I drove past Rocky’s place. The parking lot was full again. Either they did a good breakfast or they did the only breakfast in town. I kept going north, through the traffic light and past the gas station. I could see Stu sitting at his counter, but I didn’t think he noticed me driving by.
I went past the town hall and the fire station. I didn’t drive around back to see if Chief Rudiger was there. I didn’t figure he’d be too happy to see me.
I kept going, past the old furniture plant. The road opened up again into a long stretch of nothing but pine trees and glimpses of the lake to the west. I drove another ten miles, just to confirm to myself that Orcus Beach really was in the middle of nowhere. I pulled over and tried the phone again. The signal teased me for a few seconds and then disappeared.
I went back to town. This time when I got to the traffic light, I took a left and went east, away from the lake. I crossed over some railroad tracks and drove through a neighborhood of small houses set closely together. Everything looked heavy and wet, like the snow had just melted. There was an empty ball field at the next corner, with wooden bleachers down the first-base line. I watched for white Cadillacs as I drove. I saw one parked in front of a little bait shop at the edge of town, but the license plate didn’t match the one I had seen the day before.
As I drove, I couldn’t help wondering exactly where Randy had been shot. It had been only two days since the shooting, and it was such a small town. I kept expecting to see yellow crime-scene tape, but I didn’t.
The road leading east went over a small bridge, then turned north. After another few houses, the pavement gave way to gravel. I stopped and turned around. When I got back to the middle of town, I kept going west, right through the traffic light, toward the shoreline. I figured I might as well see the whole town.
The road led directly to a public boat launch. The place was empty. I pulled in and looked out at the water for a minute. I could hear the sand ticking against the truck, driven by the wind off the lake. I tried the phone again. The planets must have been aligned just right this time, because I got a signal and it stayed strong enough for me to make two calls. The first was to Leon. It was busy. He’s probably calling about the license plates right now, I thought. The second call was to the hospital. I got through to Dr. Havlin this time. The signal wavered for a few seconds and his voice started to break up, but then the line cleared and I heard him telling me what he had just done to Randy.
“Mr. Wilkins had what we call a pellet embolism,” he said. “A piece of buckshot entered the bloodstream and then migrated away from the wound, all the way to the brain. Which is why we didn’t see it when we were working on his neck.”
“How serious is that?” I said. “It goes right into the brain?”
“Well, actually, it stopped where the cerebral artery enters the brain. The end result was a stroke, which explains why he didn’t regain consciousness. It must have knocked out both hemispheres.”
“So now what?” I said. “Is he conscious now? Is there going to be permanent damage?”
“He’s not conscious, no,” he said. “As far as permanent damage goes, we just don’t know right now. We’re doing a neuro check every hour. Meanwhile, we’ve still got a county deputy outside his door every minute, day and night. I don’t know what they think Mr. Wilkins is going to do. Anyway, I’ve got your number, Mr. McKnight. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“I appreciate it,” I said.
I hung up and pulled back out onto the secondary road, taking it south until it came to a dead end, then headed north. The homes on the lake side of the road had mailboxes next to long driveways. Some of the houses were bigger than others, but they all looked a little beaten up by the long winters and the storms on the lake. I saw a lot of NO TRESPASSING signs. Like most of the lower Great Lakes, the shoreline here was strictly private property.
I didn’t see any white Cadillacs. I didn’t see Maria’s red Mustang. The road ended abruptly where a little inlet cut in from the shoreline. There was a guardrail there to keep you from driving right into it, and behind that a chain-link fence with four seasons’ worth of litter pasted to it. I turned the truck around and headed back to the center of town.
So now what, Alex? Either you go to the hospital and wait to see what happens to Randy. Or you stay here in town and do something stupid.
When I got back to Rocky’s place, I saw Maria’s car in the parking lot. I tried the phone and somehow it worked again. A day filled with miracles already. Leon picked up on the first ring.
“Alex, I’ve got some names for you,” he said. I could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. This kind of stuff was what he lived for. “Are you ready?”
I didn’t have my little pad of paper anymore, so I grabbed a deposit envelope out of the glove compart ment. “Go ahead,” I said.
“I’ll give you the white Caddy first,” he said. “If that was a V you saw on the plate, then it was a woman named Ethel Birmingham from Center Line, Michigan. And it wasn’t really a white Cadillac; it was a brown Buick.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t really a V,” I said.
“Good man,” he said. “If it was a Y, then you’ve got a Mr. Miles Whitley, who just so happens to own a white 1983 Cadillac, and just so happens to be a private investigator out of Detroit.”
“A private investigator?”
“Are you surprised?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess not. Not if he’s been following her. Maybe this Harwood guy hired him.”
“My thought exactly,” he said. “I’ve got his number here if you want it. I don’t know if we should just call the guy or not. What do you think?”
“Good question,” I said. “Let’s think about that one.”
“Okay, so you want the other plate now? It gets better.”
“How can it get better?” I said. “We know it’s Maria, right?”
“The plate is registered to Maria Zambelli,” he said. “The address given is on Romney Street in Farmington.”
“Leopold’s house,” I said.
“Right.”
“So now we know the last name she’s using these days. Where’s the ‘better’ part?”
“That name, Alex. Zambelli. It sounded familiar to me. I was sitting here for a half hour trying to remember where I’ve heard it before.”
“And?”
“You remember when you came back up here after you were done running around with Randy? What did you tell me?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I told you what happened. About how we ended up at Leopold’s house.”
“And about how you were kidnapped and held hostage in the basement.”
“All right, Leon, I don’t have to relive the whole thing now. What’s your point?”
“You told me that they thought you were working for this guy named Harwood, right? That’s why they did that to you?”
“Yeah?”
“And when you told me that, what did I say?”
“I don’t honestly remember. I’m sorry.”
“I told you we should try to find out about Harwood, so we could help them, right?”
“Okay, I remember now. And I said forget about it.”
“Exactly. And do you think I just forgot about it?”
“Knowing you, no,” I said. “Now that you mention it.”
“I just poked around a little bit, Alex. On the Internet, looking up the name Harwood.”
“Okay, what did you find, Leon?”
“Nothing,” he said. “At least it seemed like nothing at the time. I was searching through a database of old newspaper articles, looking for any hits on Harwood. You know, like if I found an article about a man named Harwood being arrested for stalking somebody. Something like that. But I came up empty. So I let it go. But then I remembered, somewhere when I was looking, I saw those two names together. Harwood and Zambelli.”