Good Day to Die (31 page)

“I want you to take a look at this and make a decision, Captain,” I said, handing her a large shopping bag. “While we’re driving.”

I didn’t bother to wait for her reaction, because I was pretty sure what that reaction would be. I pulled the car away from the curb and began to make my way along Vernon Boulevard toward Astoria and the Triborough Bridge as fast as the early morning traffic would allow.

“Is this what I think it is?” She held up a piece of electronic equipment the size of a playing card.

“It’s a transmitter, Captain. And the box contains a receiver and a tape recorder. The tape recorder is voice activated and can hold eight full hours of conversation. The box, by the way, is weatherproof. It could sit in those woods for ten years without any damage to what’s inside.”

“And what do you want to do with it?” Her voice was as cold as the rain pounding on the windshield.

“Look, Captain, don’t take it the wrong way. I’m only offering a possibility. And what I said last night still holds true. I’m not going to make any moves on my own.” I paused to let the message penetrate. “I can plant this where nobody will find it and come back to pick it up a week or a month later. I can bug the phone, too. I mean we’re not dealing with the KGB here. Kennedy will never suspect, and even if he does, his kind of search won’t find anything. Not unless he’s a lot more sophisticated than he looks.”

My only purpose was to throw her off the track. (I didn’t, for instance, want her to exorcise the fear-demons by checking my gear.) She was supposed to dismiss the proposal out of hand. But that wasn’t the way it went down, which was all to the good as far as I was concerned. We got into a long conversation about how I’d conceal the bugs (in the ceiling, behind the wallboard, in the base of a lamp) and how I’d retrieve them (I wouldn’t) and what we’d do with what we got.

“The way I see it,” Bouton said as we picked our way through the Bronx, “you’re going in there for two reasons, to save us a little time by making sure Kennedy’s actually involved, and to avoid the attention of the task force. I don’t see the point of gathering evidence.”

“Suppose I don’t find anything.”

“Look, Means, while you’re in the woods, I’m going to be talking with the sheriff. If …”

“Get him to come to you.”

“What?”

“Don’t walk into the sheriff’s office. Two visits within a week and Kennedy’s gonna know he’s a suspect. Get Pousson to come to you. If you can.”

“I think we’ve been over this already.” She fished a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose loudly. “Can we get back to the subject at hand?” Sure.

“Bugging the house gets us exactly nothing. Nothing we can use in a courtroom, anyway. You … Jesus Christ!”

As she was talking, an ancient Cadillac flew by us on the left, hit a puddle of water, then hydroplaned across four lanes of traffic to smash into the guard rail. An enormous eighteen-wheeler turned sharply to avoid the Caddy, began to jackknife, then came back under control. In the rearview mirror, I saw the guy in the Cadillac, a middle-aged, nearly bald man, jump out of his car and begin to kick the tires.

“Is he hurt?” Bouton asked, twisting around to get a better look.

“I hope so.”

We made it through Yonkers without any further conversation. Bouton stared straight ahead, fascinated, apparently, with the windshield wipers. The rain was falling steadily, a genuine spring soaker that held the promise of real persistence.

“You sure you’re going to be able to handle this, Means? In this fog? Isn’t it bound to be worse in the mountains?”

“The wetter, the better. Bad weather means fewer people on that trail. I don’t want anybody around when I take to the woods.”

“What if you miss the stream?”

“If I miss that stream, you can figure on meeting me in Canada.”

“I’m serious.”

“The stream is at the bottom of the valley, Captain. It’s surrounded by steep slopes. As long as I don’t do something really stupid, like climb
over
the mountain, I have to hit it.”

Thus reassured, she didn’t say anything else until after we’d crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge. Then she let loose with a peremptory snort.

“Forget the bugs, Means. The idea’s stupid. First of all, nothing those tapes pick up can be used as evidence. Second, even if you leave the hardware in the house, you have to go back to retrieve the tapes. Third, if Kennedy goes out to kill again, I don’t want to hear it on tape after he’s finished. Fourth, should Kennedy find those bugs, they’ll compromise any case we make against him.” She shook her head vigorously. “I don’t see any up side at all. Not a glimmer.”

I shrugged my shoulders and let it go at that. Bouton seemed preoccupied, anyway, which was just fine with me. I’d been describing my cross-country trek, from the hiking trail to the old logging road, as a stroll through Central Park. The truth was that I was going to bushwhack, in the rain, through five miles of dense forest with approximately forty pounds of gear on my back. I never doubted myself (didn’t, for instance, spend a minute thinking about what would happen to me if I slipped and broke a leg); I knew I could do it. But I also understood the effort required. I’d be lucky to make it in under six hours.

Even with our leaving New York early and me pressing seventy-five miles an hour (the Dodge had a pronounced left-hand pull, adding a tension of its own to the journey), I wouldn’t get started on the main event before two o’clock. Add six hours to that and it’d be near sundown by the time I got to Kennedy’s house, which would have been all right on a fine sunny day. In the rain, however …

We had breakfast on the Thruway, slimy eggs and cold, soggy bacon. The Thruway being far more cosmopolitan than Owl Creek, our fellow diners confined their reactions to quick disapproving glances. Bouton was oblivious anyway, forking her breakfast into her mouth with robotic precision.

Fork, chew, swallow; fork, chew, swallow; fork, chew, swallow.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Captain,” I said, cursing myself for a fool, “is something wrong? You don’t seem to be your bright, cheery self this morning.”

She looked up at me, taking a deep breath.

“Lydia’s gone,” she said.

“Who? What?”

Her eyes blazed. “Lydia Singleton,” she repeated, very, very slowly.

“Oh, you mean …” I almost said, “Dolly Dope,” catching myself at the last second.

“Yeah,
that’s
who I mean.”

“So, what happened?” The question was strictly for the record.

“She walked out of the rehab center last night. Nobody knows where she is, and now there’s nobody to go look for her. I was up all night deciding whether or not to cancel this trip.”

“You were gonna do that for a fucking dope addict?” Now, my eyes were blazing, too. As a cop, you deal with the insanity of the streets every day. You get used to that insanity, adjust your tactics in deference to it. But you don’t expect it from your partner, even if she
has
spent her career with her lips pressed to her superiors’ buttocks.

Bouton passed the next couple of minutes trying to hard-look me into submission. When that didn’t work, she got up, turned her back and marched off toward the door. Leaving me no choice but to follow.

The rest of the trip was conducted in silence. Bouton fumed, and I kept my big mouth shut even though my anger had dissipated almost as quickly as it had come. In truth, I’d been feeling a little guilty about deceiving Bouton (as I said, it’d come to the point where I actually liked her), but her attitude absolved me of all responsibility. I could not have told her the truth, could not have confided in her. Kennedy and spouse were prime suspects in nearly two dozen homicides. That should have been enough to make her forget the very existence of Dolly Dope. Add the possibility that the two of us, acting against the collective wisdom of the largest task force ever assembled (not to mention the FBI), had a decent chance to solve the crime all by our little selves, and Bouton’s concern for a junkie prostitute bordered on the obsessive. I felt like ratting her out to Miriam Brock.

We arrived at the trailhead just before one o’clock. I shut down the engine and stared at the little sign with its red arrow: “Black Mountain Lookout, 7.3 miles.”

“Well, we’re here,” Bouton said.

“Clever observation, Captain.” The rain had slackened, but the mist was denser than ever, an iron-gray curtain that transformed the closer trees into stately ghosts. The ones farther away were invisible altogether.

Bouton ignored the dig. “I can’t believe you’re going into that. It looks like the end of the world.”

“You should see it in winter.”

I got out, walked around back, and opened the trunk. Despite my impatience, I went through the drill carefully. Knowing that if I made a mistake, the forest would not forgive me. The leather belt with its various attachments—knife, compass, pepper spray, hatchet, binoculars—came out first. I cinched it around my waist, noting its heft. Then I removed the poncho, slipped my arms into the backpack’s shoulder strap, and heaved it up onto my shoulders.

It was heavy; I can’t deny it. I hadn’t carried this much weight since Vietnam. But after I’d tightened the hip straps and taken some of the load off my shoulders, it became supportable. I slid the poncho over my head, then struggled to pull it down over the backpack.

“Give me a hand, Captain. I’m getting forgetful in my old age. You’re supposed to put it on from back to front.”

She yanked the poncho down over the backpack, then came around to face me. “You be careful, Means.” Her tone said she meant it, but it wasn’t the time for reconciliations or farewells. The forest was singing to me. I believe the song was “Embraceable You.” But it could just as easily have been “Helter Skelter.”

“If I’m not back in three days, Captain, send in the troops.”

That was it. No hugs, no tears. I could feel the mist closing around me as I marched off. Caressing me as gently as a mother caressing a fragile child. I told myself to be purposeful. Told myself that I had a job to do. But I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I’d come home. And that I was welcome.

Somewhere in the distance, a cardinal sang his mating song, a complex series of sharp metallic whistles that trailed off hopefully. I looked for him in the trees and he appeared right on cue, swooping down to light on a branch overhanging the trail. He cocked his head to get a good look at me, then sang again, listened to a second cardinal’s challenge, and flew away.

I marched off, stepping over the muddier patches, using exposed roots and rocks to gain purchase. The forest rose up on both sides, a mixture of beech and maples, tamarack and spruce, with here and there a thick stand of northern hemlock. The hardwoods were still in the process of spring renewal, their half-formed leaves yellow-green and nearly transparent. The evergreens looked like they’d been there forever.

Twenty minutes later, after a steep climb, I made the jumping-off point, an enormous boulder that projected over the edge of the mountain. It was supposed to serve as a lookout, inspiring hikers to continue on up to the summit. But for me, standing at the edge, looking over the crowns of the tallest trees, my inspiration came from that seemingly impenetrable gray curtain. I wanted to disappear inside it, to embrace my invisibility.

How many times had I fled, terrified, into the forest? How many times had the forest taken me under its wing, hiding me, feeding me, protecting me? I sat on the rock and leaned up against the backpack, letting the rain wash over me. There was work to be done, and time was pressing, but I intended to enjoy my welcome, even if it meant spending an extra day in the woods. Human time had no meaning here anyway. I was the prodigal idiot, wondering why I’d stayed away all those years when the only thing awaiting me was a feast. How could I have been so stupid?

I don’t know how long I sat there, but when I finally heaved myself up, my jeans were soaked. Not that I’d had any hope of keeping them dry. But their weight seemed to root me in the job I had to do. I backed off the overlook, found a spot where the slope was tenable, and stepped off.

The trip to Kennedy’s was going to be simple enough, even though my progress would be slow and painstaking. With landmarks like the stream and the abandoned logging road, there was no way I could miss the mark. Getting back, on the other hand, would present me with a serious problem. I had to make sure I left the stream exactly where I’d come onto it. If I missed the hiking trail, Bouton
would
be picking me up in Canada.

That’s what the hatchet was for. I didn’t need it to chop down trees for firewood. There was more than enough deadfall to cook my food (assuming I could bring myself to eat that freeze-dried doggie chow) and keep me toasty warm. The hatchet was there to blaze a trail from the jumping-off point to the stream, a trail I could follow back.

It wasn’t a very complicated procedure. An arrow chopped into the side of a tree pointing to an arrow chopped into the side of tree pointing to another …But encased by a poncho, with forty pounds of gear on my back and another five strapped to my waist, it definitely came under the heading of hard work, and I was pouring sweat before I got two hundred yards down the slope.

Not that I minded. I needed to ground myself in the present, and there’s nothing like smacking a hatchet into the side of a tree while standing on a steep, muddy slope to focus your attention on the task at hand. Then, too, the way was anything but straight. Fallen trees and sheer cliffs forced me to change direction again and again, to at times work back up the slope. A map of my progress would have resembled a kid’s connect-the-dots puzzle.

It took me an hour and a half to reach the pounding, foaming torrent that’d looked so innocent on the map. The stream was only thirty feet wide, and probably no more than a couple of feet deep for most of its course, but swollen with rain and snowmelt, it roared over the boulders with mind-boggling intensity, reaching out to flood the dense brush and thick stands of birch and aspen lining its banks.

Too bad. In summer it’d be little more than a trickle, and I’d be able to make the streambed into my own little highway. Now, I’d have to trudge through the forest, relying on my ears to stay in contact while I worked my way around obstacles. But that’s not what bothered me. There was every possibility that, at some point, the stream brushed up against a wall of solid rock. A cliff that couldn’t be climbed or circled. Should that happen, I’d have to enter the water, and if the stream should drop off into a gorge at the same time …