“I will. I promise.”
I watched her drive off into the gloom and stood there for several minutes, just listening to the town’s steady vital signs. I hadn’t the slightest idea when I’d be talking to her again. Whatever I did in the near future, it was almost a given it wouldn’t suit Fred Coffin or Judge Harrowsmith. The way things stood, as Gail had admitted, the only road to freedom for me lay outside the system—a road I was either going to have to explore, or forever wonder why I hadn’t.
THE PHONE RANG JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT,
an ungodly hour in a rural state. I was on the couch downstairs, half-comatose in front of the TV, surrounded by old newspapers, empty bags of junk food, a couple of dirty plates, and a bowl of melted ice cream. For the past three days, I’d been either checking in at the state police barracks, as required, or hunkering down here, eating poorly, not shaving, reading in the paper about everyone’s outrage at rampant police corruption, and waiting.
I didn’t mind the late-hour interruption.
“It’s me,” said Kunkle’s voice. “Just listen.”
I stayed quiet.
“Go for a walk up the street. Now.” The phone went dead.
I hung up the receiver slowly. Something had come up in the Boris case, and Willy wanted to fill my ear with it, in direct conflict with a court-set condition—something I wasn’t inclined to dismiss lightly.
I got up, went to the bathroom, and washed my face, watching myself in the mirror as I toweled off. The moment I’d been entertaining—purely as a notion—had finally arrived. Without the excuses of adrenaline or ignorance, on which I could have blamed my confrontation with Alonzo, I was willfully considering a violation of the rules I’d followed my whole life. The mildness of the affront made no difference. Brushing aside a court order was a big enough event that if the judge ever caught wind of it, he’d make sure I’d never forget.
I left the bathroom, put my shoes on in the living room, and, leaving the TV on and the house security system off, slipped out the back door. I cut through a small thicket of young trees on the edge of our property and emerged onto Orchard Street. From there, I headed uphill, away from the veiled glow of Western Avenue below.
It was a dark, clear night, and the stars overhead gave me more than enough light to see by, although I wouldn’t have used a flashlight in any case. Taking Kunkle’s cue, I was being unusually cautious. Coffin knew the burden of the restraints he’d put upon me—cooked up, no doubt, as much to force my hand as to keep me under wraps. In the l80 days we had until trial, nothing much was going to stimulate any headlines—unless I did something to change that.
Several times during my walk, I paused under a tree, enveloped in shadow, and waited. I saw a pet or two roaming its territory, a couple of ’possums and a family of raccoons. Once, a car drove by, forcing me into the bushes. But generally, I remained alone.
Willy hadn’t specified where he’d contact me, and I hadn’t expected him to. A Vietnam vet who’d specialized in long-range recons behind enemy lines, he was given to lurking in the night, finding, I expected, a form of inner peace that escaped him during the day. A friend of mine had once said there were two types of human beings—the simple complicated, and the complicated complicated. If ever there was a man who defined the latter, it was Willy Kunkle. In my experience, he was unique in regularly reliving his nightmares in order to quiet his own inner rage.
We met up near the crest of the road, where it borders one edge of Meetinghouse Hill Cemetery. I saw his shadow separate from one of the headstones to beckon me, and I climbed over the low stone wall to join him. In this vast, open spot, the stars gave a ghostly glimmer to all the marble and granite markers surrounding us like frozen gnomes.
“You check your tail?” he asked in a bare whisper.
“Several times.”
He set off for the back of the cemetery, where the newer graves petered out at the edge of a field still popular with the local deer. I followed, my feet silent on the soft, immaculate grass. I found myself breathing shallowly, my mouth open, further adding to the absolute silence.
We finally stopped by a low bench inscribed with two names, located in a broad, flat area from which we could see anyone moving. The entire world seemed to end at a distant belt of trees, colored only in pewter gray.
“What’ve you got?” I asked in a low voice.
“First is what we don’t got, which is Ron and J.P. Ron’s out because that’s the way Sam and I want it—he’s got a young family, and he’s too squeaky clean anyhow. He’d probably turn beet red before telling a lie, and then fuck it up anyhow. J.P.’s too much of a company man. He might be okay, but now’s not the time to find out. And neither of ’em have military training, which the three of us do. I think that counts.”
I didn’t argue. The fact behind all this supposed calculation was that he and Sammie had decided to stick their necks out for me, for whatever reasons. I knew from experience I couldn’t change their minds. The least I could do was to follow their ground rules.
“We got pretty good evidence Rarig’s dirty,” Willy went on. “Ron traced his career till he got into the Army and was shipped overseas. He was in on the D-day landings at Omaha Beach as a radioman and supposedly made it out alive, but that’s where we think somebody pulled the switch. His whole unit was basically wiped out. They landed in the wrong place or something—I don’t know—but they caught all hell and were written off.”
Willy hunched over slightly on the bench, his body language expressing his pleasure. “But here’s the good part: where the official Army unit history brags about him being a survivor, Ron dug up a hometown news article, written at the time, that has him listed as killed in action. There was a retraction a few days later, but we’re thinking the paper got it right, and the feds had to scramble to cover it up. And I said, ‘unit history,’ right? That’s because that’s all there is on him. The Army lost his enlistment records—everything having to do with his identity. And remember Sammie telling you we were getting some high school yearbook photos faxed to us? Never happened. They called us back and said the books’re missing for that year, not only from the library, but from the principal’s office as well. Before, the only complication was finding a way to have ’em copied.”
“What about after D-day?” I asked.
Kunkle laughed softly. “All of a sudden, we have tons of records: wounded in action, shipped back to DC and straight into a career at the State Department. From that point on, we got rental information, mortgages, country club memberships, driver’s license, registration forms—you name it. Like he was compensating for having no past early on.” He paused and then added, “He never married, by the way.”
I played devil’s advocate. “None of which tells us much. We thought he was a spook almost from the start.”
Willy was unfazed. “Yeah, well, the spook’s in business again. We been keeping a watch on his place, taking turns. This afternoon, he got a visitor. Looked like a typical guest—old lady, white hair, bag of golf clubs in the trunk—but her plates were from Maryland. I checked her out, just for kicks. Name’s Olivia Kidder, and her place of employment is the CIA.”
I raised my eyebrows in the darkness. This was either a curiously coincidental time for old buddies to reunite, or a sign that something was finally in motion.
“How’d you find out where she worked?” I asked a moment later.
“Routine check. I think most of their employees are out in the open. I don’t know what she does there, ’course. Hope to hell it isn’t a janitor or something. Anyway, the plan we cooked up was to hit ’em tonight—see what they got to say. That’s why I called.”
“Sammie’s still there?” I guessed.
“Yup. Kidder’ll probably spend the night—long drive and all—but we didn’t want her to split tomorrow without having a crack at her. I mean, what’ve we got to lose?”
I thought back to the conversation I’d had earlier with my reflection in the mirror. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
· · ·
Heading north in Willy’s car, I began feeling increasingly at ease with my decision. My chances of success were dim, but at a time when most aspects of my life were in serious disarray, the simple act of riding through the gloom was enough to make me believe in the possible again.
But not without misgivings. The sense of betrayal I’d felt on the night of the jewel theft, coupled with the maneuver Fred Coffin had pulled in court, was not to be eclipsed by some fresh air and a drive—especially when that drive could be taking me straight into more trouble.
I hadn’t questioned the timing of Willy’s visit to the Windham Hill Inn. If Olivia Kidder had indeed just arrived from DC after a long drive, it seemed unlikely she’d still be up. But he and Sammie had done their homework. As we crested the peak of the driveway and coasted into the parking lot with the engine turned off, I saw that while most of the inn’s lights were extinguished, the same was not true of the room to the far right, a one-story wing that, through the window, looked like a piano-equipped library.
We’d barely eased out of the car and softly closed its doors before Sammie appeared out of the night like a breeze, her clothing dark, her eyes gleaming.
“They’ve been talking for hours, sitting about two inches apart like a couple of conspirators.”
She gestured to us to follow and led the way under the stinking ginkgo tree to a large bush planted near the inn’s far corner. From there, we had a clear view into the lighted room and could see John Rarig, as described, with a small, snow-capped, animated woman. From both their expressions, I could tell their topic was not a happy one.
Sammie pointed to a narrow set of stairs leading to a back porch. The door connecting it to the inn led directly into the library. “What do you say we invite ourselves in?”
I laid a hand on her forearm. “Hang on a sec. As soon as we go in there, we’re opening ourselves to some serious problems. If these people choose to react like Alonzo did, Coffin’ll land on us like God Himself. I’ll end up in the slammer, and you two could be suspended.”
“Fuck Coffin,” Willy said without hesitation. “That bastard made me look like an idiot, saying you ripped off that brooch under my nose. He can drop dead, for all I care.”
“I’m not worried, either,” Sammie chimed in. “Besides, we got nothing to worry about.” She pointed at the window. “They’re up to something. They’re not going to squawk.”
Willy looked at me suspiciously. “You covering your butt all of a sudden?”
I smiled back at him. “Little late for that. But loyalty should have its limits. This is not a great career move for you guys.”
His face soured predictably. “Loyalty? Spare me. You think you’re doing me a favor, running interference so I don’t get fired? I’m pissed off is all, and I’d love to shove something up Coffin’s nose. I could care less about some stupid career.”
I nodded. “Okay. Lead on.”
We filed quietly up onto the porch. Sammie tried the doorknob, found it unlocked, and preceded us into the room.
Rarig and Kidder deserved credit. They didn’t bat an eye—merely stopped speaking, sat back, and watched us line up before them.
Rarig smiled thinly, recognizing me. “Ah, Lieutenant. I thought you weren’t supposed to be seen in such company.”
“This is not an official visit,” I answered, struck by his knowledge of my legal standing. I nodded to the woman by his side, hoping to throw them off balance. “Ms. Kidder. Nice to meet you.”
Her face lit up with pleasure. “Very good. Trace my plates?” Her voice was clear and youthful, touched by a slightly ironic inflection. A successful veteran, I thought, of many a mental contest—and certainly no janitor.
“I did,” Kunkle admitted. “And your place of employment.”
Rarig addressed me again. “If not official, then what is this?”
I settled into an empty armchair. After a slight hesitation, my two companions did likewise.
“We thought it was time to clear things up a bit. Till now, we’ve been sticking to the legalities, like warrants and what-have-you. But as you implied, I’m working a little more independently at the moment, so I thought we might cut the crap and try being honest with each other.”
Rarig raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t been honest?”
Willy scowled at him. “Don’t be cute.”
Olivia Kidder was taking us in with the interested eye of a birdwatcher—silently waiting, I thought, for things to become more clearly defined.
“Your real name’s not John Rarig,” I said, gambling a bit to win her respect. “He probably died on the Normandy beaches in ’forty four, or in a hospital back home as a result of his wounds. You weren’t born in Ames, Iowa, and you haven’t spent your whole career as a State Department paper pusher. You and Ms. Kidder came up together inside the CIA, which probably has a room full of identities like the real John Rarig’s, just so guys like you can operate in daylight. You were a spook specializing in Soviet affairs, based in Austria, at least in the early years. What do you do for the Company, Ms. Kidder?”
She nodded slightly. “Please call me Olivia. I’m a glorified file clerk, really.”
“Which is no doubt belittling both your talents and your position. Mr. Rarig, what was Sergei Antonov doing spying on you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Who is he?”
Willy muttered, “For Christ’s sake,” and Sammie shifted restlessly in her chair.
Rarig clarified his statement. “Lieutenant, if I was what you say I am, wouldn’t you think me a little simpleminded to suddenly spill the beans just because you’d like me to? For all I know, your whole embarrassment with the attorney general is just a ploy to get me to trust you.”
His patience exhausted, Willy launched himself from his chair and stood glaring down at John Rarig. With one lame arm dangling and his powerful right fist bunched up before him, he presented a conflicted image of impotence and fury—much more threatening than just an angry man. Rarig and Kidder watched him closely and, I noticed for the first time, with something approaching fear.
“You and Joe can play footsie all you want,” Willy said in a low, tight voice, “but I’m not much of a bullshitter. You’re dicking us around, maybe ’cause you whacked that Russian, or maybe ’cause you’re a smoke screen for someone else. But our jobs are on the line, and I don’t need some smartass fuck like you telling me fairy tales so you can pretend you’re a virgin.”