Main Street cut through the center of town, with smaller, residential streets branching off of it. Along Main was a grocery store with gas pumps out front, two churches, a state liquor store, three taverns, one of which was boarded over, a hardware store, and a small video rental shop.
They stopped at the grocery store, where the proprietor told them that the only person who handled real estate in town was Gus Pulaski. "But he's down in Nanty
Glo
this morning working on a house—does basements, bathrooms, that kind of thing. Should be back around lunch time. Has a little office down on Second Street."
Back in the car, they decided to drive around rather than walk the streets. "If he's here," Woody reasoned, "and he sees us, he's gone."
At 12:30 a van with "Pulaski Renovation & Remodeling" painted on the side pulled up in front of the office, and a short, squat man in his fifties got out. Woody introduced himself and Curly as Bob and Tim Parsons, brothers from Pittsburgh who were looking for rental investments. Pulaski looked at them warily.
"Investments? In
Colver
? Are you kidding? This town isn't exactly booming."
"I know," Woody said. "The mines closed." He paused, then said quietly, "But factories can open."
"Factories? What factories?"
Woody smiled. "Factories that might be built."
"You know something?" Pulaski said. "You know something I don't know?"
Woody put a finger to his lips. "You haven't heard a thing from me, okay? I'll just say that if I were looking to get into real estate right now,
Colver
might be a good place to start."
“Jesus," Pulaski said. "Jesus H. Christ." He shook his head in disbelief, picked up an account book from the top of his battered desk, and waggled it at Woody. "You know how many places I've sold this past month? None. Not a one. And how many I rented? Just one. A whole damn house for three hundred and fifty bucks a month, for which I get fifty-two dollars and fifty cents. Half the
goddam
houses in this
town
are available, and I'm the agent on nearly all of them."
"Then I'd say you're in a very favorable position. Now frankly, Tim and I are looking to buy buildings with more than six rental units. Anything like that available?"
Pulaski filled his cheeks with air, blew it out in frustration, and dropped the book on the desk. "That I don't have. Last apartment house around here was torn down long ago."
"Double houses then? Places that could be broken up into four apartments?"
His face brightened. "Yeah, a lot of those." He grabbed a thick, three-ring binder from a shelf. "You
wanta
look?"
"Sure." Woody took the binder and opened it, flipping slowly through page after page of watery
Polaroids
with typed data beneath each.
"Say," Curly said, "you have a bathroom in here? Long drive from Pittsburgh."
"Sure." Pulaski pointed through a door. "Down that hall, second door on the right."
Curly left the room, and Woody kept paging, murmuring, "Hmmm" or "Uh-huh" every now and then.
After a minute, Curly called from the rear of the building. "Mr. Pulaski? Something's wrong with the toilet."
Pulaski got up and walked back into the hall. Woody immediately opened the account book on the desk and riffled through it until he found the listing of the most recent rental. It was dated several days before, and was for a property at 75 Eighth Street. The name of the tenant was Harold Hall.
The name stopped Woody cold, and for a moment he didn't know why. Then the memory came over him like a second skin, chill, damp, and pale, the name of the protagonist of a book he had read long ago.
Harold Hall.
Harry Haller.
Steppenwolf
.
Keith Aarons was there.
The sound of returning footsteps made him slap the book shut and slide it back to its former position. ". . . damn thing never did that before," he heard Pulaski say.
"Sorry," said Curly. "Must've been my fault."
"Nah nah, don't worry, no harm done." The two men came into the office, and Pulaski grinned at Woody. "So, Mr. Parsons, you find anything?"
"A few . . ." Woody's voice was shaking, and he cleared his throat. "A few look pretty good."
"Well, great. Let me take you and your brother around, and you can—"
Woody shook his head. "Not today, I'm afraid. We've got to get back to our office by four. How about next week? We'll give you a call."
"Swell. Here's my card. Call me at home if I'm not here. Both numbers are on there."
"Fine." Woody stood up and shook Pulaski's hand. "But not a word now, huh?"
Pulaski mimed zipping shut his lip. "Not from me. You, uh, have a card?"
Woody nodded and took out his wallet. "Damn, Look at that. Forgot to put them in last time I ran out."
Pulaski looked at Curly like a puppy expecting a treat, but Curly shook his head. "Bob's the card carrier. I like a thin wallet."
"Here, I'll write down our number," Woody said, and scrawled seven random numbers on a note pad. "But we'll be in touch."
As soon as they got in the car, Woody said, "He's here.”
“What, he used his name?"
"No. Harold Hall. The main character in
Steppenwolf
is Harry Haller."
"Shit, I thought he was smarter than that."
"He never would have done anything so obvious before. I bet he just doesn't care anymore. Of course he wouldn't use his own name, but a variation of Harry Haller keeps his anonymity while it shows a little bravado at the same time."
"And gives us a clue."
Woody shrugged. "Like I said, I don't think he cares." Woody gripped the steering wheel with trembling hands, looked down, breathed out shakily.
"What's the matter?"
He gave a little laugh. "I didn't think it would come to this. I didn't really think we would find him." He turned and looked at Curly. "Now that we have . . . I'm scared."
"Yeah. He's one dangerous guy. He's going to be hard to get."
"No. I'm not scared of
him
. I'm afraid of going back. Afraid we won't be able to get there. And afraid that we will."
Chapter 42
They drove out of town for several miles and ate lunch at a roadside burger stand. It was 1:30 when they tossed their napkins in the trash.
"So now we go get him?" Curly said in the car.
"No. We wait till dark. That way nobody else sees us, and maybe he doesn't either. But now we buy some guns.”
“Shit, this is getting nasty."
"He's not going to come with us on his own."
"But he's gonna have guns too, isn't he? I mean, this is Pan we're talking about—assassin, bomber, terrorist, fellow alumni.”
“Not a fellow alumni. He never graduated."
"Oh, that's cool. Then we can kill '
im
."
"No. We
can't
kill him. We have to take him back.”
“Bring 'em back alive. If he lets us."
"We can
shoot
him. But we can't kill him."
"Okay, leg and arm shots only. I'll remember that fine point when the bullets start flying in the dark." Curly flapped out air between his lips. "Well, let's go buy our AK-47s, Rambo."
The gun shop in Ebensburg didn't sell AK-47s. They did, however, carry pistols, but the proprietor told Woody and Curly that there was a waiting period of several days. There was no waiting period for sporting arms, so they bought a lever action 30/30, a lightweight double-barreled .20 gauge shotgun, and a box of ammo for each. They figured they could use the rifle to wound Keith if they had to, and the shotgun would be an emergency measure, to be used only if their lives were at stake. At a K Mart Woody bought a hacksaw, and in a country lane outside of
Colver
they sawed off twelve inches of the .20 gauge's barrel.
"Sawed-offs are against the law, aren't they?" Curly said as the foot long piece of metal fell into the dirt.
"Yeah, but so is kidnapping. They hang us for one, they might as well hang us for the other."
"You want to saw off the rifle barrel too?"
"I never heard of a sawed-off rifle, did you?"
"No, but I don't hang around with the NRA crowd. Crap, I hope we don't have to use these."
"Just to save our lives if we have to. And he won't go with us on his own."
They talked about driving back to Ebensburg for dinner, but decided they were too nervous to eat, and drove to
Colver
instead. It was dusk when they arrived, and they went directly to Eighth Street. It was on the west side, part way up a natural bluff so that it overlooked the main part of town. Number 75 was partially hidden by large maple trees that were badly in need of trimming.
They drove past, and parked several houses away, so that they could see two of the first floor windows through the columns of tree trunks. Most of the other houses on the street had sale or rent signs with Gus Pulaski's name and phone number wedged into the ground in front of them.
But one house was obviously occupied. Lights shone inside, and a dog chained to a metal stake in front of the house had begun barking as soon as Woody and
Curly's
car went by. Even now, forty yards away, it still yapped.
Woody and Curly saw an old man limp out, look toward their car, and walk back into his house. When he came out again, he was carrying a taped baseball bat, and used it as a cane as he approached them. His mouth was partly open, and there were only a few teeth in it. Through the open window, Woody thought he smelled of urine and Clorox. "What are you
doin
' here?" the man said, stopping at the passenger side.
"We're in real estate," Curly said. "Checking out some of these houses."
"At night?" The old man started to cough heavily, and spit a gobbet of something dark on the sidewalk.
"There a law against sitting here?" Curly asked.
"You burglars? If you're burglars, I got a dog. Damn mean." Curly sighed. "We're not burglars. Why don't you just go back in your house and—"
"I'm gonna," the old man said. "Gonna go in and call the cops is what I'm gonna do. Don't belong here."
Something caught Woody's eye, and he snapped his attention to the house in the maples. A light had appeared on the first floor.
"Hey," Woody said, and got out of the car. The old man stopped, looked at him, hefted the baseball bat in both hands. "You live alone?"
"Got my dog.
Dog'll
take care of me, boy. And I can take care of myself. You
wanta
try me, huh? I'm
callin
' the
cops
." He raised the bat over his head and waggled it.
Woody glanced around, saw that the street was empty and the other houses were dark, yanked the keys from the ignition, went around to the back of the car, and unlocked the trunk. He reached in and took the sawed-off shotgun, came up with it pointing at the old man. "Come here."
The old man's eyes widened. "Shit," he said in a voice suddenly gone dry. "Shit."
"I said come here," Woody repeated, and reached in with his left hand to grasp the 30/30.
"Shit," the old man said again, the bat still over his head, as if he had forgotten about it.
"What's your name?" Woody asked.
"Rooney."
"I'm not going to hurt you, Rooney. Just get back here and get in the trunk."
"What are you doing?" Woody heard Curly ask, and a second later the door opened and his friend got out, one eye on the old man with the baseball bat, the other on Woody holding the guns. Woody was relieved that Curly had sense enough not to call him by name. "What the hell are you
doing
?"
"We're not going to be screwed up at the last minute by Rooney here. Now get in that trunk, Rooney. Or I'll
have
to hurt you. And drop that damn bat."
Rooney did as he was ordered, and his arms fell limply to his side. "You're burglars," he said, as if grieved at being proven right.
"We're not burglars," Woody said. "We're CIA, and we're here to capture a dangerous criminal. Now do your country a favor and get in the damn trunk."
Curly turned toward the old man and shrugged. "Better do it, Rooney. We've got a license to kill, just like James Bond."
Rooney tottered back to the trunk and Curly helped him climb in. "We'll let you out later," Curly said. "
If
you're quiet and don't cause any trouble. Otherwise, we'll have to kill you." And he slammed the trunk shut.
Immediately Woody put both weapons in the back seat of the car, and he and Curly got in. "It's almost dark," Woody said, "so nobody else should see us."
"What are we gonna do with him?" Curly asked, gesturing to their rear.
"Let him go later. Out on the road somewhere. And hope he didn't see the license plate. I just couldn't take a chance that he
would
actually call the police."