47
Harlan Vetters and Paul Scollay had headed out on their fateful hunting trip in the afternoon, but it didn’t seem like a good idea for us to follow suit: the plane would be difficult enough to find in daylight, and flashlights would mark our position and progress just as surely as the noise of ATVs. Neither did it seem smart to leave at or before dawn, as the likelihood of encountering hunters was greater. I decided that we would leave shortly before ten a.m., which would give us a clear five or six hours of good light before the sun began to set, by which time we would, with luck, have found the plane, obtained the list, and be on our way back to Falls End without incident.
‘With luck,’ said Louis, without enthusiasm.
‘We never have luck,’ said Angel.
‘Which is why we always need guns,’ said Louis.
We were staying at a motel five miles south of Falls End. Next door was a diner that sold only seven types of bottled beer: Bud, Miller and Coors; Bud Light, Miller Lite, and Coors Light; and Heineken.
We were drinking Heineken.
Jackie Garner was back in his room, trying to explain to his mother why he was not joining her for their weekly movie night, especially as she and Lisa, Jackie’s girlfriend, had rented Fifty First Dates for him because they knew how much he liked Drew Barrymore. Jackie, who neither liked nor disliked Drew Barrymore, and had no idea how this neutral position had been transformed into something close to an obsession, had no satisfactory answer to give other than that a job was a job. He had told me earlier that his mother had seemed more like her normal self these past few days, which meant that she was just inordinately possessive of her only son. But it was also the case that Jackie’s mother, who had previously regarded Jackie’s girlfriend as a rival for her son’s affections, had softened her position over the past year. Having clearly noticed that the relationship between her son and Lisa was not about to fall apart any time soon, despite her best efforts, Mrs Garner had decided it was better to have her as an ally than an enemy, and Lisa had come to the same conclusion. The onset of Mrs Garner’s final illness now lent both a poignancy and convenience to this relationship.
The diner was full, and a lot of the conversation revolved around events in Falls End. There appeared to be no change in the condition of Marielle and Grady Vetters. By contrast, judging by the talk in the diner, the focus of the investigation into the deaths of Teddy Gattle and Ernie Scollay had rapidly altered, and Grady Vetters was no longer being treated as a suspect.
‘They got injected with somethin’, is what I heard,’ a big, bearded man had told me in the restroom just minutes earlier. He was swaying as he stood at the urinal, so he resorted to leaning his head against the wall to keep himself steady while he peed.
‘Who did?’
‘Marielle and Grady,’ said the man. ‘Somebody stuck a needle in ’em.’
‘How’d you hear this?’
‘My brother-in-law is a sheriff’s deputy.’ He belched hard. ‘No way Grady injected himself, so he’s no killer. I could have told them that. Anyone in town could have. You here to hunt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Need a guide?’
‘Got one, thanks.’
If he heard me, he decided to ignore what I said. He fumbled in his pocket with his right hand while continuing to aim with his left, and produced a business card for Wessel’s Guide Service. Everybody seemed to be a guide in these parts.
‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Greg Wessel. You can call anytime.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Parker.’
‘I won’t shake your hand.’
‘I appreciate that. You hear anything about the men who were killed? The folk on the news didn’t seem to know any more than I do, and I don’t know anything at all.’
‘Ernie Scollay and Teddy Gattle,’ said Wessel. ‘Brother-in-law says Teddy had track marks on his arm too, and Teddy was a pothead. Potheads don’t use needles. Old Ernie just took two in the back. What kind of fucking coward shoots an old man in the back, huh?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You ask a lot of questions,’ said Wessel. It was a comment, and I heard no belligerence or suspicion in it. ‘You a reporter?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to hunt and, you know, this kind of thing makes a man concerned for his safety.’
‘Well, you got guns, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know how to use them?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Then you got nothing to worry about.’
He finished peeing, and waited his turn while I washed my hands.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘Wessel’s Guide and Taxidermy. I’ll be sober before dawn. Guaranteed.’
Now, back at the table, the waitress brought three burgers for Angel, Louis and me. They were not big. Around them were scattered a dozen very thin, very brown fries, like the detritus of a destroyed bird’s nest. Angel poked at his burger. It oozed a thin trickle of grease.
‘Did we order sliders to share?’ he asked.
The waitress returned to fill up our water.
‘You need anything else?’ she asked.
‘More food would be a start,’ said Angel. ‘Any food.’
‘It’s burger night,’ said the waitress. Her hair was very red. So were her lips, her cheeks, and her uniform. If it hadn’t been November, and the heart-shaped tattoo on her right forearm had not read ‘Muffy’s Bitch’, she might have seemed festive.
‘What’s so special about burger night?’ asked Angel.
The waitress pointed to a hand-lettered sign behind the register. It read ‘Burger Night, Wenedsday! $3 burger and fries!’
‘Burger night,’ she said. ‘Wednesday.’
‘It’s just that the burgers are kind of small,’ said Angel.
‘That’s why they’re three bucks,’ said the waitress.
‘Right,’ said Angel. ‘You know, you spelled “Wednesday” wrong.’
‘You know, I didn’t spell it at all.’
‘Right,’ said Angel again. ‘Who’s Muffy?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’
‘He ask you to get that done?’
‘No, got it done myself, after we broke up.’
‘After you broke up?’
‘To remind myself that I was once Muffy’s bitch, and not to let it happen again.’
‘Right,’ said Angel, for the third time.
‘You got any more questions?’
‘Too many.’
The waitress patted Angel on the arm. ‘Well, you hold onto them. I get you boys another round of beers?’
The diner’s front door opened, and Jackie Garner walked in.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And one extra for our friend who’s just come in.’
‘You think he’ll want to eat?’ asked the waitress. ‘Kitchen’s closing in five.’
‘He can share ours,’ said Angel. ‘There’ll be leftovers.’
Jackie didn’t want to eat, and was happy just to sip a beer. The kitchen closed, and gradually the crowd began to thin out, but nobody tried to hurry us along. We clinked our bottles, and toasted to luck, but Angel was right: luck rarely seemed to come our way.
Which was, indeed, why we had guns.
Across the road from the motel and diner stood an abandoned gas station-cum-general store, the pumps long since gone and the windows and front door of the store itself imperfectly boarded up. The back door had disappeared entirely, but the single piece of wood that had failed to deny access to it still remained, although unsecured, providing the illusion of closure.
Scattered inside were empty beer cans and bottles, a box of cheap wine that was still half full, and the odd used rubber. In one corner was a rat’s nest of blankets and towels, damp and moldy from the rain that had poured through the hole in the roof above, a consequence of a small fire that had also blackened the walls and left a smell of burning.
A firefly glow appeared in the darkness, its illumination growing quickly until it was entirely consumed by flame. The Collector put the match to his cigarette and stepped closer to the window. The lengths of wood used to block them were imperfectly nailed in place, and he could clearly see through them the four men drinking in the diner.
The Collector was torn. He was not used to experiencing anger or the desire for vengeance. Those whom he hunted had not sinned against him, and the pleasure that he took in removing them from the world was general, not personal. This was different. Someone close to him had been killed, and another injured. The most recent conversation with Eldritch’s physician had revealed that he was not recovering as quickly as might have been expected, even for a man of his advanced years, and his stay in hospital was likely to be extended. The physician suggested that the effects of shock and grief were greater threats than his physical wounds, but Eldritch had rejected offers of counseling or the attentions of a psychologist, and when the subject of a priest or pastor had been raised the patient had laughed for the first and only time since his admission.
Kill them. Kill them all.
But they were dangerous, and not only because they were armed. They knew of the Collector, and understood the threat that he posed. He had relearned a painful but valuable lesson from Becky Phipps about confronting someone who was anticipating an attack. He preferred to prey on the unarmed and unwary. He supposed that this might be regarded as cowardice in some quarters, but he saw it simply in terms of practicality. There was no reason to make his task any more difficult than it had to be and, when required, he was prepared to fight for his trophy, just as he had done with Phipps.
Bu he also wanted the rest of the list, and these men could lead him to it. He didn’t know where the Flores woman was hiding, and he could only hope that she had not already found the plane. If she had located it and secured her prize, he would have to hunt her down, and that would be time-consuming, and difficult. No, ideally these four men would do his work for him, and he would start killing after.
He watched them finish their drinks and leave the restaurant. They walked to their rooms in two pairs, Parker and Garner in front, the others behind. The Collector’s right hand slipped beneath his coat and found the hilt of a knife. He rested his fingers on it but did not draw it from its sheath. Beside it was his gun, fully loaded.
Three rooms, four men. It was risky, but not beyond his capabilities.
Kill them all.
But the list, the list . . .