“They can’t pay you enough to go after Walter, can they?” Isobel angrily interrupted.
“So,” he continued, “we’re asking you. My employer will not stop at asking.”
“You can’t hurt me!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please. I never meant to say you would be hurt in any way.” For some reason Isobel breathed easier. Why, she asked herself, do I think I’ve won something? “Is that a picture of you and your husband?” he asked, pointing to a cube-framed photo on her desk. “Your husband, Otto Heinrich, plays with the Atlanta Symphony, doesn’t he?” Isobel’s sense of satisfaction left her as quickly and completely as her last breath. “A violinist, right? I’m told he plays beautifully. A man like that must have exceptional fingers, especially on his left hand. Isn’t that right? How does he manage to care for his hands, his fingers? Exercise? Warm water and soap? Custom-made gloves? Some sort of special lotion, probably. I could never know. You do, of course. Tell me about his hands.”
“No,” said Isobel in a voice no louder than a whimper.
“A man like your husband has to make sure nothing happens to his hands. I guess they’re as much a part of his instrument as… as the bow.”
“Y-y-you can’t…”
She had never been there, but she knew where it was. Long ago, Walter told her. He told her about his drive from Santa Fe, up into the mountains near Albert, New Mexico, near the Indian forest. She remembered his description of the cabin, even the road leading to it. He met Michael DelGrazo there-Leonard Martin, the Cowboy with the floppy hat. She had never been there, but she knew exactly where it was. She paid the taxes on the property. Each year since Leonard Martin walked off into the void. She paid the electricity. The water bill. The Center cut the checks. She never questioned the expense. It was, after all, Leonard Martin who founded the institution she headed. She was following his instructions. Would Leonard ever return? Is he even alive? She didn’t know. Who did? Walter? The genial, well-groomed imitation of a businessman, sitting in front of her, was totally correct. She knew where it was, yet her natural inclination was to tell this thug to go fuck himself. My God! she thought, Otto!
Washington, that was where Walter was headed. Headed to Devereaux. To Devereaux, whose arrogance had so unhinged him in Atlanta. And now-the sonofabitch sent someone into his home! There was a late flight out of St. Thomas he could still catch. It would take him to Miami. He’d stay over there and fly to Washington in the morning. He knew he would be calm by then, calmer anyway. Passing the cruise ships, on the long cab ride from the St. Thomas ferry dock to the airport, the sight of those massive floating resort hotels, all done up in pastels, blue and sea green, yellows and light shades of red, towering like buildings many stories above the water, he realized his blood pressure had gone from a boil to a simmer sooner than he expected. A few minutes later his cell phone rang as he waited in the airport.
“Yes,” he said.
“Walter, Walter,” came a familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone. It jolted his awareness to a sharp point. The frustration and anger he felt about Devereaux and his hired girl was counterproductive. He knew that and was grateful for the intrusion. It was Isobel Gitlin’s voice he heard.
“Yes,” he said, hoping his hurt pride was not showing too much.
“I had no choice,” she said. Was she crying or coughing? Did he hear the sound of a stuffy nose, a simple cold or something else? “It was Otto. Otto.” Definitely crying, thought Walter. He decided to let her cry it out. He waited.
“Walter, I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. They took Otto and threatened to c-c-cut off the fingers! B-b-break his hands. His arms. His elbows. Oh, my god! I’m sorry, Walter. I’m sorry. Otto, he could never play again. They came to our house, into our house. Walter. I had to.”
“Had to what, Isobel?”
“Had to tell them. Tell them where. Where it is. They knew it was somewhere. They just didn’t know where.”
“Where what?”
“Where Leonard was, before. In New Mexico.” Walter closed his eyes. He was getting lightheaded. He felt cold sweat across the back of his neck. His arms and legs tingled. His stomach growled in disgust, tightening with newfound fear. He was a deer, alone on a dark lonely road near Rhinebeck, in upstate New York. He saw the truck come barreling around the turn. The headlights blinded him. He was unable to move, every inch of his body paralyzed. He shuddered as the truck ran over him, bone and blood and soft tissue pushed together like a pasty soup. He saw his brain shut down.
“Who?” he said, breathing deeply, slowly. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The one who came to see me was in his forties, tall, lean, light complexion, light brown hair, well dressed, well spoken. I thought I detected an accent, but I’m not sure. Very confident. He was very confident.”
“Name?”
“He said his name was Christopher Hopman.”
“Oh shit!” said Walter.
“He knew you. He knew who you were. I think he’s afraid of you. I think so. He said he wanted something somebody named Harry Levine had. You too. He knew you were involved.”
“He thought Harry Levine was in New Mexico?”
“Yes. He didn’t know it was New Mexico. He said they thought you had taken him to wherever Leonard had been.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“He just referred to them as ‘his employers.’ I remembered what you said, where you said it was.”
“I know,” Walter said. “You’ve been paying the bills there since Leonard Martin disappeared.”
“How did you know? Oh, my God!”
“Yes, that’s right, Isobel. That’s where I took him. And that’s where I left him.”
“Oh, m-m-my God!” she mumbled again. “I’m so sorry. Otto…”
“Goodbye,” said Walter.
Today’s call from Harry wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. He knew there would be no call. It would never come. Never. He went to the ticket counter and changed his flight plans. No matter where he was going, he had to fly to Miami first. He dropped his Washington flight and found a late-night opening, Miami to Houston. It was an awful flight, turbulent over the Gulf, and local thunderstorms in the Houston area. He felt like crap and took two antacid tablets as soon as he landed. A six-hour layover in Houston and then on to Albuquerque. Four more hours after that to Albert. Twenty minutes to the cabin.
Harry Levine’s body lay crumpled, face down on the floor near the small refrigerator. A single shot in the heart had killed him. Walter noticed powder burns on Harry’s shirt. The hole was small. Someone must have held Harry very close, perhaps right up against him. Whoever it was had reached in with a small caliber pistol, pushed it hard against Harry’s chest and fired. There was no exit wound. The bullet had not been very powerful, just deadly. It would take a coldhearted bastard to kill this way. The body was otherwise unmarked. Whoever killed him didn’t have to beat him to find the document. Harry wouldn’t have hidden it. After all, Walter told him he would be safe here. “Damnit!” Walter said out loud. On the floor, not far from Harry’s feet, Walter found a cigarette butt. The ash was only halfway down and it had been stepped on, apparently casually ground into the kitchen floor. Something about it looked familiar. When he picked it up he saw it was not a regular cigarette, certainly not an American cigarette. The paper was unusual. He slid it around between his fingers. It felt like rice paper. And the cigarette itself came with its own cardboard holder. The brand name had been smudged. All he could make out were the letters MOPKAHA.
The cabin was freezing. The fire was dead, burned to cold ash. The space heaters were not turned on. The killer was long gone. Walter’s coat was all he had. He could see his own breath, still he felt a sweat come over him. A dull pain grew in his chest, his stomach gone sour again. He sat down at the table, in the same wooden chair he dragged out to the porch when Harry marveled at the stars and the purity of the night sky. The horizon was much closer now. Walter felt suddenly overcome by fatigue. His eyelids closed. They balked at his feeble attempts to raise them open. Sleep. He needed sleep. He couldn’t help himself. He fell asleep right there, in the chair, still in his coat. He awoke about five. It was already dark and colder than before. He thought back to everything he had touched, now and when he had been there earlier and wiped all of it clean until there was no trace he was ever there. This was not the first time Walter had covered his tracks this way. He made no mistakes. He looked for any sign to tell him who did this-who killed Harry Levine. He found nothing. He, who could find anything, found nothing. The anger rose within him. He shivered, the cold radiating into his chin, down his left arm. “Harry,” he said although no one could hear him. Walter wondered, was the Cowboy in him?