The Railroad (21 page)

“You’re worried about Benoit?

“I know a little more about him than you do, Mike. You’ve already seen what he can do when he gets in the mood.”

He was making me uneasy, but I didn’t want to let it show. “Okay, tell me what you know.”

“I saw the way he acted at the trial. He’s an animal. Once he got drunk and called me at two in the fucking morning and threatened me. That was after his lawyer told him it could jeopardize the case for him; he didn’t care. I think he’s been calling about ten times a week and saying nothing. That’s been driving me crazy to be honest. He’s been doing his best to unnerve me.”

“So I guess you cleaned and loaded your guns.”

“This isn’t a joke. You know what he did to Megan.”

“Yes. And most abusers are cowards.”

He paused and gave it some thought. “In a way that’s true. How else could it be? But Benoit comes from the streets."

I thought about Benoit’s phone call; Moskowitz seemed to be repeating what I’d heard from Benoit.

I didn’t let Moskowitz see my concern. “So what does that mean?”

“It means he’s not going to be philosophical about losing something. Especially some guy out fucking him. I know it sounds immature and primitive, but that’s the way that people like him think. You are probably his biggest problem right now. Probably bigger than Eileen, at least in his mind. “

“I think you’re exaggerating,” I said, hearing the lie in my voice.

“You know I’m not. People like Benoit don’t feel safe unless they can control everything.”

“Maybe you just want me to be like you. Maybe you’re like Benoit. You want control.”

“You’re an idiot! All that has to happen is for Benoit to get drunk one night and decide to do something about his troubles and that’s that. How much do you think it would take for him to come take a swipe at you with his car? And if he’s drunk and not driving well, it’s not much of a stretch."

“How can you be sure?”

“I represent people like that. And I lived with people like that when I was a kid.”

“So we get to the real point. You’ve been conditioned by what happened to you when you were a child and you can’t tell the difference between your paranoia and reality.”

He shook his head. “I’m trying to help, but you won’t listen. People like this get into fights in bars and accidentally kill each other. Or they decide they want their props and they take a shot at someone and kill them. It might even be an accident, but it isn’t in them to weigh the odds before they do something. You’re an asshole if you think it’s any different.”

I stared in my drink. “You give him too much credit. He does stupid things and gets himself in trouble. He’s more likely to do that than anything else.”

“Are we talking about the fact that he came over to your house twice? That pretty much proves my point. You don’t know what was in his mind. He probably doesn’t know himself. It just proves he’s unpredictable.”

I snorted and took another sip of my drink.

“You got lucky both times. He was drunk and he was careless.”

“Do I have to give you an answer now?”

“You don’t ever have to give me one. Well, actually, knowing me, I’ll keep bothering you until you say yes or no.”

“Are you proud of this trait in yourself?”

“I’m sure I could do better in some situations. But all in all I think I do pretty well.”

“Can I have another drink?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

He got up and poured me another drink. I sipped at it and I had to admit that this sort of male bonding felt good after my months of solitude in chez Moosehead. We sat in a companionable silence and I felt the mellowness of a light buzz creep over me. I looked at the spines of his brown aging books, mostly law texts. An old fashioned globe stood to the side of his desk, representing the earth as it was seen in Victorian times. There was even a humidor on the desk.

I chuckled. “I feel like we should have cigars and you should have hunting trophies on your wall and you should tell me stories of how you bagged the lion.”

He smiled. “And one of us should have a gammy leg.”

“Rule Britannia,” I sang.

“I’m going to ask you that question again. About what book you’d be.”

“Oh shit! You know how to ruin a mood.”

“It’s important to me. Tell me.”

“I’m not sure I have an answer.”

“You do. I’m a good judge of people.”

I said nothing for a moment. “It’s too large a question,” I said finally.

His face fell. “I don’t like it, but I’m asking you to answer a tough question. I have to accept that it isn’t easy for you to find an answer. But I’ll ask you again sometime."

We seemed to have strayed, suddenly, into some almost mystical ground. He turned again to the cabinet and handed something to me.

I turned it over; it was a DVD copy of 
Fahrenheit 451
remastered and with extra footage. “I can’t take your only copy,” I told him.

“I have a few. Take it. It will be something you can watch when things get bad for you.”

I realized that this was more than just a casual gift for Moskowitz. “Thank you, Steve.” I paused. “And what about you? What book would you be?”

He seemed pained by the idea of opening up to me. “Let’s leave that for later.”

“Oh ho! So you won’t tell me? Are you getting me back for not telling you?”

He smiled. “Consider it a challenge. Let’s see if you can figure it out.”

“Okay. I’ll do my best.”

He grunted. “Well, look. I have to read some briefs for court tomorrow. If you change your mind about leaving, let me know, okay. I know some real estate agents in New York.”

“Okay. Thanks for dinner. And the concern.”

“Don’t think about it.”

The next morning, late, I got up to make breakfast and automatically looked at the pile of mail on the floor. To my great joy, I saw a postcard near the top of the pile. And then I wondered why I was so happy. This could be someone’s idea of a joke. Or Benoit’s idea of a campaign of terror.

I left the rest of the mail where it was and took my prize to the kitchen. Strangely, I wanted to be seated with a cup of coffee in my hand before I looked carefully at it. Stupid, considering it would just be an empty postcard.

I made coffee, trying not to look at the card. I’d taken two sips before I got up the nerve to look at it. In most ways it was like the others; the name of some attraction in some small town, this time the Pesquot Glass Works in Maine and there was my address written in an unfamiliar hand.

There was one major difference. In the message section where there was usually nothing, was something scrawled in what looked like a child’s handwriting. Three numbers separated by dashes:
4-5-1
.

Something moved in my gut. I stared at it and tried to find a decent explanation. But none came.

And suddenly I was thinking of something I’d heard Benoit say
. Because my friends and I aren’t interested in how pussies like you feel. Or how bitches like Eileen feel. She couldn’t come close to doing what I’ve done. She’s just been riding on my coattails like any other leech. I talked to my friends about her. We all get together once a month or so and talk about our lives and what’s been taken from us. We all decided we won’t take it.

Was it possible? As bad as he was at being a thug, could Benoit be a serial killer? Part of me said no, but I wasn’t an expert on the subtleties of the hidden areas of a killer’s life. Most killers didn’t appear to be aberrational at all. And maybe it was one of Benoit’s friends who was insane and orchestrating the whole thing.

I sat down and thought. The more I thought the more confused it got. Eventually I turned on the television. I hoped that sleeping on it would bring me some new revelations.

*

That night I got one of the silent calls. For some reason I felt compelled to try to wait Benoit out and see if I could get a rise out of him. I waited on the phone for about 30 seconds. When I was sure he wasn’t going say anything I picked up a magazine from the dining room table and began reading aloud an article about the Mexican trade deficit and its effect on the North American economy.

I’ll have to hand it to him: Benoit was much more interested in current events than I would have given him credit for. He listened for about five minutes. When I finished the article he was still silent. So I hung up the phone.

Chapter Twelve

The next night I found myself back at the Holiday Inn downing a Laphroaig or two. When I had woken up that morning I found myself unable to get out of bed. I suppose that the previous weeks had finally caught up with me. I’d been pulled back and forth from sanity to insanity, to anger, to despair, to fear, to any emotion you could think of.

I’d had it and was considering simply giving up.

The possibility of going back to the City occurred to me as I started my second whiskey but I immediately discarded it. It would be worse than Bardstown and I had to admit that I’d begun to like living in the suburbs. So, maybe it would be another suburb, maybe north of Albany. I’d started over again in Bardstown; I could do it somewhere else, somewhere where absolutely no one knew me and the living would be even cheaper.

I told myself for the millionth time that there was nothing I could do for Eileen and Megan; if I moved and they couldn’t find me, it wouldn’t make a difference. There certainly wasn’t anything I could do to Benoit. And the murders?

Well that kept coming around in my head. It seemed like, if there was a chance that I could help prevent another one, I should. But the world was conspiring against me, trying to prove that I was basically helpless. I wondered again what a nice middle class boy like me was supposed to do about things like murder, child abuse, and violence. I’d grown up in a nice quiet neighborhood where none of these things happened, or at least I never saw them. Now I was faced with the horrible reality that there were some things that couldn’t be solved in America; a country where every wrong was supposed to be rightable.

I shook my head, half in disgust and half to clear the cobwebs.

“What’s the matter? That should be good booze if I remember right.”

The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. So I turned around, and wished I hadn’t.

“Hello, Mike,” Benoit said, taking the seat next to mine. I felt my burgeoning buzz dissipate quickly. Despite my fear, I felt anger clouding my head. “Why don’t you just go on back to your little house of horrors?”

He laughed. “You don’t like me. Well, I can’t blame you completely. Maybe it’s because the last couple of times we’ve spoken, I’ve been unforgivably drunk. I’m sober now so you can’t just write me off.” He smiled sweetly.

“I came here to drink. I really don’t care what you do."

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

“I don’t want anything from you. You don’t like me so why don’t you go?”

“I thought we should talk,” He raised his hand and got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have a gin and tonic. Give my friend here whatever he’s drinking. I’ve heard you like single malts.”

“Good trick.”

“Thanks.”

We waited in silence for the drinks to come. Benoit seemed quite contented and relaxed which I took to mean that he was hoping the silence would increase my discomfort. It worked.

When the drinks came he stared into his. “Take a sip. I know you like that stuff. My cousin drinks it all the time, but I think it tastes like bad medicine.”

I sipped, hoping it would make him go away faster. He sipped his own drink and seemed to be preparing himself to say something. “Okay. Now we’ve gone through the amenities. It’s come to my attention that you’ve been saying things about me to the wrong people. I don’t appreciate that.”

“Saying what?”

“I don’t want to play games with you. Let’s say I have friends in certain agencies. And you’ve been accusing me of all kinds of things, violent things. A man in my position doesn’t need that kind of attention.”

“Oh? I’ve gotten the impression that you have enough
friends
to protect you from just about anything. Why are you worried?”

“I don’t like people lying about me, first of all. And you never know who’s going to hear these accusations. Maybe someone I want to do business with. Maybe a lady I want to get to know. Maybe some asshole journalist will decide to make a name at my expense. I don’t know. It’s just bad policy. I wasn’t too happy with you in the first place. Now I’m less happy. I’m not the kind of man you want unhappy with you.”

“Why don’t you come out and make a real threat if you’re going to make one. Or are you afraid someone might hear you?”

He laughed. “That’s good. Yes, I’m concerned about someone hearing me just like I’m concerned about you shooting off your mouth.”

“So you’re going to do something bad to me?”

“Pal, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. No, I just figure that you’re going to go on being a pain. You won’t let it go. So, since I expect trouble from you I want you to know you’ll get it back. Wherever you look, I’ll be behind you. Wherever you go, I’ll be there. You’ll never know where I am or what I’ll do. That’s the price of having a big mouth.”

“Okay, you’ve made your point.”

“I hope so. I’ll probably go on making it for a while. I want you to mind your P’s and Q’s. My mother used to say that.” He smiled.

I thought about him having a mother and the idea amused me. I could see her buying him his first set of brass knuckles, maybe his first switchblade. How cute. “Sure. Maybe you’ll do something like you did when you came to my house. Of course no one knew about that, did they? You know what, I don’t think you have to worry about anyone making trouble for you because you can’t help but make it for yourself. That’s because you don’t think, you just go off like a little child.”

He looked away and made a sour lemon face. “You’re very good, Mike, you know how to talk. That’s good.”

He leaned over to take some money off of the bar. His mouth was suddenly near my ear. “Watch your ass boy. I might just have to kick it.” With that his fist shot out and clipped me in the kidney. It happened so fast that I doubt anyone else noticed. It was quick and, I’d have to say, professional.

I doubled over, my head on the bar. It occurred to me, through the pain, that he might have been an enforcer at one point in his career; it fit.

“Have a nice night, Mike.” he said as he stood up. I waited until he left and then gulped down the rest of my drink. When I realized that the pain wasn’t subsiding quickly enough, I ordered another.

*

The next day I came home from a shopping trip to find that chez Moosehead had been broken into and trashed. There’s nothing like having a raging hangover and finding that your place has been robbed. I walked aimlessly through the wreckage, not sure I wanted to find out the extent of the damage or what I might have lost.

When I checked my sock drawer and found the money I’d put there, I began to get a little suspicious. I walked around the house a little more alertly this time, looking for some confirmation of my theory. I found it in the bathroom. A note taped to the mirror saying, “Mind your Ps and Qs.” Benoit had made good on his promise.

I sat on my couch for a while, debating whether I should let the whole thing go. In the end I decided that it would be better for me if the police knew about everything that happened to me. It could only strengthen the tie to Benoit if something happened.

I was about to dial 911 and make a simple robbery report when there was a knock at my door. To my surprise it was Wills, looking very uncomfortable and very disgusted. “You reported a robbery,” he said simply. I saw two men behind him; detectives by their suits. All of them had their guns drawn.

I gestured toward my living room. “You can see for yourself. Why didn’t they just send a patrol car?”

He grimaced. “Seems like I’ve been chosen to deal with you.”

I almost said,
because you’ve been very uninterested in pursuing this and Benoit likes it that way
. What I did say was, “And why is that?”

“Let’s say it’s become a sensitive issue. It needs a detective’s touch.”

“Yeah. Honestly I just walked in here. I didn’t report a robbery."

The trio stopped scanning the place long enough to look at me and look uncharacteristically amazed. “You didn’t?” Wills asked.

“No. I didn’t.”

He regained his composure. “Is anything missing?”

“Not that I can see, which makes it interesting. For instance, I have about $700 in my sock drawer. Now the drawer was opened, but the money is still there. My CDs are all here and the semi-valuable silverware set is also intact. Why do you think someone would break into a house and take nothing of value?”

Wills's face didn’t move. “Kids maybe?”

“Yes, that is a workable theory.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe they were interrupted or it was just for fun,” one of Wills's companions suggested.

“Why do you think that?” I asked, not hiding my frustration.

The man gestured toward the breakfront. “The money is still here.”

“Yeah.” I thought about what he said. “So what does all this mean in terms of solving this crime?”

All three smiled momentarily. “We can bring a crime scene unit in here, but I doubt we’ll find anything.”

I snorted. “Fingerprints? DNA? Is someone going to come over here and do something constructive? Or is this just a rubber stamp?”

Wills's face darkened. “This isn’t TV. And it isn’t a murder. It looks like someone tossed your place for fun. We don’t have any stolen articles to look for. It would be very hard to find a thief under those circumstances. I will get it logged and we’ll have a patrol car in the area. That’s all we can do.”

His tone was without any emotion and I realized that this was a prepared speech. Something in his eyes told me that even though he wasn’t very fond of me, he still didn’t like being a puppet.

“I suppose you’d like to at least take a look around.”

“That would be standard procedure.”

He and his colleagues walked through my house and my backyard and my front yard, looking, nodding, and occasionally writing in pads they carried.

Inside of fifteen minutes he was walking to the door. “I’ll contact you if we find anything. If I were you, I’d look into getting a better lock. Maybe even an alarm.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“No problem. You have my number.”

I avoided the obvious sarcastic remark that was playing in my mind. “Yes.”

One of his colleagues came in from the backyard carrying a paperback book in a surgically gloved hand. They conferred for a moment before Wills turned to me. “Does this mean anything to you?” He showed me a paperback copy of Kafka’s
The Trial
, turning to the title page. At the top of the page were the words
I am
, written in a sloppy hand.

I stared at the page looking for some significance. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Are you sure?" he prodded.

I looked down at the book. “I read this in school, But I don’t know what
I am
means.”

Wills nodded; I’m not sure he believed me. “Well I guess we’ll get back to the station now.”

I smirked. “Thanks so much for coming by.”

He shrugged and left with the other two. I began the annoying task of picking up the place. I spent the whole time with an eye toward something being missing. Something in me told me there would be something. After three hours I gave up.

It was a few hours later that I looked at the pile of postcards I’d left on the mantle. I picked them up absently and noticed immediately one was missing. It was the one from the Pesquot Glass Works, the one with the words
4-5-1
written on it.

*

Somewhere around 10 that night I noticed the answering machine light blinking as I went to the kitchen for some ice; in all the fuss I’d missed it.

There was one message. A female voice I'd never heard before said,
You’ve been seen and the police have already been called. They’ll be there in a few minutes
. The voice sounded angry and authoritative. I played it five times, trying to find some clue in the message.

I hadn’t called the police, but someone had and the same thing had happened when Benoit attacked me. Maybe it was one of my neighbors who was shy about taking a bow for what they’d done. I knew it was unlikely that any of my neighbors could have seen anything of either the robbery or the attack.

Was Benoit thumbing his nose at me and the police, showing his disdain for everyone, letting us all know he was committing crimes and couldn’t be stopped? I tried to imagine him enduring the indignity of being arrested twice, being booked, and being put in a cell with people he thought were beneath him. I imagined him taking an anger management class and being forced to go to each one. Then I tried to imagine him laughing it all off as he envisioned some greater plan that he’d concocted.

It didn’t really make much sense; everything I knew about him told me that he lived in the moment and reacted in the moment. That left me wondering who had called the police.

*

I woke up at 11:30 the next day, unable to sleep anymore. In the shower I ran over the possibilities. The only clues I had were the women who were abducted; there had to be a connection. The best place to look for a connection was in the police files, but I discarded that thought immediately. I could see Wills's reaction to a request for police files. That left one source: the newspapers.