Chat - A Novel Part 18

That brought a brief stare. "City?"

"Yeah. Been b.u.mming around a lot lately, though-like working with Wheeler."

The truck was grinding uphill, lumbering to overtake the feeble reach of its own headlights.

"New York's a long ways."

Christ, w.i.l.l.y thought. This was going to take a while.

"Figured this would be a better place to die," he said, risking a little melodrama in the hopes of speeding things up.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Griffis push his lips out thoughtfully.

"The Mackies know about that?" his pa.s.senger asked.

"They know what happened," w.i.l.l.y answered obliquely, nevertheless impressed by E. T.'s practical handling of his statement.

E. T. seemed to accept that and didn't speak until the truck had reached the top of the hill, when he repeated, "Left here."

After a few more minutes, during which w.i.l.l.y could almost hear E. T. arguing with himself, he'd been put in such an awkward spot, w.i.l.l.y took him off the hook with "I had a car crash. f.u.c.ked myself up, killed my son. I was drunk."

Both the wording and the tone had been carefully chosen-not so terse as to cut off further conversation, not so confessional that it was best not to ask. Just the facts, but sentimentally evocative enough to get the old man thinking of his own losses.

w.i.l.l.y waited patiently, the heavily shadowed s...o...b..nks to both sides of them slipping past like discarded bundles of laundry.

"That's tough," Griffis finally said heavily. "Know the feeling."

w.i.l.l.y didn't doubt it. Not only had he played to E. T.'s recent loss of Andy, but he knew Griffis as a fellow alcoholic-only a nonrecovering one.

"You, too?" he asked open-endedly.

E. T. bit. "Yeah. My youngest. Hung himself."

w.i.l.l.y thought of Sammie again but didn't correct the other man's grammar. Instead, he faked a theatrical double take. "No s.h.i.+t? A woman, right? It usually is."

But he'd gotten as much as he was going to for the moment.

"Nah," E. T. said under his breath, eyes fixed ahead.

w.i.l.l.y let it be. "I can't get it out of my head, especially with this to remind me." He hefted his useless arm's shoulder. "How do you live with it?" he asked after a pause, trying a different tack, knowing he might be pus.h.i.+ng too hard. In truth, it wasn't that important to him. He was doing Joe a favor, it got him out of the office and on his own, and he had nothing to lose if he ended up empty-handed. He could take risks.

But, as if E. T. were eavesdropping and not wanting w.i.l.l.y to betray his boss, the older man met him halfway with "I have another son."

w.i.l.l.y nodded. "Guess that would help."

He hoped it didn't, given Joe's suspicions about why Andy had copped to a crime he'd never committed.

E. T.'s monotone response opened that door wider. "Not even close."

w.i.l.l.y smiled slightly in the darkness. I got you now, he thought.

w.i.l.l.y approached the farmhouse on foot, having parked at the bottom of the long driveway. This was a pure impulse, driven solely by nosiness. He could have called Joe or paged him, or even waited until morning to report on his purely social meeting with E. T. He'd just spent an hour with the old man at his home over a nightcap, further ingratiating himself. But he wasn't interested in seeing Joe-it was the serendipitous proximity of the Gunther farm that had become an irresistible attraction. w.i.l.l.y had heard too much about Mom and Leo and the farm and all the rest not to make at least a covert visit. In a way he couldn't-and certainly wouldn't-have verbalized, it had much of the appeal of catching an eminent presence during an unguarded, private moment.

The night was clear, cold, and brittle as ice, the sky overhead jammed with a shotgun blast of sharp-edged stars. Despite his heavy coat, w.i.l.l.y felt chilled to the bone. The snow under his boots squeaked as he walked.

Lights were still on, spilling over the white-clotted bushes under the building's windows. He could see dark wood-paneled walls of what was either a cluttered living room or a library, with book-lined shelves everywhere. A gray-haired elderly woman in a wheelchair sat surrounded by doc.u.ment-laden tables, a TV on in the background, its luminescence commingling with the flickerings from a gla.s.s-doored woodstove.

"It's more comfortable inside."

w.i.l.l.y whipped around, his feet slipping slightly on the packed snow of the driveway, making him flail out with his good arm for balance.

"f.u.c.k!" he exclaimed.

"Of course," said Joe Gunther, standing in the shadows by the side of the house, "you'll have to clean up your language. My mother's old-school."

w.i.l.l.y recovered himself. "What the h.e.l.l're you doing out here?"

Gunther chuckled. "You're asking me?"

w.i.l.l.y scowled. "I was around. You You wanted me to hook up with Griffis." wanted me to hook up with Griffis."

"So I did," Joe acknowledged affably, gesturing with one hand. "Come on in. I'm freezing just looking at you."

Reluctantly, still embarra.s.sed at being caught so flagrantly, w.i.l.l.y moved toward him. "How'd you know I was out here? You taking a leak or something?"

"I saw your headlights," Joe explained. "Plus, I placed a couple of sensors out there a few days ago." He waved into the darkness. "A little paranoia can be a good thing."

He led the way into the farmhouse's kitchen, around to the side, stamping his feet as he entered the small mudroom. "Better take your boots off. You'll catch h.e.l.l otherwise. You want a pair of slippers, they're around the corner there."

w.i.l.l.y only grudgingly removed his footwear and skipped the slippers. He hated catering to anyone's precious house rules, even if it meant that his feet would remain cool.

They pa.s.sed on into the house's true warmth after ridding themselves of their coats, entering an atmosphere redolent of a recent warm meal, a wood fire, and the odor of old books. Joe took him into the room he'd seen earlier and introduced him to his mother.

The old lady gave w.i.l.l.y's hand a firm shake and watched him closely.

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Kunkle. I know that already."

w.i.l.l.y snorted. "That's one word."

"A good word, though," she agreed, adding, "complicated."

He laughed, pointing to Joe. "Is that what he says?"

She smiled. "He says less than you might think. But I'm not too bad a judge of character myself. Would you like a seat by the fire? And maybe something warm to drink? You look like you could use both."

w.i.l.l.y hesitated.

"It won't be held against you if you accept, Mr. Kunkle."

He shook his head, caving in and moving toward the stove. "It's w.i.l.l.y, and I give up. I'll pa.s.s on the drink, though. Been doing that all night."

"w.i.l.l.y's been pumping E. T. for information," Joe explained, settling into an armchair.

"Really?" his mother commented. "How did you fare with that? He's a tight-lipped old grouch."

"I laid the groundwork," w.i.l.l.y admitted, picking up from his boss that the conversation was unrestricted. "I told him I lost a son and messed up my arm in a car crash-my fault. Drunk driving."

Joe's mother stared at her son. "You really do that sort of thing, don't you? Lie to people."

Joe laughed. "Yup. Sometimes." He asked w.i.l.l.y, "Did you get anywhere with him?"

"I got friendly," w.i.l.l.y answered, still taking in the surroundings, trying to fit Joe in as a child growing up here. "I figured it'd be better to just break the ice. I'll see him in the bar tomorrow. Pick up where I left off."

"How's that going, the bar thing?" Joe asked pointedly, painfully aware of w.i.l.l.y's alcoholism.

His colleague extracted the flask from his inner pocket and waggled it in the air. "I'm getting sick of this, if that's what you're asking."

Joe didn't laugh. "Maybe this angle's not such a great idea."

w.i.l.l.y's face tightened. "Maybe I can handle it."

"Did he talk about Andy at all?" Joe's mother asked, changing the subject.

w.i.l.l.y gave Joe an extra hard look before answering her politely, "Around the edges. What I got is that Dan is a s.h.i.+tty subst.i.tute for the apple of his eye. Sorry."

"That's all right," she answered him. "On that score, E. T. is absolutely correct. Dan has never amounted to anything worthwhile."

w.i.l.l.y eyed her appreciatively and paused a moment before asking her, "Did you know Andy? I mean, well enough to help me open the old man up?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. A very sweet young boy. Loved by his father, hated and envied by that useless brother, and, until he went to prison, slated to take over all of E. T.'s business."

"You know that for sure?"

She smiled again. "It's a very small town, w.i.l.l.y."

He got her point. "Did Dan go after Andy regularly?"

"As a bully?" she asked, before answering herself. "I think that oversimplifies their relations.h.i.+p. Dan was all of that-still is-but Andy also looked up to him because of it, the way an abused child runs to his abuser for protection."

"Which explains why Andy might've taken the rap for Dan," Joe suggested.

"You know that," w.i.l.l.y said, "but would E. T.? He's no shrink. What happened to the mother, anyhow?" know that," w.i.l.l.y said, "but would E. T.? He's no shrink. What happened to the mother, anyhow?"

"Two different mothers," Joe's mother said, adding, "The first one-hard as nails-left; the second one-a gentle soul-killed herself, which helps to explain the personality differences in the two boys. And you're right about E. T. not being a psychologist. But he does know men. He has to hire them and fire them all the time. I think he was aware of how his two sons interacted. That's why he tried to protect Andy to a certain extent-sent him to a better school, rode him harder to keep him out of trouble. Dan he let grow up on his own-the wild child of legend."

"But the old man wasn't there when the two boys were together in Brattleboro," Joe said. "And that's all it took."

w.i.l.l.y pa.s.sed his hand through his hair. "Yeah, except, if that's true, why didn't E. T. raise h.e.l.l when he heard Andy had covered for Dan? He could've reamed Dan a new . . . Anyhow, he could have set it right."

"Dan was facing the b.i.t.c.h," Joe reminded him.

His mother laughed at w.i.l.l.y's quick glance in her direction, and added, "Dan is his firstborn. That matters to a man like E. T. I remember hearing at the time how everyone was stunned when Andy was sent to prison. That part wasn't supposed to happen."

Joe was nodding. "Meaning, our theory was probably right. The whole family gambled and lost."

w.i.l.l.y considered that for a moment, his eyes drawn to the flames in the woodstove. "That must be tearing the old man up," he finally said. "He threw his baby boy to the wolves for a loser who's using his business to sell drugs."

There was a silence in the room as the resonances of all this settled in, including one note Joe was surprised that w.i.l.l.y then addressed.

"Mrs. Gunther," w.i.l.l.y said, sitting forward to look her in the eyes, "I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about Leo. How's he doing?"

She allowed for a sad smile and shrugged under the shawl draping her shoulders. "I don't know. No one does. We can only wait, and hope, and see what happens." She paused and then reflected, "Which is more than E. T. has right now, and for that, I guess, we should all be grateful."

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Chapter 16.

Lester Spinney craned over his steering wheel to better appreciate what he was approaching-a huge, modern, spread-out house crowning a slight rise, overlooking the southern narrowing of Lake Champlain below, and New York's Adirondack Mountains off in the distance. The driveway had already prepared him for something-off Route 7 somewhere south of Shelburne Village, it cut through a sheltering copse of trees and extended a quarter mile before revealing this monster house-but he still hadn't expected the total package of the view. The lake looked almost like a planned part of the landscaping.

He pulled to a stop in the immaculately plowed parking area near the four-car garage-he suspected that the driveway was heated-and slowly climbed out from behind the wheel.

The building's front door opened, and a woman in her mid-twenties greeted him with a wave. "Hi. Are you Agent Spinney?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She burst out laughing. "That would be my mother. I'm Wendy. Come on in. Dad's in the office."

Spinney grabbed hold of a box from his backseat, containing a laptop and the hard drive with all the Steve's Garage data that Rob Barrows had sent him days earlier, and crossed the asphalt to the girl at the door. He stuck out a couple of fingers from under the box in greeting. "Lester's my name," he said. "Glad to meet you."

She carefully squeezed his fingers and pointed down a long hallway. "Wendy Leppman-Gartner, officially, that is. My pleasure. Go right on down there. Last door on the left. It's open. Would you like some coffee or something?"

He looked over his shoulder as he started off. "Nope. Thanks. All set."

Halfway through his journey, the hallway opened up to a truly enormous vaulted room, with wooden beams overhead and a far wall constructed solely of gla.s.s. He suddenly felt there was nothing, aside from the building's own heat, separating him from the wide-open s.p.a.ces he'd admired on the drive in.

He blinked against the glare, noticing a figure s.h.i.+fting on the couch in the middle distance.

"h.e.l.lo?" he asked cautiously.