Skull Session (21 page)

He looked around at the room again, then jotted another note:
Look
up Salvatore Falcone.

Golden's Bridge was quiet: The commuters' cars were still parked along the roads, but the bad weather had discouraged shoppers. The pavement felt greasy beneath his wheels. Paul stopped at a pay phone and managed to reach Albert Martin, who told him to come on over.

Martin's Garage in Somers had been there since time immemorial, a ramshackle cluster of clapboard buildings on the side of Route 100, with an old-fashioned portico over the pumps, a repair shop with a lift, and a separate body shop surrounded by collision-damaged cars. Sandy Martin had lived on the second floor when Paul was a boy, but in his old age he'd moved elsewhere and turned the apartment over to his son. Paul parked alongside the garage and walked to the back of the building. Near the end of the lot a wiremesh fence surrounded a collection of heavy swinging gates of the sort he envisioned for Highwood, stacked haphazardly. He scanned the lot, then knocked at a wooden door in the main building. A muffled voice shouted for him to come in.

He went up a steep stairway into air thick with the smell of frying onions and stuffy with heat, and was greeted at the top by a short, wiry man in his mid-forties, wearing a mechanic's coverall. His forehead was beaded with sweat.

"I'm Albert. Come on in. Have a seat in the living room." In a quieter voice, he said to Paul, "Sorry about the heat—Granny gets cold if the thermostat's below eighty. Dad's mom."

He showed Paul through a narrow hallway into a living room, where Paul took a seat on a vinyl-covered couch that had probably once served in the filling station's office.

"I was just making lunch," Albert said. "Lemme grab a bite and I'll be right with you." He disappeared back down the hall, and Paul heard the clatter of dishes.

The living room contained an unusual mix of furniture and objects. On the walnut coffee table in front of the couch were auto-repair invoices on clipboards, automotive magazines, a used distributor cap, and a new oil filter, along with a delicate porcelain vase holding some dusty fabric flowers. Across the room was a large overstuffed chair, its back draped with a piece of yellowed lace. Next to the chair, an antique side table held a glass of water containing a set of false teeth, shocking pink plastic gums magnified by the curve of glass.

Paul had been sitting alone for a few moments when the door behind the chair opened and a little old woman came out. Her hair made a thin white halo around her head, her back was humped beneath a faded purple shawl, the skin of her face hung in loose folds. There could be no doubt whose teeth were in the glass.

She closed the door carefully behind her and then, taking many small steps, turned and sat with difficulty in the chair. When she noticed Paul, her face broke into a smile.

"Oh, hello," she said. She said it with such warmth that Paul thought for a moment she recognized him.

"Hello," he said. "I'm just here to talk to Albert."

"Oh," she said. She nodded approvingly. "And who are you?"

"I'm Paul Skoglund."

"Paul Skoglund, Paul Skoglund," she said, frowning, shaking her head. "No, I don't think I've seen you before."

"Well, we moved away from the area a long time ago. Maybe you knew Ben and Aster Skoglund, my parents? I'm back here to fix up the old lodge at Highwood."

"Scofield, Scofield. No—no, I don't think so." Then her face brightened. "Here's Albert!" She spoke as if she hadn't seen him in a long time.

Albert came out carrying a plate of fried onions and sausages, and took a seat at the other end of the vinyl couch. Even with the smell of the onions in the air, Paul caught the chemical scent of auto body filler from his clothes.

"My granny," Albert said, pointing with his chin at the old woman. He took a bite of sausage and chewed hastily. "Sorry," he said when he'd swallowed. "So you need a gate over at Highwood."

"Yes. I've got the measurements here." He handed Albert a sketch of the end of the drive with the stone pillars marked on it.

Albert set down his plate to look over the sketch. "I know the place.

So, about sixteen feet between the old stone pillars. Probably you'd want to set the new posts just inside and behind the pillars."

"I'd like something sturdy."

"Oh, it'll be sturdy. We'll sink a stainless steel post, six by six, at each end. Set the posts in concrete footings. Your choice of about eight different styles. I got a catalog here—" Albert dug in the piles of papers, looking frustrated. "Sorry. Hang on a sec." He got up and disappeared through a doorway.

The ancient woman was holding the glass in one shaky hand and trying to fish her teeth out of it with two fingers of the other hand. She hooked one of the plates, fished it up and installed it in her mouth, then did the same with the second plate. She grimaced around her new teeth to seat them on her gums.

"I always felt so sorry for that woman," Granny said.

"Oh. Yes," Paul said.

"And the children. One just a baby, and the older one, he wasn't right in his head. So sorry for them all." She shook her head sadly.

Albert returned with a sheaf of papers, including a couple of glossy pamphlets that he set in front of Paul. "Got 'em. Take a look. This I can get you, cost is"—he checked his price list—"fourteen hundred. That'd look good in there."

Paul scanned the pamphlets, which showed driveway gates of various sizes and designs. "What've you got that you could put up right away? As I told you, I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"No problem, no problem," Albert said. He took another ravenous bite of onions and sausage and rummaged on the table again. "Sorry. Damn! I know I've got my inventory list somewhere."

Granny coughed genteelly into a handkerchief she had pulled out of her sleeve. "They were quite wealthy. I was the nanny—only for a little while, when the new baby came. I don't know whatever became of the other one. Of course, they were traveling so much, those first few years."

"Here it is," Albert said with relief. "Okay." He pointed to one after another of the gates in the pamphlet Paul held. "Right now, we got this, double gate, fourteen foot, in stock. A very successful product."

Paul asked the prices of several gates and settled on one that Albert had in the lot.

Albert claimed he could get the gate up this weekend. "This Saturday, mid-afternoon," he promised. "No problem. I've got a slot on my calendar, just opened up. Only take a few hours. Use it the next day, after the cement's set." He started to scan the table, apparently for the calendar, but gave it up and looked to Paul as if for sympathy.

Sweltering, Paul wrote out a check, then stood to go.

"And then to have to live up there with no husband, all those years!"

Granny said, scandalized. "That poor woman. That poor family."

"Okay, Gran, Mr. Skoglund has to go now," Albert said, just a trace of impatience in his voice.

"Skoglund—no, I don't think I know Skoglund," she said.

At the phone booth in Somers, Paul called to order some botded gas for the heater in the carriage house, left a message for Stewart Cohen, the electrician Vivien had recommended, then called Becker's Plumbing and Heating, who agreed to send a man up Tuesday or Wednesday.

Telephone company: get service restored at Highwood. Tool rental: kerosene heater. Dempsey's answering machine: yes, dinner on Thursday would be great.

That left one little detail. He opened the directory and paged through until he found what he was looking for:
Salvatore Falcone.
He jotted down the Purdys address and number, not yet sure what he had in mind for the infamous Mr. Falcone.

24

P
AUL AWOKE WITH A JERK, unsure whether he'd really heard a noise or whether it was part of the dream he'd been having. He listened intently, lying motionless in the down sleeping bag, covered with a light sweat from head to foot. The room was pitch black, the windows slightly paler rectangles of darkness.

He had the impression the noise had come from the back of the carriage house, the woods, and he realized that in scouting the area he'd thought only of the house. Now he felt acutely aware of the tangled jungle that stretched away on three sides. He had only the vaguest sense of the landscape back there, a hodgepodge of recent glimpses and ancient memories: big trees, vines, boulders, ravines, brambles.

After several tense minutes of hearing only the blood hissing in his ears, he calmed somewhat and chided himself for his paranoia. With a racket of nylon he brought both arms free of the bag, found the Maglite, and flashed it quickly on and off to see his wristwatch: 4:30.

Ben had figured in the dream, and Paul felt the familiar sorrow come over him. Being here seemed to be awakening his memories of Ben. Or maybe it was connected to cutting back on haloperidol.

In the dream, he had been climbing with Ben at Break Neck, up the steep trail they'd climbed so many times together. Paul preceded Ben up the mountain, choosing his footing carefully, aware of his father's scrutiny from behind. At intervals he'd turn to face the valley, the breathtaking abyss with the flat Hudson River at the bottom, winding out of view. Like toys, the commuter train followed the curves of the riverbank, cars wound soundlessly along Route 9D. A pair of hawks wheeled in the updrafts, high above the valley but on a level with Paul and Ben.

"Wait'll we get up there," Ben had said, meaning,
The view will be even
better up top.
Or,
You're not out of breath yet, are you? At your age?
Well-meaning Ben, wanting his son to know all his joys and often robbing Paul of his own way of understanding. As if he didn't trust his son to appreciate natural beauty or to develop his own enthusiasms.

In the dream, Paul had continued up the trail, gripping outcroppings to hoist himself, testing each hold before trusting it with his weight. Yes, and resenting Ben's unrelenting advice, yet at the same time taking comfort that his father was behind him, to catch Paul if he lost his footing.

At one point Paul found himself with an impossibly steep slope to his right, a chasm so deep he couldn't stand to look over it. "The Chute," Ben said from behind. Paul had the sense of a bluish haze below him.

In his fear he placed a foot unwisely, then started to slide, catching at rocks only to have them give way. He scrabbled at the cliff face and managed to hook the edge of his boot on a nub of stone, and clung, panicking. When he twisted his head to call out to Ben, Ben wasn't there. The jumbled slope stretched away, the altitude unendurable. Yet more terrifying than the drop was Ben's absence. The sense of security he'd provided was an illusion.

Then as Paul hung in terror, Ben rose over the shoulder of rock to his right, body horizontal, arms outspread, floating with the buoyancy and precision of the hawks. Ben came over the near line of rocks like the rising moon, huge and vague, supported only by the air, still smiling and watching Paul, unbearably frightening.

And then the noise from outside had awakened Paul.

Paul roused, remembering to listen again. It had been a stupid dream, a nice Freudian mishmash that combined infantile fear of falling and abandonment with classical Oedipal resentment.

He sat up to light a candle and the room reversed Uke a photographic negative, the windows going flat black, the room springing bright in contrast. It was 5:30. He lit the Coleman stove, filled the mess-kit pot with water from the canteen, and put a spoonful of instant coffee in his camping mug. While he waited for the water to boil, he selected his tools for the day's work. First job: hang the new kitchen door he'd bought. Then the windows. Once the windows were covered on the outside, he could remove the broken sashes from inside and hire out the glazing. Maybe Dempsey would be willing to do it.

By eleven o'clock he'd hung the new kitchen door and covered all ten broken windows on the eastern facade. He'd gone to the terrace to cut another piece of plastic when he heard gravel crunch and pop in the driveway and the low rumble of a car's motor.
Too early to be Lia.

Without thinking about it, he took the crowbar out of his toolbox, his heart racing as a rush of adrenaline hit his bloodstream.
So near the surface:
the fear that you don't admit is there.
His stomach muscles clenched in a powerful tic.

He was surprised to see a dark-blue-and-yellow State Police cruiser mount the rise. Without a sound, its blue strobe bar started flashing, then the car slid down into the drive. The door opened, and a trooper stood up out of the car, adjusting his broad-brimmed hat before stepping beyond the open door and facing Paul alertly.

"Good morning," the trooper said. He looked to be in his mid-forties. His uniform was crisp on a trim, compact frame, and he had a narrow face, partly concealed by sunglasses. He grinned humorlessly, as if sensing Paul's discomfort.

"Morning," Paul said.

"Don't like cops?"

Paul hesitated. "What?"

"I said, 'Don't like cops?'" The smile stretched. "Got plans for the crowbar?"

Paul looked down, surprised to see the tool still in his fist. He tossed it into the toolbox. "Sorry. You startled me."

The policeman took off his sunglasses and folded them carefully with one hand into his shirt pocket as he scanned the facade of the house, the other hand resting lightly on the handle of his gun. "You're supposed to say, T like cops okay. I just feel better when they're not around.' Chuck Bukowski. Funniest line he ever wrote. Funny thing is, I feel the same way, and I'm a cop. As you may have noticed." He stepped easily up the terrace stairs, and stood appraising Paul with piercing eyes set closely in a face that was handsome in a predatory way. "And your name is—?"

"Paul Skoglund."

"Mr. Skoglund, I'm Trooper Peter Rizal of the New York State Police. Now, you turn around, put your hands against the wall, and spread your legs. Don't move unless I tell you to. You know the drill."

The grin had stayed on Rizal's face.

"Fuck!"
Paul barked. It started to come again and he tried to camouflage it:
"Look,
I'm supposed to be fixing this place up. I don't know any goddamned drill." His hands clapped in the air toward Rizal.

Rizal had his pistol out of its holster so fast Paul never saw him reach for it. The policeman stood, legs wide, gun held in two hands and pointed at Paul's chin. "Do the thing or I'll blow your fucking face through the back of your head."

Paul turned, unbelieving, put his hands on the shingles. "I'm fixing this place up!"

"Feet back! Farther!" Rizal barked.

Paul did as he was told, until he was leaning forward on his hands, well off balance. His lungs compulsively squeezed, but he bit off the
Fuck!
and made it come out as just a bark. He felt Rizal's hands slapping his body: chest, back, inner thighs, groin. When he was done, Rizal slid Paul's wallet out of his pocket and stood back for a moment, apparently looking over his identification.

"You can turn around now." Rizal handed back the wallet. The grin was back. "You don't think it's a little early in the day to be indulging in your drug of choice?"

"I've got a neurological disorder." Paul's face writhed and knotted in a powerful tic. He panted from rage and frustration, as much at himself, his fate, as at the cop. The whole pile of shit was too much.

Rizal walked casually along the front of the house, looking around at the headless statues, the broken windows, the glass and odd parts of furniture that had ended up on the terrace. He'd slid his gun into its holster and now seemed utterly unconcerned about Paul.

"What do you want here, Officer?"

Rizal stopped to peer through one of the tall windows that flanked the front door. "Christ on a crutch! Place is a mess, isn't it?"

"Look!
Yeah, it's a mess and I'm supposed to put things in order. I'd like to get back to work."

Rizal glanced at him, crossed his eyes as if imitating what he saw, a real looney-tune, then continued inspecting the house. "So you're from Vermont. Nice up there, isn't it? I like to get up to Stowe three, four times every winter, do some skiing." He bent to pick up the carved mahogany arm of a chair, inspected it briefly, then tossed it down again. "Long way to travel to put plastic on windows. Plus, I mean, talk is some crackheads've been coming up from the city. Real crazies. Be unpleasant if they came back, no? Unless maybe they're friends of yours."

"I'd like you to leave now, unless you have some legitimate reason for being on these premises. But before you go, I want your badge number and the name of your superior officer."

Rizal chuckled and went down the stairs and back to the idling cruiser. "Trooper Peter Rizal, Lewisboro barracks. I'm sure my superior officer will welcome your point of view. Station Commander Sergeant Miller. By all means, call him, Mr. Skoglund. In the meantime, I'll do some thinking about what neurological condition you may have ingested." He took off his hat and tossed it into the car's passenger seat, then took out his sunglasses and polished them thoughtfully before slipping them on. "And you have a nice day."

Paul watched the car take the circle and then accelerate over the rise. The cruiser had idled so long it had filled the air with the smell of exhaust.

Paul's body still seemed to burn where the cop had slapped him during the frisk. The tics jerked out of him. He should have taken Ted's advice and stopped into the local State Police barracks to let them know he'd be working there. No one was ever ready for Tourette's. Fuck. But Rizal's sardonic way of talking, his insinuations and advice, had seemed almost deliberately calculated to antagonize Paul, humiliate him, get him worked up.