroy you a hundred times over, so don’t push me. Right now I’ve had about all I can take.”

“Is there something wrong?” asked a tall, heavy-set woman who’d just stepped out of the back. An immaculately white apron covered a floral print dress.

Hale raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was Francie, the owner of the restaurant. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

“Johnny, what’s going on? Who is this guy?”

John pushed his coffee away. “Aunt Francie, I’d like you to meet Hale Micklenberg. He was just leaving.” Another grin.

Francie took the menu from Hale’s hand and slipped it under her arm. “Good. I think we just ran out of everything.”

Hale stiffened. “Well, so much for small town hospitality.”

“Yeah, you can’t count on anything these days.” She leaned a heavy arm on the counter and waited.

Hale’s frown deepened. He turned one last time to John. “Just remember what I said.” After looking at the long row of homemade pies behind the counter and hearing his stomach growl, he stood and straightened his coat. It was nearly four
P.M.
Even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, he’d be damned if he’d buy a piece of
that
woman’s pie. It was probably poison.

“I suggest,” said John, folding the newspaper with great care, “that you go home and call your therapist. You seem pretty uptight. Sometimes it’s best to talk things out — get whatever’s bothering you off your chest.”

Hale could feel his blood pressure rising. He had to leave before he did something stupid. And anyway, if it became necessary to take care of John Jacobi, he didn’t want any witnesses. “I’m glad we had this conversation. It was clarifying.”

John nodded, glancing at his aunt out of the corner of his eye. “It was.”

Was that amusement in the young man’s face?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Micklenberg .” Francie smiled, nodding to the door. “Have a safe drive home.”

The following Thursday evening, the phone in the Micklenberg home began to ring. Ivy, who was sitting in the living room watching the snow accumulate on the fir trees in the front yard, jumped at the sound. She wondered, as she dashed into the kitchen to pick it up, just who it might be. “Hello,” she said into die receiver.

For a moment the line was silent. Then: “Ivy? Is that you?” The voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“Louie!” She knew instantly something was wrong. “What is it?”

“It’s Sarah.” His voice broke. “She … died this morning.”

Ivy could hear him crying. Her own heart sank inside her. Very softly, she said, “I’m so terribly sorry. Louie … are you all right?”

“Yes.” He sniffed.

“Where are you?”

“At home. It happened just before five
A.M.
I was with her.”

“That’s good. I know that’s what you both wanted.”

Another sniff. “I’ve spent most of the day arranging the funeral.”

“You shouldn’t have done that alone. Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“I … couldn’t.”

“I’m coming over to get you.”

“Why?”

“I can’t stand the thought of you rattling around that old house, all by yourself. I want you to stay here for a few days. Until you feel stronger.”

“I couldn’t bother you like that.”

“Louie, get real! It’s no bother. In case you’ve forgotten, we have
six
bedrooms. I think we can spare the space.”

“But your party. It’s tomorrow night. You must be going crazy trying to get everything done.”

“Have you ever heard of caterers and cleaning services? I hire the very best.”

“But what about Hale?”

“What about him? He flew to Chicago yesterday for a meeting. I’m not even sure when he’ll be back.”

“I … don’t know.”

She could hear the hesitation. She also knew he wanted to come. “Well, I do. Pack a small case and I’ll be over to pick you up in half an hour.”