Authors: John R. Maxim
Megan felt a sudden chill.
This grave, she realized, was different. She had thought
they were the same because both were in a forest but the
trees around this one still had leaves. This could not be
Thanksgiving. This was spring or summer. The chill swept
over her. The warmth of the shower could not defeat it.
Chapter 33
The
snooper,
Aaronson, was dead.
Parker had stood over Yahya, making him try every
thing he could, made him do mouth to mouth and pump
all kinds of crap into Aaronson’s veins. Yahya said it
won't help and it didn't. But he'd learned one thing . . .
maybe
...
so it wasn't a total loss. And Aaronson could
still be useful.
The best way to do this, Parker decided, might be
through Doyle's wife. What's her name? Sheila.
He placed the call from a pay phone at the Vanderbilt
entrance to Grand Central. He had to go over to that side
of town anyway. There was a bookstore just down the ramp and he needed to do some research.
“Here's a message for your husband,” he said when
she answered. “We have his friend, Arnold. Fuck with us and he's dead. You got that? If he goes near a courthouse,
his friend is dead.”
He thought that she'd gasp and hang up. She just
gasped. What the hell, he decided. Might as well use the whole quarter.
“And Sheila? You're going to be next. We know every
thing you do, every place you go. Look out your window,
Sheila. There's a blue car with a man in it. You know
what he likes to do to women? First he fucks them in
the—”
This time she used bad words. She slammed the phone
down in his ear.
Right now, he felt sure, she'll be peeking through the drapes. There's no blue car, no man, but her imagination will supply one. Ten seconds of that and she'll be dialing her husband. The first message was the main thing. Get
Doyle to sit on that lawsuit at least until after the weekend.
That might be all the time he needs.
The second message should get Doyle tear-assing back
to Brooklyn Heights. He wouldn't bring Hobbs. He'd tell Hobbs to sit tight. It's expecting a lot to think that Haroun
might recognize this as an opportunity but we can al
ways hope.
Parker walked down to the Arcade Book Store, which,
he seemed to recall, had a fairly good-sized section on
travel. It did. It had nothing on Martha's Vineyard alone
but it had six different guides to Cape Cod, all of which talked about the Vineyard and Nantucket. Parker bought
two of them plus a
Fodor's Guide
to Massachusetts. And he bought a good map. The map even said when the fer
ries ran.
Back at his office, he started with the town of Vineyard
Haven. Aaronson had said it was “some dumb-ass hotel”
and almost every listing seemed to fit that description.
Names like the Captain Dexter Inn, the Ocean Side Inn,
the Lothrop Merry House. No big chains. No Hiltons or
Hyatts. Not even a Howard Johnson's.
He called each one and asked for Michael Fallon. They had no such guest. He might be using a different name so
Parker described him, mentioning that his right arm would
have been in a cast up until March or April. They had no
one who looked like him either.
Parker kept dialing. With the map in front of him he
worked his way around the island counter-clockwise be
cause the towns in that direction seemed more remote. It's
why, according to one book, most of the island's celebri
ties have bought houses down that way.
Tisbury, West Tisbury, Chilmark, Gay Head. Same re
sult. No Michael Fallon. Parker was getting discouraged.
On an island this size, you'd think everyone knows every
one else's business. If he's there, remember, it was winter
when he got there. The island's basically shut down when
a stranger shows up, arm in a cast, driving a Mercedes
with New York plates, possibly traveling with an older
black male. How could no one have noticed him?
About all that was left was Edgartown and it didn't
seem promising. Edgartown was apparently the tourist cap
itol of the island. It seemed to Parker that if you're going to lie low, you lie low. But he started calling. If he came
up empty, he'd go back to square one and start calling
bartenders.
But bingo!!
Lady at the Harborview said, “Michael? Oh, he's not
here. He bought the Taylor House.”
Bought?
Parker checked one of his books. There it was. North
Water Street. Sea captain's house, antique furnishings, charming legend of laughing children, listed in
Haunted
Houses of New England.
He buys a haunted house? What the hell is this? He's
looking to commune with Big Jake Fallon?
Parker called, just to make sure, and sure enough Mi
chael Fallon answered. There was no mistaking the voice.
He'd heard it on tape often enough. Parker almost broke
the connection but he doubted that Michael would know
his voice. He'd know the face, had seen him around Leh
man-Stone and at Bronwyn's service. But he wouldn't
know the voice.
“Realize it's a long shot,” said Parker with a twang, “but might you have a vacancy this weekend?” He said
he and the wife are from Chicago, wife just loves haunted
houses, have been on the road two weeks now touring them all up and down the New England coast. Calling
from New Bedford at the moment.
“I'm afraid we're booked solid,” Fallon told him.
“Figured as much. I told Betsy—Betsy's the wife—but
she had her heart set.”
“Well . . .” Fallon tried to ease her disappointment.
“You know it's not really all
that
haunted.`'
“Comes and goes, you're saying.”
“That's a good way to put it. Listen, the whole island's
p
retty well booked but if you do find something, you're
welcome to stop by.”
“Why, that's real friendly of you. The name's Peabody,
by the way. Wally Peabody.” Nice harmless name. Almost
as good as Granny Futterman.
“Michael Fallon, Wally. And it would be my pleasure
to show you the house.”
In fact, he suggested, if you're in town, you might also
look up a man named Parnel Minter who is on a first-
name basis with half the ghosts in Massachusetts. Parker
thanked him. He and Betsy might just do that, he said.
Parker said goodbye and sat staring at the phone.
Michael Fallon, he thought.
No hesitation when he gave his name. Not a care in the
world in his voice. And yet there's no question that when
he left New York last February, he knew he was running for his life.
What changed? All Parker could imagine was that Fal
lon must think it's over. But why? Because Doyle has the
evidence? It didn't sound that recent. It sounded like, for
some time now, Fallon’s biggest problem was whether he
had enough towels for his weekend guests. No way that
he's been out burning down houses.
He's not hiding. He's been stashed. He's being kept out
of this while Doyle and the jig play their games. But a
million bucks is still a million bucks.
“Hector?”
Let's see. They'll need a boat for this. You don't kill a
man on an island and then sit around waiting for a ferry.
He'd use Hector. Hector knows how to drive one and
Fram Childress has one. Keeps it up in Oyster Bay. He'd use Harou
n
and Yahya. Haroun's a good knife and Yah-
ya's done this before. He's made hits for Giordano.
Hector came in.
“You're going to make some money,” Parker told him.
“And you get another shot at Fallon. Here's what I need
by tomorrow.”
Bart Hobbs had begged Doyle not to leave.
“Lock yourself in,” was all Doyle said. It was the same thing he said to his wife when she called. He grabbed the
gun from his desk and ran out. Hobbs tried to stop him.
He grabbed his arm. Doyle would have hit him if he hadn't
let go.
Then Doyle yelled back from the hallway.
“Hobbs? My secretary's back. Maureen, don't let any
one go in there.”
Hobbs heard the sound of running feet as Doyle sprinted
down the fire stairs. He sank into a chair.
This is how he helps me? This is how he protects me?
But at least he had his pistol. The double doors to
Doyle's office seemed solid and they had two locks plus
a bolt that slid into the floor. He locked them in every
way he could.
“U
m
. . . Mr. Hobbs?” The secretary's voice. “Are
you all right in there?”
He tried to say yes but no sound came out.
He went to the windows behind Doyle's desk and
looked down. They were only on the second floor. He
could get out that way if Michael came. Michael and the black man.
But the windows, were the kind that didn't open. He
could smash one with a chair but, even then, even if he
jumped to the alley below, he could see no other way to
get out. There was a chain link fence, topped with wire,
and beyond it an apartment building. He could climb that
fence, he supposed. He was still athletic enough. But if he hung himself up at the top, he'd be right at the level
of this window and ten feet away from whomever he was
trying to escape.