The Cruel Ever After (11 page)

“My dad thinks you’re a freak,” called the boy in the tank top.

“The devil,” said the one wearing the T-shirt.

Jane watched in horror as the kid in the T-shirt picked up a rock and heaved it at the preacher. “Stop it,” she yelled, rushing for Hattie and whisking her into her arms.

“What the hell?” called the preacher. He turned and lunged at the boys.

As they took off running, the kid in the tank top scooped up another rock and threw it, this time connecting. The preacher went down, holding his head and groaning.

Hattie pointed at the preacher and began to cry.

“It’s okay, baby,” said Jane, kissing her, holding her tight. “I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

Jane waited, shielding Hattie, until the kids were out of sight. Then, hurrying over to the man, she crouched down, still holding Hattie in her arms. “Are you okay?” she asked.

He lifted the hand from his face, revealing a gash less than an inch away from his right eye.

“That kid could have blinded you,” said Jane.

Spitting sand out of his mouth, the preacher said, “If I ever see those two little turds again, they’re toast.” He took out a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound.

The words didn’t sound very preacherlike. “You need to get to a hospital, have that looked at.”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“If you need a ride—”

“I’ve got a car.”

“I wish
I
had a car,” said Hattie coyly, playing with a button on Jane’s shirt.

“You do?” The preacher rolled over, pulling himself to a sitting position. “Where would you drive it?”

“China. To see the panda bears.”

Jane and the man exchanged amused glances.

“I have a first aid kit,” announced Hattie, poking Jane in the chest. “It’s in my backpack.”

“Really?” said the preacher, eyeing her with growing amusement.

“You can use it for your owie.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” said Jane.

They all moved back to the log, Hattie talking in a long stream about an owie she got on her elbow once.

“That must have hurt,” said the preacher.

“I cried and cried. I almost
died
.”

“Did you?”

“Uh-
huh
.” Hattie scrambled out of Jane’s arms.

Jane found the first aid kit in a side pocket. She grabbed a few antiseptic towelettes and an antibiotic cream and handed them over.

“You’ve both been a big help,” said the preacher, wincing as he applied the towelettes. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Hattie.”

“My name is Lee. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Hattie lowered her eyes, glancing up at him shyly. “Yah.”

Jane didn’t know if it was a first name or a last name. Whatever the case, Lee had a broad face, a gap between his front teeth, a strong, sturdy body, and hands the size of center cut pork loins.

After he finished applying the antibiotic cream, Jane handed him an adhesive bandage.

“All better,” said Jane, grinning at Hattie.

“Can I feed the duckies more bread?”

“Just for another minute.”

Jane dug around inside the sack and came up with a couple of dinner rolls.

“I could fucking kill those little dirtballs,” seethed Lee under his breath as soon as Hattie had scampered off.

“Are you a minister?”

“Me? Hell, no.”

“But I thought—”

“Nah. I used to be a cop down in Chicago—until I had a little disagreement with my sergeant. I’d always been interested in religion, so I spent a year in seminary, thought maybe I should become a minister. Found out it wasn’t for me. That’s when I took a job working as a security consultant in Atlanta, worked there for ten years. Finally quit last March.”

“So now you go around wearing a monk’s cowl and preaching from books that never made it into the Bible?”

“The cowl’s just for show. It helps me get people’s attention. And no, I’m not really preaching. Just reading. I’ve been traveling around for the past few months. I guess you could say I’m looking for a place to call home—and while I’m looking, I’m having a little fun. You religious?”

Jane took off her sunglasses and began to clean them with her shirttail. “Not really.”

“Believe in God?”

“Yeah, some kind of god. What about you?” It was a crazy question. Of course he believed in God.

He glanced up as two ducks soared over the trees and skidded into the water right in front of them. “John Lennon once said that God was a concept by which we measure our pain. I think he was dead-on. Our pain, our guilt, and our fear.”

“So why go around talking about the Bible?”

He shrugged. “People are too complacent. They don’t really give their beliefs much critical thought. They need some shaking up. And hell, I love to argue religion.”

Jane slipped her sunglasses back on. “Then you’re in the right country.” It was a one-liner worthy of David Caruso on
CSI: Miami
. “Listen, would you consider doing me a favor? If you’re planning on any more biblical street theater, could you take it someplace other than right under the deck of my restaurant?”

He looked back at the log building rising above the trees. “You own that place?”

“I do.”

“The food is incredible. I had the pan-roasted pheasant the other night, the one with pine nuts and caramelized orange. It came with this great polenta. Oh, and the pub burgers are terrific.”

“If you like the place, then take pity on me. Your sermons—and your audience—aren’t exactly good for business.”

He touched the bandage on his face. “Point taken. I’ll move over by the grandstand. Or maybe I’ll go back to Lake Phalen. I liked it over there.”

“Hattie,” called Jane. “It’s time to go.”

“
One
more minute?” Hattie called back, holding up a finger.

“Okay,” said Jane. “One.”

“Since we’ve got
one
more minute,” said Lee, smiling at the little girl, “there’s something you should know. You’ve got a couple guys watching your restaurant. I’ve seen them around for the past three days. I don’t know if they’re casing the place, hoping to find a way to break in, or if they’re staking it out for another reason. Anyway, you should be aware of them.”

Jane was thrown. She hadn’t noticed anyone.

“Like I said, I have a lot of experience in private security. It’s second nature for me to notice stuff like that. Just a word to the wise.”

“Could you describe the men to me?”

He sat forward, picked up a pebble, and tossed it from one hand to the other. “Let’s see. One is big, maybe six-three, always wears a baseball cap—I assume to hide his red hair. Midthirties. The other one is shorter and thin, long dirty blond hair. He sometimes wears it pulled back into a ponytail. Midtwenties. Most of the time he’s out in the parking lot sitting in a Jeep, keeping an eye on both entrances. I’ve seen the other guy in the bar a couple of times, chatting up the bartender.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Maybe you have an enemy. Or, like I said, they could be casing the place, looking for a way in. Have you had any drug problems?”

She raked her hair away from her face and held it, turning his words over in her mind. “Only once that I know of, but that was a while ago. I suppose I’d better call the police.”

“Won’t do you any good. These guys haven’t done anything wrong. The cops would just brush it off.”

“Then—”

“It was me, I’d buy myself my own security. Do you have a guard?”

“Never thought I needed one.”

“I’d offer to do it myself, but they’ve seen me a couple of times. Of course, they’ve probably pegged me as a preacher, just the way you did, which could be an advantage—or not. Hard call. If you like, I can recommend the names of some private security firms in the area. They won’t come cheap.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Don’t wait too long. You and your little girl, you’ve been nice to me. I don’t forget things like that. Watch out for those two. They’re up to no good, you can count on it.”

12

Chess drove past Dial’s house that afternoon in the new used ratty and rusted ’93 Cadillac Eldorado Sport Coupe he’d just bought. The tacky gold paint on the exterior was bad enough, but the interior, though in reasonably good shape, was a deeply humiliating fire-engine red. He’d dickered over a better-looking ’91 Ford Bronco, but because it had two hundred and twenty thousand miles on it and was five hundred dollars more, he’d opted to deal with his humiliation and buy the pimp-mobile.

Sailing past Dial’s place, he discovered another problem he hadn’t anticipated, although he should have. The mail was piling up in the box to the right of the front door, spilling onto the steps, where a couple of packages had been stacked up behind two tightly rolled newspapers. It wouldn’t be long before the neighbors became suspicious and called the cops—if they hadn’t already.

Chess sped down the block, turned the corner, and parked in the shade of an oak. The door creaked and grated as he pushed it open with his foot. When he slammed it shut, he held his breath, waiting for one of the bumpers to fall off.

“Piece of crap,” he muttered, heading for the alley. He would approach Dial’s house from the rear, enter the yard through the back gate. Once again, the privacy fence would save his ass. All would be fine if he could just make it inside without being seen.

Guitar riffs from Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business” kept repeating inside his head like a skip in an old vinyl record. It was pure, unadulterated rock and roll, perfect for the occasion.

As he hurried up to the garage directly behind Dial’s, a voice called, “Thanks, Jer. I’ll bring it back in the morning.” A bald man carrying a post-hole digger emerged into the alley. For just an instant, Chess wondered if he could duck behind something—a garbage can, a hedge—but the man turned and smiled.

“Hi.”

“Ah, hi,” said Chess. It was the neighbor, the one who’d caught Chess leaving Dial’s house. In fact, this was just the man Chess had come to see, although this wasn’t the way he’d pictured the encounter.

“Hey, you’re that guy I saw coming out of Melvin’s door the other morning.”

Should he deny it? Didn’t seem likely to work. “Yeah, that was me.”

“I’ve been wondering,” said the man, setting the post-hole digger down. “Has Melvin gone somewhere?”

“London.” He studied the guy’s reaction, evaluating every shift, every fluctuation or variation in his body language, hoping he would give something away. Was he Ed the fucking Blackmailer or wasn’t he? “He’ll be gone about a month.”

Adjusting his shades, the guy stepped a few paces closer. “Really? He usually tells me when he’s planning a trip. I water the plants, pick up the mail.”

So the guy did have a key to the house. Bingo. “You’re Ed, right?”

“Ed? No, the name’s Glenn. Glenn Smith.”

“Then who’s Ed?” asked Chess.

The man thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t know any Ed.”

“No?” He let the question hang in the air. Sometimes silence worked better than an outright demand to push an opponent off balance.

“Look, I’m just concerned. The mail is piling up outside on the front steps. That’s a dead giveaway that the house is empty. Somebody might see it and try to break in.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Because I’d be happy to do it. You know. Like I said. Pick up the mail, water the plants.”

“Melvin asked me to handle it this time.”

Glenn gave him an appraising look. “You one of his antique dealer friends?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know. Just guessing. He buys a lot of strange stuff. But then, if you’re his friend, you’d know that.”

“You think I’m lying to you?”

“No, no. Just making conversation.”

“Come on, let’s not quibble about names. We both know you wrote the note.”

“What note?”

Confusion was a simple attitude to fake. “Don’t make this difficult.”

Glenn pulled the post-hole digger in front of him.

Another gesture that was easy to read. He was attempting to put something solid between them, something threatening.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” insisted Glenn.

“You’re sure?”

“Look—” The neighbor glanced over his shoulder. “I think there’s been some kind of a mix-up here. You’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m not Ed, I’m
Glenn
. I lost my job fourteen months ago, so I’ve got nothing but time on my hands right now, and I like to think of myself as a good neighbor. That’s why I offered to help Melvin out with the mail and his plants. I’ve done it four or five times. It was his idea to pay me, not mine. He knows how tight things have been for me and my wife. If he asked you to take care of the house this time, then fine. Whatever.”

The guy needed money—interesting—and if he
was
the blackmailer, he was just the kind of novice Chess had pictured. Still, it wouldn’t be smart to push him, and if he wasn’t Ed, Chess would be giving away information best kept private. “I think we understand each other.” The comment was vague enough to obscure the real meaning.

“Yeah. I think so. But just to be sure—you’ll be taking care of Melvin’s place while he’s gone, right? You’ll take in the mail?”

“Absolutely.” While he was at it, he would look around for those credit card PIN numbers. Once he was done, he’d drive to the nearest post office and get the mail stopped.

“Do you have a name?” asked the neighbor. “A phone number where I could reach you if something comes up?”

“Like what?” asked Chess.

“I don’t know. If smoke starts coming out one of the windows.”

“If that happens, call the fire department.”

“But you know what I mean. Something unforeseen.”

“My number’s unlisted. Sorry.”

“Right,” said Glenn. “Right.”

“You betcha,” said Chess.

It seemed obligatory to say that phrase at least once while in Minnesota.

13

The oak tree in Jane’s backyard caught the last orange rays of the evening sun. As she sat on a teak bench, sipping from a glass of pinotage, she reminisced with one of the first guests to arrive at the birthday party, a woman who had worked on her dad’s gubernatorial campaign last fall, and in the process become a friend. Above their heads, paper-thin yellow and black Chinese lanterns glowed in the deepening twilight. If Jane had been allowed to put in an order with the universe, she couldn’t have asked for a more perfect night.