The Railroad (23 page)

What would I leave behind?

*

Despite the lack of sleep I woke up relatively early the next morning. I knew Moskowitz would be at work, but I thought I’d thank him for the movie. I guess it had affected me more deeply than I would have liked to admit.

 I dialed Moskowitz's number and he answered on the first ring. He sounded harried but asked me what had been happening. I ran down the last week: there was the incident in the bar, the break in and, of course, Wills's intrepid detective work in my trashed house. I thought for a moment before putting forth my new theories of the
Chapter and Verse
murders; he would most likely shoot me down. Then it hit me that I had to take my suspicions seriously if anyone else was going to; I told him about the connection between Benoit and the murders. For some reason I decided to leave out my conversation with Felice Hammon’s mother; I thought that he might try to talk me out of my investigation.

“Whoa,” Moskowitz said when I’d finished. “You don’t just sit on your ass, do you?”

“I try to keep busy.”

“You might be busier soon; I doubt Benoit will let this go with a warning. He’s sensitive in his own sick way.”

“I’m not worried about his feelings.”

“ Have you reconsidered the Manhattan alternative?”

“No. I feel that there are things I have to do here.”

“Oh god! Did you see
Rambo
lately?”

“Actually I watched
Fahrenheit
451
last night.

“What?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I watched it. I am surprised to find that, unlike everything else you do, there was no point you were trying to make by giving it to me.”

“Hmmm…there is a point, but not about your situation. I just wanted you to have it. It means a lot to me.”

“I can see why. Maybe that’s why I came up to chez Moosehead to live. To find  a meaning. I’ve spent too much time with the buzzing of corporate America in my ears. I want…I wanted things. All kinds of things. And now they don’t  mean much.”

“I get it. Look I can’t stay on long. I wanted to know what you think you have that’s keeping you here?”

“All the things I’ve told you. Benoit. The murders. Eileen.”

“You can’t do much for Eileen up here that you couldn’t do in the City."

“And if he’s murdered all these woman?”

“That’s a new one! Are you serious? What makes you think that?

“Things he said to me in a phone call. He and his friends decided they wouldn’t put up with having things taken from them. That’s how he put it. He went on and on about it.”

“Come on, Mike! You don’t know anything for sure. At least you can’t prove it. So you’re not doing anyone any good.”

“I was always taught that it was better to be safe than sorry.”

“I know you’ll think I’m an ass for saying this, but you have to let it go. Yes, this is America, but you can’t save everyone. Except yourself in this case.”

I don’t know why, but I had been holding back the one detail that had made me start this crusade; the postcard I’d received with
4-5-1
written on it. At that moment, I found that I wanted Moskowitz to believe me. So I let it go.

“What if there’s another little detail that seems important to me,” I said.

“Like what?”

“I’ve been getting these postcards.” I stopped, feeling stupid.

“What kind of postcards?”

What the hell. “I started getting them a few weeks back. The first few were from places I have no connection with. I have no idea why I got them. They just had my address on them and nothing else. No message or anything.”

“This makes you think Benoit is one of the
Chapter and Verse Killers
?”

“You know, I wonder why I even want to tell you anything.”

“Oh shit, Mike. You’re not going to get all sensitive on me, are you?”

“Heaven forbid. What I was about to say is that I got one a couple of days ago that had a message: 
4-5-1
”.

I thought that I heard a small gasp but, in a second, it seemed like an illusion, maybe just some noise on the phone. “You’re kidding me,” he said.

“Oh yes. This whole thing has been a big joke. There is no Eileen or Megan. The two girls you met were just actors. It’s a reality show. Fuck you.”

“This isn’t a joke! That’s all it said,
4-5-1
?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize the handwriting?”

“No, of course not. It looked vaguely like a child’s writing, but that could be faked.”

“So who do you think sent it?”

“Who else? Benoit! He’s the only one who’d be trying to psych me out. Probably all the postcards came from him. I doubt it would be one of my friends in the City, the few that know where I am. He put the numbers
4-5-1
on it. Why would he do that unless he wanted me to know?”

“He wanted to freak you out. It makes him seem more important than he is.”

“You’re not listening!”

“I’m not. This is bullshit. Where was the postcard from?”

I thought for a second. “A town called Pesquot. That’s what it was. Pesquot Glass Works.”

“Hmm….”

“You know the place?”

There was a pause where Steve said nothing. That in itself was amazing.

“Steve?”

Another second went by until he seemed to return to himself “No. I’ve never been to Maine. That’s got to be 10 miles from the Canadian border if I remember correctly.”

“I guess so.”

“I don’t get to New England much, Mike.”

“I guess there isn’t much call for Jewish pro bono lawyers up there.”

“I’ve never been north of Boston.”

“Somehow that fits. The point is when my house was trashed, that postcard was the only thing that was missing."

There was another pause. I was waiting for another opinion about my paranoia when he surprised me by saying, “Listen, I gotta go. I’m glad you watched the movie. I’ll call you later.”

I was about to pursue his strange lack of interest, but something told me to let it go. “I’ll be here.”

“Hopefully not if you take my advice.”

“Bye Moskowitz.”

“Bye.”

*

Somewhere in the night I woke up with something nagging at me. When I tried to go back to sleep I found that whatever it was that was bothering me had weaved itself into my dreams and wouldn’t let me sleep peacefully.

I decided to sit up and stay awake for a few minutes and clear my head. All I could remember from my dreams were the numbers 451 which, of course, wasn’t miraculous considering the continued press the
Chapter and Verse
Killers
were still getting. But there was something else and it seemed to be related to something recent that had happened to me.

I ran my mind back through the past couple of days four times before I remembered what I’d done only days before. I’d gone to Steve’s house.

And he’d given me a movie called
Fahrenheit 451
.

4-5-1
.

In the following hour I bounced back and forth between two extremes: one a certainty that Moskowitz was not a murderer; that in fact all of his actions proved he was a protector of weak people, destroyed by the system.

The other extreme was one that came from my gut; it seemed far too convenient a coincidence to be ignored. There was too much
rightness
in the idea that there had to be a connection.

In the end I drifted off to sleep, sure of both extremes and strangely aware that I wouldn’t be able to prove either. All I could say conclusively was the fact that I knew almost nothing about Steve Moskowitz and that I’d have to be wary.

*

Two days after my visit to the library I was puttering around the house, getting ready to go to the McDonalds. The bell rang.

No one came by to see me except Moskowitz and he was at work. I walked slowly to the door, trying to imagine what I’d do if someone broke it in or if there was someone unfriendly on the porch. I went to the bedroom and peeked through a crack in the window shades.

It was Dennis. I ran back and jerked open the door. We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“You’re going to tell me I should have called,” he said.

I tried my best to be angry but it didn’t quite work. I immediately thought of Benoit and his friends and wondered if it was safe for Dennis to be anywhere near chez Moosehead. But it was likely he'd already been seen. What the hell.

“Come in,” I said, gesturing into the house.

“You don’t seem happy I’m here.”

“I’ll explain.”

He took a look at my living room and whistled. “As ugly as I remember. A triumph.”

“It fits my mood and my experience. A drink?”

“Sure.”

I went into the kitchen and poured a couple of Laphroaigs on ice; I thought he deserved the torment of the whiskey after the way he’d been to me back in New York. When I returned, Dennis was looking out the window into the backyard. “Pretty desolate looking,” he said, turning.

“I can’t say I’m not happy to see you, but you should know what’s been happening.” So I told him. A couple of hours later we’d gone through two thirds of the bottle and Dennis had become entranced with my story.

“You don’t stand still,” he said when I’d been silent for a few seconds. “How did all this happen to you?”

“It came to me. I didn’t ask Elena to call me.”

He stood up and looked out the window. “I don’t see anything.”

“That doesn’t mean someone isn’t there. I have the feeling that Benoit would like to know what I’m doing all the time. Just to make himself feel better.”

“I’m thinking about what I can do and there isn’t a lot. Whatever crimes have taken place, if you can say there are any, have taken place outside my jurisdiction. Even if they were in my jurisdiction…”

“I know.”

“You may want to think about getting out of here.”

“I have. I’m not really sure why I’m staying as it is.”

“Because you’re stubborn.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not a good reason to get yourself killed.”

Well, there it was. “No, it isn’t.”

He sank down into one of my ratty chairs. “So what are you going to do?”

“To be honest, I haven’t really been thinking about it much. Why did you come up here anyway?”

“Are you angry?”

“No, Dennis. You’re my friend and I’m glad you came up here. I was just wondering why, after all this time.”

He seemed uncomfortable but he answered. “I thought you didn’t want me in your life anymore. I was really pissed at you. But, all of a sudden it seemed like it was partially my choice too. And suddenly I knew that if I came up here you wouldn’t tell me to go home.”

“True.” I smiled.

“Are you still angry, the way you were?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, angry at New York, mad at Crabtree and Dain. Angry at Barbara.”

“I guess not anymore. It doesn’t feel that way, at least. I just feel tired."

He looked away. “I hope you’re not pissed that I came up here.”

I stood up. “I don’t feel so tired anymore. You want to go to dinner?”

“Do they have Thai up here?”

“One that I know of.”

“Let’s see what it’s like.”

*

The next morning I spent some time with Dennis going over the details of what Benoit had been doing. He wanted to hear it all again to see what legal possibilities there were. When I got to the phone calls he stopped me.

“How often does he call you?”

“Once every couple of days as far as I can tell, but he doesn’t always say anything.”

“They’ll know he called if his number is attached to a call. You know you can complain to the phone company. They can monitor the line if they’re convinced a crime is being committed.”

“What’s the crime?”

“Harassment. Remember, they actually own the lines. You rent them. So if something is being done on the phone that isn’t legal, they have the right to police it. My cousin had an ex-boyfriend harassing her

and she called Verizon. They put something called a Dial Number Recorder which records numbers and also voice, if they want it to.”

I sighed. “I wonder if they’ll get in touch with the police. I’m not too popular with them.”

He thought it over. “Maybe once they decide a crime is being committed. But they aren’t going to call your friend Wills right away. First they’ll monitor your lines. It may give you some more ammunition with the police, whether they like it or not. If the phone company makes a complaint, they have to follow up on it. It’ll end up on his record.”