Technically, Charles, that’s three questions. But they all have one answer.
No?
Bingo. He snapped his fingers.
Which was what I had suspected. My two well-trussed friends on the mountaintop with their city accents were as phony as their warrant.
Two. I held up my ring finger. Anybody been in town asking about me since that article in the Albany paper with my picture came out?
Will couldn’t keep the smile off his face. If there was such a thing as an information magnet for this town, Will Dunham was it. He prided himself on quietly knowing everything that was going on—public and private—before anyone else even knew he knew it. With another loud snap of his long fingers he plucked a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me with a magician’s flourish.
Voilà!
The address was in the State Office Building. The name was not exactly the one I expected, but it still sent a shiver down my spine and the metal spearpoint in my hip muscle twinged. Unfinished business.
I noticed that Will had been talking. I picked up his words in mid-sentence.
… so Avery figured that he should give the card to me, seeing as how he knew you were our regular helper, what with you taking on odd jobs for us now and then. Repair work, cutting wood… and so on. Of course, by the time he thought to pass it on to me Avery’d been holding on to it since two weeks ago which was when the man came into his filling station asking about you and wanting you to give him a call. So, did he get tired of waiting and decide to look you up himself?
In a manner of speaking.
Say again?
See you later, Will.
The beauty of America’s trolley system is that a man could go all the way from New York City to Boston just by changing cars once you got to the end of town and one line ended where another picked up. So the time it took me to run the ten miles to where the line started in Middle Grove was longer than it took to travel the remaining forty miles to Albany and cost me no more than half the coins in my pocket.
I hadn’t bothered to go back home to change into the slightly better clothes I had. My nondescript well-worn apparel was just fine for what I had in mind. No one ever notices laborers. The white painter’s cap, the brush, and the can of Putnam’s bone-white that I borrowed from the hand truck in front of the building were all I needed to amble in unimpeded and take the elevator to the sixteenth floor.
The name on the door matched the moniker on the card—just as fancy and in big gold letters, even bigger than the word INVESTMENTS below it. I turned the knob and pushed the door open with my shoulder, backed in diffidently, holding my paint can and brush as proof of identity and motive. Nobody said anything, and when I turned to look I saw that the receptionist’s desk was empty, as I’d hoped. Five o’clock. Quitting time. But the door was unlocked, the light still on in the boss’s office.
I took off the cap, put down the paint can and brush, and stepped through the door.
He was standing by the window, looking down toward the street below.
Put it on my desk, he said.
Whatever it is, I don’t have it, I replied.
He turned around faster than I had expected. But whatever he had in mind left him when I pulled my right hand out of my shirt and showed him the bone-handled skinning knife I’d just pulled from the sheath under my left arm. He froze.
You? he said.
Only one word, but it was as good as an entire book. No doubt about it now. My Helper felt like a burning coal.
Me, I agreed.
Where? he asked. I had to hand it to him. He was really good at one-word questions that spoke volumes.
You mean Mutt and Jeff? They’re not coming. They got tied up elsewhere.
You should be dead.
Disappointing. Now that he was speaking in longer sentences he was telling me things I already knew, though he was still talking about himself when I gave his words a second thought.
You’d think with the current state of the market, I observed, that you would have left the Bull at the start of your name, Mr. Weathers. Then you might have given your investors some confidence.
My second attempt at humorous banter fell as flat as the first. No response other than opening his mouth a little wider. Time to get serious.
I’m not going to kill you here, I said. Even though you deserve it for what you and your family did back then. How old were you? Eighteen, right? But you took part just as much as they did. A coward too. You just watched without trying to save them from me? Where were you?
Up on the hill, he said. His lips tight. There was sweat on his forehead now.
So, aside from investments, what have you been doing since then? Keeping up the family hobbies?
I looked over at the safe against the wall. You have a souvenir or two in there? No, don’t open it to show me. People keep guns in safes. Sit. Not at the desk. Right there on the windowsill.
What are you going to do?
Deliver you to the police. Along with a confession. I took a pad and a pen off the desk. Write it now, starting with what you and your family did at your farm and including anyone else you’ve hurt since then.
There was an almost eager look on his weaselly face as he took the paper and pen from my hands. That look grew calmer and more superior as he wrote. Clearly, he knew he was a being of a different order than common humans. As far above us as those self-centered scientists say modern men are above the chimpanzees. Like the politicians who sent in the federal troops against the army of veterans who’d camped in Washington, DC this past summer asking that the bonuses they’d been promised for their service be paid to them. Men I knew who’d survived the trenches of Belgium and France, dying on American soil at the hands of General MacArthur’s troops.
The light outside faded as the sun went down while he wrote. By the time he was done he’d filled twenty pages, each one numbered at the bottom, several of them with intricate explicatory drawings.
I took his confession and the pen. I placed the pad on the desk, kept one eye on him as I flipped the pages with the tip of the pen. He’d been busy. Though he’d moved on beyond Indian kids, his tastes were still for the young, the weak, those powerless enough to not be missed or mourned by the powers that be. Not like the Lindbergh baby, whose abduction and death had made world news this past spring. No children of the famous or even the moderately well-off. Just those no one writes about. Indians, migrant workers, Negro children, immigrants…
He tried not to smirk as I looked up from the words that made me sick to my stomach.
Ready to take me in now?
I knew what he was thinking. A confession like this, forced at the point of a knife by a… person… who was nothing more than an insane, ignorant Indian. Him a man of money and standing, afraid for his life, ready to write anything no matter how ridiculous. When we went to any police station, all he had to do was shout for help and I’d be the one who’d end up in custody.
One more thing, I said.
You have the knife. His voice rational, agreeable.
I handed him back the pad and pen.
On the last page, print I’m sorry in big letters and then sign it.
Of course he wasn’t and of course he did.
Thank you, I said, taking the pad. I glanced over his shoulder out the window at the empty sidewalk far below.
There, I said, pointing into the darkness.
He turned his head to look. Then I pushed him.
I didn’t lie, I said, even though I doubt he could hear me with the wind whistling past his face as he hurtled down past floor after floor. I didn’t kill you. The ground did.