Red Herring (29 page)

“Wow,” she said. “Memory lane.”

She moved along the wall, as if trying not to disturb the ghosts, and took in the scene from the far corner.

Joe stayed by the front door. “Good to see you,” he said.

“I met Lyn at the house,” she answered, not looking at him. “She’s very pretty.”

Joe chuckled. “That’s what I thought of Don. That was his name, right?”

That made her turn toward him. “Donald. Please,” she corrected
with a smile, adding whimsically, “Yeah, he was pretty, too. I think your Lyn is a lot brighter, though.”

“I take it that means Donald’s in the past?”

She nodded, her attention taken by the traffic moving outside, far below. “Oh, yes. Not much time for that sort of thing these days.”

“They running you ragged?”

She finally stepped away from the wall and sat on the nearest chair, still in her coat. “I am never not totally exhausted. I think it’s going well, though.”

“Except for . . .” he suggested.

“What?” she asked.

He sat as well, across the room. “Well, you’re here for some reason. I’m assuming you hit a hiccup involving me.”

She laughed shortly but without humor. “You should be a detective. Yeah—I was asked a question at a press conference tonight. Apparently, you just used the criminal DNA data bank for a familial search.”

Joe’s slight smile slipped away. “True. David Hawke ran it by his lawyers beforehand, just so you know.”

“I do know,” she said. “I spoke to him on the phone on my way here.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“The person you located that way is suing the state for invasion of privacy.”

Joe laughed incredulously. “Robert Hildreth? No shit. The man’s on his deathbed. That’s feisty.”

Gail’s response was more restrained. “It’s also a little awkward. I happen to agree with him.”

Joe shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m not surprised. How’s this going to cause you trouble?”

“People will try to tar me with your actions, saying our past relationship is affecting my judgment.”

He looked confused. “But you just said you didn’t agree with it.”

“I haven’t made that official yet.”

A silence fell between them, as each considered her meaning.

“What are you asking for?” Joe finally asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I just felt so badly, calling you earlier about Felix Knowles.”

“Felix . . .”

“Reynolds’s chauffeur,” she interrupted.

“I know,” he said, repeating more softly, “I know.”

She suddenly looked as tired as she sounded. “I am so sorry, Joe. I hate to hit you with all this. I know what you’re up against.”

He left his seat and walked through the assembled chairs to take the one beside her. He grabbed one of her hands.

“Gail, not to worry. I won’t deny, I was disappointed by that, but only for a moment. I know what it’s like for you, too, running for office. I’ve seen it in others. You can get turned around. I’m half amazed any politician can figure out which end’s up after a while. You guys are surrounded by people interpreting reality for you.”

He squeezed her hand. “Say what you have to say, Gail. Goddamn cops are trying to steal our civil liberties. People’ve been saying that forever. It’s part of the process. We did what the lawyers said we could do when we went after that DNA, and between you and me and nobody else, I’m glad we did. I don’t mind if after you become governor, you try to make it all illegal. Just don’t be surprised if I testify in the State House against you.”

She looked at him more closely. “So you think you got something?”

“I shouldn’t tell you that, should I?” he asked her.

She shook her head mournfully. “No, you’re right. I did like it when we could talk about what you were working on. I guess Lyn gets that privilege now.”

“I don’t know if she considers it that,” he conceded.

“But she is good for you, isn’t she?”

He smiled. One of the things he cherished most about his connection to Gail was that at its foundation was a friendship, undisturbed by whether they were a romantic couple or not. It was this, he knew, that made Lyn uncomfortable on occasion.

“She is,” he admitted, thinking back over the short time he and Lyn had been together, some of it quite action-filled. “She does things I wouldn’t dream of doing sometimes, but that can be good, too, assuming everybody survives.”

Gail laughed softly. “I think I heard a little about that. Got a little hairy in Maine?”

He nodded, smiling. “Oh, yeah.”

Outside, through the bank of windows, the passing traffic circling the district courthouse could be heard across the street.

“I better go,” she finally said, not moving.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“St. J for a breakfast meeting.”

He looked surprised. “You were down here doing something? I didn’t know.”

But she was shaking her head. “No, I was up north. I just wanted to talk to you about this.”

“My God, Gail,” he said. “That’s hours out of your way. You can’t afford that.”

She stood up and gathered her coat around her. “I’ll sleep in the car. I do that a lot. I’ve gotten good at it.”

He rose with her and she laid a hand on his forearm. “I needed to
do this, Joe. I hated the way we left things with that last phone call.” She looked away, still speaking. “And now with this new thing, I didn’t want you thinking I’d changed . . .”

He reached out and touched her hair, smiling, bringing her eye back to his. “Hey, not to worry. But thanks for coming. I know what I said about it all being okay, but your doing this counts a lot.”

She nodded.

He added, “And don’t worry too much on how politics is going to change you. You’ll stay in control. You’re tired, you’re under an incredible amount of pressure, and you don’t like hurting people’s feelings. Things are tougher now than they’ll probably ever be, unless you choose to run for something higher up the food chain. You’ll get to feeling better.”

He took her elbow and began guiding her through the chairs.

“Thanks, Joe,” she said. “Maybe I wanted to hear that more than I wanted to tell you about this man’s lawsuit.”

He laughed. “Oh, right. Crazy Hildreth. What a way to wrap up your life—suing someone. Yeah, don’t worry about that. I’ve already had a few people remind me that you’re going to be my boss once this is over.”

“Oh,” she groaned. “Don’t go there.” But then she stopped at the door and turned toward him, her expression serious once more.

“Do you really think I’ll win?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I’m probably the last one to answer that. You know what a political Slick Willy I am. Still, I think people are tired of Reynolds, and while Jyll Ivory is definitely going to eat into your votes, you’re doing well.”

He shook his head and added, “Who knows? You make a big enough stink about how we violated this poor bastard’s last days on this earth, it could make you a populist poster child.”

She frowned, but he could see she appreciated his releasing her. “Don’t even joke about that.”

They were walking down the hallway and reached the door to his office. “Joking is all I have left sometimes,” he told her.

He gave her a warm hug and asked, “Is it improper to say, ‘Break a leg’?”

She kissed his cheek. “Hell, what goes for the theater should go for what I’m doing, so thanks. Same to you.”

He stepped back. “Guess we’ll both find out in the headlines.”

She laughed one last time and retreated down the hall, waving backward as she went. “Say good night, Joe.”

“Good night, Joe,” he answered, and returned to work.

By the time they all met up off the Augur Hole Road, a dirt track meandering through the woods between Marlboro and South Newfane, dawn was just graying the starless sky above the trees.

Joe and his three colleagues were all in one van, wearing ballistic vests and heavy clothing against the cold, and carrying shotguns. Except Willy, who preferred a specially shortened semiautomatic carbine for such outings—something he could operate with one hand.

They weren’t alone. Positioned along the road near Gini Coursen’s address were additional VBI agents, members of the Vermont State Police, and, farther back, a couple of ambulances, just in case.

Joe had his highly detailed search warrant, after spending the night dissecting Ike Miller’s life, trolling for what they’d found at last—a bad boy colleague of Ike’s whom they’d bounced out of bed and grilled for what they needed.

Now, they knew the layout of the three buildings—the house, a pole barn garage, and a storage shack; the usual inhabitants—Ike and his
mother Gini; and they’d compiled a list that included an acetylene torching rig, reloading equipment, woodworking tools, a stockpile of oak planks, blood and syringes, a computer and printer—all elements of what the Brookhaven scientists had linked to the killer of Ferenc, Fish, and Clarke—and any and all relevant documents. Ike’s buddy had also told them that he regularly fooled with cars, which included changing engine oil inside the garage, where he also had his office.

The police radio mumbled inside the van. Joe left Sam to coordinate the last units to get into place while he gazed outside at the slowly emerging countryside. He could just discern the outline of the mostly bare tree limbs from the night sky behind them.

It was a conflicting time of year for local residents. The coming winter, the dying vegetation, the shortening hours of daylight, all contributed to a hibernating mood—and sharpened the conflict between it and humanity’s self-imposed obligation to keep functioning. Joe often pondered, especially in the fall, how much his species had disconnected itself from its natural environment. At more leisurely moments, he was curious where it might all end up, and who would win.

“All set, boss,” Sam said softly, aware of his thoughts being elsewhere.

He turned away from the window and studied the intense trio of faces beside him.

“Let’s go, then,” he said, and opened the door.

His team had taken his daydreaming in stride. In fact, they each had their own method of preparing for what might be coming—trying to anticipate everything. Sammie’s forte; getting into a purely martial mental state, which spoke to Willy’s style; or simply trying to control the adrenaline rush, which is where Les usually went. Joe, they knew, tended toward a quiet place first, as if he could achieve a
balance between calm and violence when stock was taken at the end of the day.

As it turned out, none of them need have worried. Approaching from all angles, including through the woods, where several teams had been positioned ahead of time, they found no dogs, no booby traps, no snipers, and no Ike Miller.

They did get a snarling, half-crippled old lady out of bed.

“What the fuck do you want?” she demanded, having wrenched at the door after Lester pounded on it for ten minutes.

Lester produced his warrant and began his speech, as Sam and others squeezed by the old woman and fanned out through the house. Joe stayed outside, taking in the entire compound, and eventually slipped inside the garage, Willy in tow.

They located a light switch by the sliding door and found themselves in a crude, high-ceilinged, dirt-floored workroom. It was jammed with spare parts, tools, woodworking and metal-cutting equipment, piles of lumber, slabs of steel, and accessorized with an assortment of indistinguishable trash. A partially disassembled car sat in its midst, a long, cluttered work table lined one wall, near an enormous and threatening-looking cold woodstove. And a computer was located on a table in one corner, surrounded by some much abused, dust-covered, electronic paraphernalia, including a printer.

It was the cave of a messy man with multiple interests.

Or, as Willy put it, “This place is a shit hole.”

But Joe was smiling, looking around. “This,” he corrected him, “is a gold mine, and we’re going to be here for a very long time.”

By the time Joe got to meet Gini Coursen, they had in fact been there for a long time. Foliage season being by now a thing of the past, the
surrounding skeletal trees threw angular shadows across the property as Joe crossed from the garage to the house. He had been told of the search results of both trailer and storage shed, just as he and Willy and half a dozen others had stayed in the garage to catalog its gifts. He knew that Coursen had not been dealing well with her uninvited guests, mostly because those watching her kept cycling out to trade places with their colleagues, shaking their heads at her relentless hostility.

But her being left to rage alone now had been intentional. Not only did Gunther want to learn all he could from his surroundings; he wanted her to stew in her own impotence.

Joe found her in the back bedroom, parked in an armchair that looked built around her considerable bulk. A spindly aluminum walker stood nearby, frail and puny in light of what might be expected of it.

Joe closed the door behind him as he entered.

“Who’re you?” she demanded.

He located an upright chair in a corner, piled with clothes. These he unceremoniously dumped onto her bed, before placing the chair opposite her and sitting down.

“My name’s Joe Gunther,” he told her. “I work for the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

She smiled bitterly. “Good for you. Now you can get the hell out of my house.”

“We will in a while. We’re close to getting done, and I’d like you to know right up front that if you don’t want to talk with me, you don’t have to. You’re not under arrest. You can just sit here until we’re finished and then return to your life.”

“Fine,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to talk to you. You can go crap in your hat.”

He nodded slowly, as if mulling over some inner debate. “Problem
being,” he said to her, “that your life will no longer include your son, Ike. I thought you should know that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, the eyes widening somewhat. “You don’t have Ike.”

“Nor do you,” he said, adding, “and nor will you—ever again.” He gestured outside the door, where they could hear people moving about. “What do you think we’re doing out there?”