Fever Dream (29 page)
Then the tone of the stories changed. A number of articles from national papers, as well as the state’s major dailies, covered the arrival in Harrisburg of a Federal Trade Commission investigator named Henry Stubbs. He’d been called in from Washington at the request of the state attorney general to uncover evidence of malfeasance and fraud, long rumored to be rife at the prestigious firm.
Three articles later, Henry Stubbs is being quoted extensively as to the result of his investigation. He asserts that the firm’s been cleared of any wrong-doing, and that the FTC has ended the investigation. There were also quotes from Evan McCloskey, stating how gratified he was by the FTC’s decision.
Not two months later, the
Style
section of the paper ran a story about Henry Stubbs’ decision to stay in Harville, “and make it my home.” He goes on to explain that during the course of his work he “fell in love with the place,” and that he was tired of big-city life. After all, he’d grown up in a small town in Montana and was still “a country boy at heart,” despite his years in Washington. He was happy to report that he was retiring from government work, and would be using his pension to buy a nice home in the area.
The next article Sam had pulled up for me detailed Stubbs’ decision to run for Sheriff of Harville and his subsequent victory. Apparently the voters were impressed by those “big-city” credentials, in addition to his obvious affinity for their town. He did well enough in the job to run unopposed for a second term.
I sat back from the desk and stared at the last piece of material April had printed out for me. It was a front-page story, complete with photo, about Stubbs’ swearing-in ceremony. He stood tall and lanky, jacket unbuttoned, with a trimmed mustache. A real urban cowboy, but with a cop’s glint to his eyes. Flanking him stood the Mayor, some city council members, and a number of campaign contributors. One of whom, smiling broadly, was Evan McCloskey.
I got to my feet and stretched. Then, bending to gather up all the hard copies, I called over to Perkins, thanking him. He didn’t glance up from his own cluttered desk.
As I headed out of the office, I waved my thanks to an equally-oblivious April, who was flirtatiously playing with a handsome fellow intern’s shirt collar as they bent over some paperwork.
Billy’s jacket had been thrown over a nearby chair.
I called Henry Stubbs at the number Sam had provided.
The phone rang ten or eleven times. Nobody picked up. No answering machine. No voice mail.
I’d be arriving uninvited.
I drove the Buick out of town and turned onto a dusty, two-lane blacktop. I’d gotten directions from an attendant at the local liquor store, a retired Sears employee who still remembered Stubbs’ house as “the old Stafford place.” He also warned me that finding the residence in such densely-forested woodlands wouldn’t be easy.
He was right. I drove past the dirt access road twice before spotting the tell-tale elm tree. Its lightning-split trunk rose up like a gnarled tuning fork against the pale azure sky.
As soon as I started down the rutted, serpentine road, I was plunged into a kind of semidarkness. The tree canopy blocked most of the sun, and the woods on either side of the road faded into gray-black streaks, like an Impressionist’s brush-strokes.
After about five miles of twisting, bouncing road, I made out a barbed-wire fence to my right. I quickly pulled over, raising a curving tail of dust, and got out.
Peering through flitting curtains of shadow, I moved cautiously along the fence as it trailed off the access road and cut into a grove of trees. Overhead, broad gaps in the interlocking branches allowed some sunlight through, and now it glinted and danced off verdant clusters of foliage on either side of me. With every other step, I heard a rustling of movement in the thick undergrowth. Lizards, ground quail, perhaps a startled garter snake.
Finally, this stretch of wire fence led to a thick, squat concrete pillar, atop which was a pitted tin sign. In deep scratches, as though carved with a nail, were written the words “Keep Out.”
Is this guy kidding?
I thought. What’s next, a snarling German shepherd, straining at the leash?
I wasn’t that lucky.
The tin sign in front of me literally exploded as a bullet ripped through and whistled past my shoulder.
I hit the ground hard, clutching the dirt, as another shot fired. This one chipped a half-inch divot off the near edge of the concrete pillar.
Without knowing from which direction the shots were coming, I rolled instinctively toward the fence and began pushing my way under the razor-sharp wire. The barbed twists raked my back, shredding my shirt and finding skin, as I struggled to get through to the other side.
Two more shots echoed like cannon-fire, shaking dust from the trees, as I finally squeezed under the wire and rolled again, this time toward the shelter of an ancient, upended wheelbarrow rusting in the tall grass. I scurried around to its far side, hunching down as far as possible.
I must have been seen. The next bullet pinged off the edge of the wheelbarrow, inches above my hairline, shearing off flecks of rust.
Christ!
I knew I was pinned down. The nearest cover was a stand of maples, fifteen or twenty yards away.
I’d never make it.
As I crouched there, breathing hard, I heard the sound of an engine revving, then a clutch down-shifting. I raised myself up enough to see the old, pitted chassis of a John Deere tractor rumbling across the field toward me.
Sitting behind the wheel, steering with one hand while the other held an upraised Remington rifle, was an older man in crisp denim and a cap.
As he got closer, I recognized the squint in the sharp eyes sunken into folds of tanned, mottled skin. And the mustache—now white, but still neatly trimmed.
Slowly, I got to my feet.
Henry Stubbs braked to a stop about ten yards from where I now stood behind the wheelbarrow. He leaned forward across the steering wheel, using it to brace his forearms as he aimed the rifle directly at my head.
And smiled.
“If you’re here to kill me, son, you went about it all wrong. ’Cause I’m just about to shoot you where you stand.”
“No, I’m not here to kill you. Just to talk.”
“Ever hear of the telephone?”
“Sure. You ever hear of answering it?”
He clucked his tongue. “Well, there’s that, I guess. You a cop? Private eye?”
“No. I’m a consultant with the Pittsburgh police.”
“Consultant? What’s that mean?”
“Depends. I’m a psychologist, and sometimes I advise them on cases. Right now, though, I’m working with Sam Weiss. The reporter you contacted.”
“Is that a fact?”
“He got held up at the airport. Some work thing. But he’ll be here as soon as he can. He sent me along to make sure you didn’t think he wasn’t gonna show.”
“So you people are takin’ me seriously, eh?”
I paused. “Sam is. He says you’re a credible source.”
“And what do
you
think?”
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know you. I guess I’d have to ask you some questions.”
He shifted position, as though easing some stiffened joints, then refocused on aiming down the line of the rifle barrel. Its black eye stared at me, unblinking.
“Questions, eh?” he said at last. “Like what?”
I took a breath and made my pitch. “We know about your connection to Evan McCloskey, Sheriff. Why you came to Harville, and why you ended up staying. And, frankly, I don’t care about any of that. McCloskey’s probably a prick, given the kind of people he represents. Personally, I hope you took him for a fortune. I just need to hear what he has to do with Leland Sinclair, if anything.”
Stubbs gave a kind of snort. “Well, mister, you got marble stones, I’ll give you that. Not that I got the slightest idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You also know that if anybody wanted to bust you for taking bribes, this place would be swarming with cops right now.”
He considered this. “You know, son, if you’re lyin’ to me, I’m gonna have to go with my original plan and put one right between your eyes.”
“I don’t think so. I think you want to tell me your story. Tell
somebody.
Or else you would’ve shot me already.”
A long pause.
“Well, I guess that’s true enough,” he said finally, a strange resignation in his voice. Lowering the rifle, resting its butt on the top of his knee.
He sat back, lost in thought. A deliberate stillness emanated from him, as though he were posing for a portrait.
Then, just as abruptly, he stirred, and gunned the tractor’s engine. Plumes of black smoke rose from the sputtering exhaust pipe.
“Okay, then, mister,” he said. “Get in. I got some liquor back at the house. I figure I’m gonna need it.”
I walked across the high grass and swung up onto the seat next to him. As he turned the tractor around and headed back across the field, Stubbs shouted to me over the engine’s roar.
“Psychologist, eh? Well, it ain’t a priest, but I guess it’s close enough. I sorta thought the same thing about that reporter fella.”
“Close enough for what?”
“For confession.”
I must have stared, because he broke into a raw laugh.
“Damn, maybe you ain’t as smart as I thought. Truth is, I don’t give a shit about McCloskey.
Or
Sinclair. But I’m fixin’ to spill my guts about all this to somebody. And it sure as hell better be soon. ’Cause, mister, I’m dying.”
“Non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” Stubbs said, pouring a fourth of a bottle of Stoli vodka into the pitcher of lemonade. “They figure I got six months. Maybe less.”
We were on the front porch of his rambling, two-storied house, all burnt brick and timber, intersected by wide, floor-to-ceiling windows.
When we’d stepped up onto the wide, railing–enclosed porch, the first thing I noticed was the oval cedar table with twin matching chairs. On a woven placemat in the table’s center was a large glass pitcher of freshly-made lemonade. The dozen sun-melted ice cubes bobbing on the surface had diluted its rich golden hue.
“My mother’s recipe.” Stubbs indicated the pitcher, its curved glass bowl beaded with condensation. “Not too much sugar, and you leave the lemons in, outside in the sun. Been out here since noon. Really deepens the flavor.”
Then, with a weary smile, he’d reached under the table for a half-empty bottle of vodka.
“Of course, every recipe needs modifyin’ once in a while.” After which he’d unscrewed the cap and began his modifications.
As he poured us each a generous glass, I reflected on what I’d seen as we’d walked up the winding driveway to the front porch.
Nestled in a stand of poplars, with views of the valley and surrounding hills, the house must have cost a fortune. Yet there were signs of recent neglect. Tree branches scraped the roof, the gutters choked with leaves. Dirt and dust and skeins of old webbing clung like unwanted memories to every corner, every niche.
Henry Stubbs was dying, I thought, and he was letting his home die with him.
“And don’t worry, we got the place to ourselves.” He pointed the bottle’s nose at the dim, spacious rooms on the other side of the window. “I only got one girl workin’ for me now, and I send her home before the cocktail hour. If you know what I mean.”
Stubbs put the vodka down next to the pitcher. Then he took his drink and leaned against a porch railing. I stood across from him, my back to the unlit house within.
Just past Stubbs’ shoulder stood a weathered barn, half the size of the house and at least twice as old. Its opened doors revealed a sawdust floor, cords of firewood, and a rack of long-unused farming tools. Rakes, shovels, a hand mower. Relics.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Stubbs said with a pained smile. “What did I do with all the money?”
“I assume a lot of it’s here. In the land. And in the house.”
“Yeah, but most of it ain’t. It’s in trust funds my kids have been livin’ off for years. Grown men now, but neither one of ’em worth a damn. I guess I gotta take most of the blame for that. They were just babies when I left their mother.”
“You were still with the FTC then?”
“Yep. In DC. The divorce was turning into a nightmare, so when my supervisor asked me to come up here and investigate McCloskey’s firm, I jumped at the chance.”
“The concerns about unethical practices…”
His mouth turned down. “I always laugh when people get their shorts in a twist over legal ethics. I mean, shit, how do you think big law firms get so big? By sweatin’ the ethics? It’s just a word, son, like any other. After a while, it don’t even mean anything.”
“But what about McCloskey’s firm? What did you find?”
“Pretty much every violation in the book. From illegal wire-taps and blackmail to over-charging clients. Had a judge or two on the payroll, too.”
