3 Strange Bedfellows (17 page)

Hack Sr.'s voice turned harsh. "My son is dead. Susan's not. You don't get it, do you? I'd do anything for Susan.
Anything."

It sounded like he was about to hang up, so I spoke quickly. "Listen, you crazy old man, you better go back to the cops."

"Why should I?"

"You tell them the truth about Zzyp. If you don't, I'll tell them the truth about you and Susan."

But Hack Sr. didn't answer, just slammed down the phone. I wanted to call him right back but the kids were climbing up the stairs, whining for their waffles. Then the doorbell rang and the kids whined even louder. Bernie started crying. He assumed, quite rightly, that the ringing doorbell meant his dinner would be delayed even longer.

Once again my gut urged me to scream. This time I held it in. I clamped my mouth shut, afraid that if I opened it I'd explode, and headed for the door. It was Will. He stood there in an old gray windbreaker, looking distressed
—not at all like a guy who might be elected to Congress in less than two weeks.

"Care for some waffles?" I asked.

"Did the cops talk to you yet?" he asked in return.

Both kids were crying now. "Shmuck-man, if I don't toast a few waffles this very kid minute, somebody in this house is gonna die. Either the kids will kill me or I'll kill them."

Seven minutes later, with the waffles toasted, cut, and drowned in syrup, Will and I made our way to the living room. "So what were you doing in this guy Zzypowski's office?" he said.

"How'd you know I was there?"

He shot me a puzzled look. "Didn't you get my phone messages?"

Jeez, I'd forgotten all about those messages. "I've been kind of busy."

"The cops brought me in and questioned me all over again, after they found out you were in Zzypowski's office. They wanted to know if I sent you."

"Well, you didn't, so I assume you just told them the truth."

"Of course. But why
were
you there?"

"To get to the bottom of Zzyp's nefarious activities. I think he was holding out on me about something."

"Like what?"

"He got killed before I could find out."

Will frowned. "This is so infuriating."

"No kidding."

"Did you hear the latest poll?"

"Yeah, you told me a couple of days ago
—"

"No, there was a new one today, on 'Live at Five.' Pierce: twenty-three; the widow: twenty-three; and good old Shmuck: twenty-four."

"What?!"

"That's right, I'm actually ahead."

There was a sadness in his voice, but I ignored it. "Wow. Congratulations, Congressman Shmuck!" I put out my hand and slapped him five, but his hand barely slapped back. "Come on, jump up and down!"

"I know. I should be happy, but I'm not." Slumped down low in the sofa, he looked gloomy and forlorn, nothing like the Type A guy I knew and more or less loved. "This whole murder business has wiped me out."

"I know what you mean," I said. Having been a murder suspect myself once, I knew it was no barrel of monkeys.

He gazed up at me. "Did you ever feel like you were in someone else's body?"

I sat on the sofa beside him. "You're afraid of going to prison," I said.

"It's not just that," he
replied. "Everywhere I go, people talk to me about all this surreal weirdness I know nothing about. Like the Hack's murder, and you getting shot at, and now this whole new murder. And I'm realizing, I never—
never
—get to talk to anyone about any of the things that made me want to run for office in the first place. Things like the environment, or health care, or
foreign policy
for God's sake. Once—just once—I'd like for someone to ask me about East Timor."

"But that's politics, Will. Even without these murders, it would still be like that."

He got up and paced up and down the living room. "But my campaign was supposed to be
different
. I had such big plans." The sparkle returned to his eyes as he went on. "I was gonna fly in twenty ex-death row inmates who turned out to be innocent, and hold a big press conference so the voters could really see these men. And I was gonna do another press conference with parents whose kids died because they didn't have health insurance. And I was gonna buy a bunch of guns on the Internet or at gun shows or somewhere and hold them up at my speeches to show how we need tougher gun control."

"You can still do all that, Will."

"No, I can't. I don't have the money to organize it, and anyway I'm too numb from all the bullshit. I'm, like, where's the next shock coming from?"

"Actually," I said hesitantly, "I can pretty much tell you where it's coming from."

He eyed me sharply. I didn't relish giving him the news, but I figured he should be prepared. "Hack Sr. told the cops he got a call from Zzyp right before he died, and Zzyp offered to sell him some dirt on you."

"That's preposterous!"

"Of course. The old man's lying through his teeth."

"But why?"

"To make it look like you had a motive to kill Zzyp."

"He's trying to
frame
me?"

"Yeah. So people won't vote for you."

Finally Will understood. His eyes widened in dismay, then he sank back down onto the sofa.

I gave him a light, joking punch on the shoulder. "Hey, be flattered, Shmuck-man. For him to frame you is a compliment. He thinks you're a legitimate threat to win the election."

Will put a pillow over his head, and when his voice came out, it was muffled. "Yeah, there goes my big one-percent lead, all right." He removed the pillow and gave me an earnest look. "Jake, the hell with politics. Maybe I should just quit the race."

"You're not serious, are you?"

He threw up his hands. "Look, what's the point? So far my campaign is connected somehow to two people getting killed. And you and your sons almost got killed, too. It's not worth it."

I stared at Will with concern, thinking again how out of character he was acting. I wasn't used to seeing him in this Hamletesque "to be or not to be" mode. For a
moment I wondered if there might be some hidden reason why Zzyp's murder had hit Will so hard. But that didn't make sense—I mean, Will had never even met Zzyp.

The silence between us grew uncomfortably long, until Will broke it with an unhappy laugh. "Nah, screw it," he said, "I'm not really serious about quitting, hell no. I'll go ahead and play their game. I'll futz with the truth and make personal attacks and ignore the issues and do anything else I have to do to get elected, just like every other goddamn politici
an." He pointed an emphatic finger at me. "But once I'm in office, by God, that's when I'll get to do what
I
want to do. I'll fight for what I believe in."

As I stared into his
brown eyes, which were now shining with righteous passion, I thought to myself: Is this how all politicians start out? Was Richard Milhous once an innocent, well-meaning man?

You know, he probably was.

After Will left, I grabbed a waffle for myself and finally listened to all those phone messages. There were calls from Andrea, the medi
a, and prospective campaign volunteers. Trying to act like a responsible husband after all the stress I'd been causing the family lately, I called Andrea back at Grandma's house. But I ignored everyone else. I didn't have time.

The kids and I piled into the car and headed out to the
Daily Saratogian
. I gave Judy the photo of Pierce, Sarafian, and that fateful envelope. The photo would be prominently displayed alongside tomorrow's big expose.

That job accomplished, we headed north to Grandma's. We had a pretty peaceful evening, all things considered. Then again, peaceful evenings are a lot easier to have when you're surrounded by trees and crickets and stars.

Andrea entertained us with the tale of her successful B and E into Jeremy Wartheimer's office. The kids were thrilled to have a Mommy who was a real live burglar—although, as our five year old solemnly pointed out, "Mommy's a
good
burglar, not a bad burglar." As for Hannah, she stopped being quite so ticked off at me, now that her daughter's tenure was no longer in danger.

To keep the mood calm, I downplayed my involvement in Zzyp's death. No need to get Grandma all riled up again. Also, I was hoping to avoid getting Bernie upset to the point where he would pee in Grandma's sheets again tonight.

So after we watched a few innings of the Yankees crushing the Tampa Bay Devil Rays by about 200 to 0, Grandma headed for her room while the rest of us went downstairs to bed. I had no trouble falling asleep, but then I had the strangest dream.

I dreamed someone had a hand over my mouth and was whispering softly in my ear, "Say one word and I blow your wife's head off."

I tried to wake up, but I couldn't. Then I tried to scream, but I couldn't do that, either. It was like there was something covering my mouth—

Oh, shit. Something
was
covering my mouth.

This wasn't a dream.

16

Again the whisper came: "Now stand up. Real slow, and real quiet."

The hand finally came away from my mouth. I stood up
—real slow, and real quiet. Andrea, with her usual fall allergies, kept right on snoring behind me.

I still couldn't make out who I was dealing with. Out here in the woods, far from the city lights, all I could see was a shadow. I didn't even see any gun, but from that rude remark about blowing Andrea's head off, I assumed he had one. I say "he"; it was hard to tell from the whispering, but I thought the person was a man.

I felt something in my back—a gun barrel. Good thing I hadn't tried to call his bluff about the gun. The barrel prodded me forward, and no words were required for me to figure out what he wanted: I was supposed to walk forward and out the door.

Only one problem. It was so dark, I walked straight into a wall. I stubbed my toes, but more important, made a loud bumping noise that sounded to my terrified ears like a thunderclap. Andrea had always had an amazing talent for snoring her way through any noise short of a hydrogen bomb. She better show that talent tonight
—or she'd get killed, too.

Wait a minute.
She'd get killed, too
—what was I thinking? Was I expecting to get shot?

Yes, I realized, that's
exactly
what I was expecting. I panicked, and walked into the wall again. Another—and louder—bumping noise. The gunman gave a low, angry hiss. "Sorry," I whispered, inanely apologetic, like I was somehow at fault.

On my third try I mad
e it out the door into the downstairs hallway, with the gunman close behind. "Outside," he whispered hoarsely.

"Let me get my shoes," I whispered back, trying to gain time.

He answered with his gun barrel. So outside we went, after I stumbled into two more walls looking for the outside door. By the time I made it out there, my big toes were smarting. Of course, that was the least of my worries.

The gunman followed me out, and as soon as he shut the door behind him he
started breathing loudly, in uneven rasps. I still couldn't see him, but now I knew who he was. He must have been fighting to keep his breath quiet the whole time we were inside the house.

"Mr. Tamarack!" I said. I wouldn't be thinking of him as "Hack Sr." anymore; any man with a gun in his hand automatically becomes a "mister." "What are
you
doing here?"

Even as I said it, I knew it sounded dumb. It was perfectly obvious what he was doing here: holding a gun to my head and threatening to shoot me with it.

Another thing he was doing was going into a coughing fit. I didn't offer to get him a glass of water, though. That's one disadvantage to holding guns on people—they may call you mister, but they're less eager to do you favors.

There must have been clouds covering the moon and stars, because I couldn't even discern the outline of Mr. T.'s body. I tried to tell from the sounds he made whether the coughing was making him double over. If so, then maybe I should make a run for it. Since I could barely see him, he could probably barely see me.

But as my two sons had noticed earlier, "probably" can be the scariest word in the English language. What if Mr. T.'s night vision was better than mine? There was always the danger that he was a big carrot eater, and right now he was watching every move I made with owl-like eyes.

Before I could make up my mind about fleeing, the
coughing fit subsided. Then Mr. T. rasped, "To the pond!"

"Why?" I asked, for lack of anything better to say.

I felt that familiar gun barrel at my ribs.
"Go!"

So I went.

From Grandma's house to the pond, there's a narrow gravel road about seventy-five yards long. With giant spruce trees looming on either side of me, I was more or less able to steer myself down the middle of the road.

A cold wind was blowing against my chest, through my thin cotton pajamas. The small, jagged gravel bit into my bruised toes, but I b
arely noticed. My eyes were desperately searching the darkness for some kind of weapon, like a long stick. Judging by the sound of crunching gravel, Mr. T. was staying a steady couple of yards behind me. I needed to distract him somehow.

"I don't get it, Mr. Tamarack," I said. "Did you kill Zzyp?"

When he didn't answer, I stopped and turned toward him. He stopped too, and snarled, "Keep moving."

I kept moving. "And what about your son? You killed him too, didn't you? But why?"

Mr. T. still didn't answer. It wasn't fair. I thought murderers were supposed to be eager to talk about their evil deeds to whomever they were about to kill. Some perverse instinct to brag, or confess. That's what happens in all the movies and TV shows. So why wasn't it happening now?

I talked faster and shriller, still trying to get Mr. T. flustered. "You killed your son because he was beating Susan, right? And because you wanted her all to yourself. You only had a couple of months left to live, and you couldn't wait."

Finally he spoke—or rather growled. "I know what you're trying to do, Burns. Forget it. Won't work."

"I gotta tell you, Mr. Tam
arack, that's pretty sick, having sex with your son's wife."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Sure, I do. You took advantage of her when she was too battered and upset to say no."

Mr. T. gave a low growl. "Listen, you piece of garbage, you say one more word about me and Susan and I'll shoot you on the spot."

I took him at his word and shut up. But after a few moments of silently death-marching toward the pond, I began again. "Here's what I still don't get. Why'd you kill Zzyp?" Then suddenly it hit me. "I know—because he found out somehow about you and Susan. And he threatened to tell Pierce all about it, unless you paid him. So you paid him with your gun."

"Nice theory."

"But it's true, isn't it? And that's why you're killing
me
. You're scared I'll tell Shmuckler about your affair."

"Damn right, I'm scared you'll tell him."

"I won't do that, I swear."

"Horseshit. You're just like everyone else these days, the politicians, the media, you don't care whose life you ruin."

"I'm not like that, Mr. Tamarack," I pleaded. "I haven't told Will yet, and I don't plan to."

"Is that so?" he said
sarcastically. "You sure threatened me plenty about telling the cops."

"Look, all I was trying to do was find your son's killer!"

"Well, bully for you. I'll give you some news, pal: You'll never threaten me and Susan again—ever. Now turn left."

If we had kept going straight, we'd have gone another hundred yards and wound up at a neighbor's house. But turning left pointed us toward a grassy clearing on the edge of the pond.

The wind must have blown the clouds away from the moon, because I could see a fat crescent reflecting off the water. I made out a big shape in front of us in the middle of the clearing. It was a pickup truck—Mr. T.'s, I realized.

And now I realized, too, what the old man's plan was. He was going to pop me here by the pond, so he could jump in his pickup right afterward and take off. Also, maybe he was hoping that at this distance the gunshot
wouldn't awaken my family, and he'd have extra time for his getaway.

Even the moonlight reflecting off the pond was playing into Mr. T.'s hands. He'd be able to see me well enough to kill me with one shot. I wondered, would he shoot me with some ceremony, maybe give me a little warning? Or would he, experienced killer that he now was, just pull the trigger with no fanfare at all?

Judging by the pronounced lack of ceremony he'd shown so far, I was pretty sure he'd go for the latter scenario. The only warning I'd get would be the nanosecond between the crack of the gun and the bullet smacking my chest.

I had to hand it to Mr. T., he'd come up with a darn good plan. I couldn't see any flaws whatsoever
—

Until he started coughing.

Without even thinking, I leapt around the back of the pickup and crouched down low behind the driver's door.

Through his coughs, Mr. T. sputtered out, "Fuck!" Then somehow he managed to stifle the coughing and hush up. I strained my ears to hear him. But I couldn't hear a thing. Maybe it was just my imagination, but the nighttime forest noises suddenly seemed to get twice as loud.

I thought about running into the forest. But it would take me a good fifteen strides to make it out of the clearing. That was about twelve or thirteen strides too many—

CRACK!
Oh, shit. I felt the bullet hit my leg through my pajamas. I started to yelp with pain. Then I realized it hadn't hit my leg after all, just the pajamas themselves.

But with the next shot I might not get so lucky. I couldn't see Mr. T.; he
must be aiming at me from underneath the truck. Damn. I looked down at my legs, wondering if there was some way I could hide them. My pajamas were bright orange, and seemed to attract every wayward bit of moonlight in the entire clearing.

Mr. T. shot again. This time he missed, but I could swear I felt the air from the passing bullet flutter my PJs at the knees. I quickly stepped out of my pajama bottoms
and threw them away from me. I had a decent tan left over from summer weekends at the beach. Hopefully my legs would be dark enough that he couldn't make them out from his vantage point under the truck. I needed every edge I could get.

There weren't any gunshots or other human noises for a while. I took advantage of the temporary lull to rip off my orange pajama top, too. I felt a little weird, standing naked in the moonlight battling an old man to the death. But what the heck.

Suddenly I heard a soft rasping to my left—Mr. T.'s breathing. He was coming around the front of the pickup. Quickly and silently, I slipped around to the rear of the truck and kept on going up the other side until I was next to the passenger seat. Then I stopped and listened. Was Mr. T. still chasing me, or had he stopped also?

At first I couldn't hear anything but those darn animals and bugs. But my ear
s were gradually becoming accustomed to the forest, and I was able to make out that soft rasping again. To my right this time—he was coming at me from the other direction now.
All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.
. . Stepping as lightly as I could, I retraced my steps around the pickup and wound up right back where I'd started, alongside the driver's seat.

I wasn't enjoying this game much. The gun was taking all the fun out of it. But I did have one advantage
—I could hear the old man breathing, but I doubted he could hear me.

The long minutes of stress were making his lungs work harder and his breathing grow louder. Now I could hear him clearly as he switched directions again, working his way up the right side of the pickup and then around the front.

Time for me to stop acting like a weasel. I crouched down beside the pickup's front left fender, getting ready to jump him as soon as he came close enough. I listened to that rasping approach. It was taking forever.

But then, all at once, his head and gun arm appeared around the front of the pickup.

I sprang upward, flailing at him. My left arm hit his right arm, and the gun went off. I stumbled against the front bumper and fell down. Luckily, he was falling, too. Had the bullet hit him? No—he scrambled up, and so did I. We faced each other. Any moment now he'd shoot me dead.

Then I noticed a key f
act: he didn't have the gun anymore. I must have knocked it loose when I attacked him.

His eyes darted around looking for the gun. Mine did too. We both spotted it at the same time. It was gray and shiny and glinting in the moonlight about three yards away, down a small hill.

He was closer to the gun, so he had a two-step head start. But at last old age and illness took their toll. I caught up to him and shoved him hard on his left hip, knocking him sideways. While he was regaining his footing, I beat him to the gun. I picked it up and waved it in his face.

"Hands up!" I yelled. Any
cliché in a storm.

He just stood there and stared at me. Or at least, I thought he was staring at me. With the pond and the moon behind him, I couldn't see his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was about to make one last all-or-nothing leap at my throat, or if he was going to put his hands up. Maybe he couldn't tell, either.

"Don't make me shoot you!" I shouted frantically.
"Put your hands up!"

Still his hands didn't rise. His breathing was growing louder and louder, which probably heralded a horrible coughing fit. Meanwhile I thought I saw his legs bending at the knees. I definitely saw his arms come out from his sides. I sensed he was about to lunge at me.

Great. I'd have to kill an old man while he was in the middle of coughing his poor lungs out.

"Mr. Tamarack," I said desperately, "Susan doesn't want you dead. She wants you alive. She needs you."

Now my clichés were really starting to bother me. I was sure I sounded too corny for Mr. T. to pay me any attention.