The Dead Have A Thousand Dreams (14 page)

I didn’t say anything—I
couldn’t for a few moments. I needed to let the effect of the words
land in me, settle in my blood.

“What about the teachers,
the family? They never saw what was happening?”

“I don’t know what they
saw,” said Jen. “I know some of the kids had tried to protect the
boy, get Wooly to leave him alone. But Wooly, he was a big kid,
even back then.”

I tried to picture the
boy, tried to picture his body. Like Monte Slater, another suicide
in a closet.

“What I’m saying, I guess,
you want me to watch his house? I’ll do it. But I’ll only do it for
you. Only cause you asked. Cause otherwise, that man in there, that
Wooly? He
killed
that boy.”

>>>>>>

TUESDAY JUNE 19, 8:55
a.m.

I COULDN’T EVEN PUT A NAME
ON IT

I was seeing an expression
on Wooly’s face I’d never seen before. It was the look of shame. “I
don’t know what happened,” he said, sitting at the table with a
hoodie under his bathrobe. “I don’t know why I hated that kid so
much. Something about him just got a hold to me.”

“So it’s true?”

“Shit, it’s true. Of
course it’s true. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, to be
honest, and there’s not much I feel bad about, but that’s one of
them. That’s definitely one of them. That horrible thing’s the one
thing I wish I could take back.”

He and Nickie were
drinking coffee. I’d told them Jen’s story—wondering if the
additional $20 I’d given her was near enough. Genevieve had stormed
out of the kitchen a few minutes earlier, after Wooly had insisted
he wanted hot dogs for breakfast.

“Jen said you laughed when
you heard the news.”

Wooly nodded. “I did
laugh. Out on the playground, yeah, I laughed in front of all the
others. But you know what I did when I went home? I cried. I cried
by myself. Days, weeks. I felt so bad about what happened I
couldn’t even put a name on it.”

“I didn’t know you had
that in you,” said Nickie.

“I do. I got feelings. Way
down, I got a lot of feelings. Way down, I guess, I’m a sensitive
person. I mean, think about it. Why else would I act like such an
asshole all the time?”

I looked out at the quiet
Paumanok pines. “You never mentioned this before.”

“What, I’m gonna bring
that shit up? I don’t even bring it up to myself. What do you
think? Something like that, it was many, many years ago, but
there’s no forgetting something like that. There’s no way I can
forget that, in effect, I killed Ralphie Freeny.”

Nickie and I nodded our
heads, reflexive pause. Though Nickie was nodding
hard
, lots of
energy.

“Ralphie Freeny?” she
said.

“Yeah, poor little
bastard.”

“Any relation to
Roy
Freeny?”

“Roy’s his brother.
His
younger
brother, of course. By many years.”

Roy
Freeny
—I knew it now. Two years ago, a
conference room in the village hall. The first time I ever saw
Wooly in action. Roy Freeny was speaking for F.L.A.C.—shaved head,
a blue tattoo of Earth on his skull. Roy was accusing Wooly of
killing songbirds and he’d asked the village board to shut him up
when Wooly threw a chair at his head, a display of civic discourse
that ended with the two Hidden Lake cops pinning Wooly to the
floor.

“Ralphie was an only
child,” Wooly was saying. “His folks, they went on alone for many
years. Then Roy came along. Change of life baby, they used to call
it.”

Nickie was irritated, even
pissed at Wooly. “You never saw it? You never made the
connection?”

“What
connection?”

“Roy Freeny.
He could be the one who’s
shooting
at you.”

“Roy? Nah. All that
F.L.A.C. shit, all that fatal light shit? It’s forgotten
history.”

“Not talking about that.
Talking about his
brother
.”

“He never even
knew
his
brother.”

“You don’t think the
family might’ve mentioned your name once or twice over the
years?”

“I’m not seeing
it.”

Nickie put a two-handed
grip on the table. “I know Roy Freeny. I know him from years back.
I know what he’s capable of, I know what he can do.”

“So why
now
after all this
time?”

“You said it—there’s no
forgetting something like that.”

“Wooly,” I said, “you had
any confrontation with him lately?”

“No, nothing. With Roy?
Not a thing. Not even— Well, okay, few weeks ago, I ran into him in
town.”

“What
happened?”

“Nothing. He called me a
world class murderer, I called him a luckless perv and accused him
of fucking goats. No big thing—I didn’t think anything of it. Day
in the life.”

“Was this
before
the shootings?”
said Nickie.

“A little.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!
It’s
him!
I’m
shit sure it’s him.”

“Oh man I don’t
know.”

“Wooly,” I said, “you
killed his brother and you’re destroying the earth.
Could
be a
motive.”

>>>>>>

TUESDAY JUNE 19, 10:10
a.m.

I KNOW MY COLORS

There was no listing for
Roy Freeny, only for a Carol Freeny. “His mother,” said Nickie. She
checked the address: 318 Exeter. “That’s where the family lived.
That’s the house he grew up in.”

“Ralphie too,” said
Wooly.

The neighborhood was in
the poorer section of Hidden Lake. Some of the houses you could
call modest. Most
aspired
to be modest. The Freeny house had given up the
fight. It was a small and saggy ranch with a coat of paint applied
around the time Lee was surrendering at Appomattox.

The three of us climbed
the sleepy porch steps, picking up a whiff of something that
smelled like old sardines. No answer when we rang, then
knocked.

The shades were all down
except one—the window by the door. We looked inside the living
room. Worn and musty-like. The wallpaper had faded in spots from
bright yellow to almost white. It was the kind of place where you’d
expect to see five or six cats lounging about, though none were on
hand.

Next door, a stout,
elderly, shovel-jawed woman was watering the plants in her front
yard. We looked at her. She looked at us.

“Clammy day, isn’t it?”
she yelled over at us. “Pretty close for this time of
year.”

“Too sweaty out for me,”
said Wooly.

“Especially for this time
of season. What this is, to me, this is more like July
weather.”

“Or August.”

She nodded. “August, yes.
August.”

We walked to the edge of
her yard. She gave Wooly a good look-see.

“What brings you to our
street, Mr. Cornell?”

“You know who I
am?”

“Who could live in this
town and not know you?”

He laughed—though the
complimentary intentions of her remark were open to
interpretation.

“We were wondering,” he
said, “if Roy Freeny—“

“I’m Mrs.
Wilkinson.”

“Pleasure.”

“If I know your name, you
should know mine.”

“Well put.”

“The way things should
be.”

“Would you happen to know
if—“

“I think he might’ve gone
into town. At least I saw him driving that way. My guess would be
into town.”

“Roy Freeny.”

“Who else?”

“Into town?”

“That would be my
guess.”

“What was he driving? Said
Nickie. “Was it a Ford Fusion?”

Mrs. Wilkinson glanced at
Nickie and narrowed her eyes. Not necessarily with suspicion, more
like she was trying to place her.

“I have no idea,” she
said. “I can’t keep up with all these makes and models. They all
look the same to me.”

“Do you know the color?
Was it green?”

“Blue.”

“Blue?”

“Blue.”

“You’re sure?”

Mrs. Wilkinson snapped the
words at her. “I
do
know my colors.”

“Known Roy a long time?” I
said.

“Oh, years. Years and
years.” A smile came back to the woman’s face. “All his life, I
guess.”

“Good
neighbor?”

“Very nice, very sweet. A
little distracted at times by all his causes and whatnot, but
really a very considerate man. You know he lost his mother a few
years ago, six or seven years ago. But he still sends out Christmas
cards with both their names signed. I think that’s so
touching.”

“It’s
very
interesting,” said
Nickie.

“But what an awful
neighbor I am. I shouldn’t be talking about him like
this.”

“It’s fine,” I said.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Nickie was looking down
Roy’s driveway. There was a single-car garage at the end, more
accurately described as a shack with a padlocked door.

“Does he have
another
car?” she
asked.

“He does, but don’t ask me
its name or serial number. I just don’t know.”

“Is it green?”

“That
one is, yes, though I don’t think it works very well. He
hardly takes it out at all.”

Quick glances between the
three of us.

“So you think he went into
town,” said Wooly. “Would you have any idea where?”

She would. Possibly
Sherrard’s Groceries or Allende’s Market, depending on the sales.
Or Hidden Lake Deli, to buy his lottery. Wings ‘N Things, he likes
a late breakfast. The Keypad, he likes his computers. Hidden Lake
Library. Hidden Lake Hardware. Hidden Lake Health Food. Hidden Lake
Pharmacy.

We thanked Mrs. Wilkinson
for her help—at least Wooly and I did—as she shut her hose off.
Once she was back in her house, our trio headed down Roy’s
driveway. Wooly looked the Freeny house over as we
passed.

“Wonder which room it
was,” he said.

“With the
closet?”

“Yeah.”

The garage was a seriously
warped and buckled affair. It looked as if it had tried to reach
around at one point and scratch itself on the back. We found a
window at the rear and pressed our faces against the dirt-snowed
glass. A green Ford Fusion was inside, splotched with mud. No
license plate.

Roy, Roy, he’s our
boy.

I thought about something
else Mrs. Wilkinson had said.
He likes his
computers.

“Do me a favor, call the
shop where your car is. See if they can find anything under the
bumpers.”

“Like what?” said
Wooly.

“Like a GPS
transmitter.”

Two minutes later we had
an answer.

“Sweet fucking Caesar,”
said Wooly. “Son of a bitch had me
bugged
.”

>>>>>>

TUESDAY JUNE 19, 11:25
a.m.

BLOOD WILL RUN ACROSS THE
EARTH

The air in town was turning
blue with high temperature. It was like the day had more light than
the sky could hold. We tried the Hidden Lake Deli first. The guy
behind the counter, big man with a bushy beard, said he hadn’t seen
Roy Freeny. The shaved head? The tattoo? Not today. We looked in
Sherrard’s Groceries and Allende’s Market. No Roy.

Wooly wanted to try Wings
‘N Things next—mostly he wanted something to eat. Fine, but we
still had plenty of places to check. I suggested we split up for a
few minutes. I was interested in The Keypad. Nickie took Wooly to
the restaurant.

The Keypad was a few
blocks away. A bell hanging on the door announced my entrance, took
me into a small store filled with laptops, peripherals and the
occasional desktop. And a slight damp smell, mixing in with the air
conditioning. A quarter of the ceiling was brown-stained with water
damage.

A wiry guy, all veins and
tendons, had his elbows propped up on the particle-board
counter.
Shelly Ramos
, according to his nametag. Looking at him made you think of
a piece of cable with its insulation stripped away.

I asked if he sold GPS
transmitters. He sighed deeply. An Altoids breeze blew across the
counter.

“I can. I can get
them.”

“You sold one to a friend
of mine, guy I know. Roy Freeny?”