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Chapter 15

Willy slouched down in his battered pickup truck and pulled his soiled wool cap farther down above his eyes. Across the parking lot, barely visible under the single light over the bar's entrance, the famed E. T. Griffis, a bulky, big-bellied man in insulated overalls and unlaced snowmobile boots, slowly got out of a vehicle much like Willy's and shuffled across the hard-packed snow toward the door, greeting an exiting patron with a joke and a laugh before vanishing inside.

Willy bided his time, waiting for the second man to get into his car and leave, before entering the freezing night air himself and heading for the bar.

It was about what he was expecting-crowded, noisy, none too clean, and filled with the kind of people he'd come to see as extended family. For decor, the walls were lined with hubcaps, and the windowsills with empty bottles. The thin carpeting crunched underfoot with debris. It was the type of bar Willy had called home for years before realizing, at the very last minute-and with Joe's then much resented help-that he was facing an alcoholic's version of suicide.

He selected a spot at the end of the bar, near where E. T. had planted himself between two similar-looking men, who were still greeting him. They weren't effusive in style, reminding Willy of a pair of walruses congenially making room for one of their own, but there was an element of respect, as well. True, E. T. was visibly older than his mates, but, outward appearances notwithstanding, he was being awarded a muted homage for his elevated social status.

Willy wasn't surprised. Before he'd headed up here-he was in the Thetford area's primary workingman's bar-not only had Joe briefed him on E. T.'s history and neighborhood standing, but Willy had spent a few days on his own, soaking up all he could of the man's lore and legend. The resulting portrait had been familiar. In most communities, there was some equivalent of E. T. Griffis-a man who, through hard work, reputation, money, or a combination of all three, had established himself as an icon of some sort. Usually, this archetype was a man with working-class roots, an easy way with his peers, and enough money that when the occasional deserving local hit a rough patch, he or she might be eased through it by a loan or gift that never went advertised but was somehow made known. Willy, born and bred in New York City, where he'd also briefly been a beat cop, had first met these pseudo paternal types as neighborhood gang leaders or mob subcaptains, feeding as much off the social glow as off the fear that had struck its match. There had also been a few that might have been termed non-"connected," truly benevolent dons, but they had been harder to find, mostly because of the circles in which Willy had traveled.

Here, in Vermont, this latter, benign phenomenon prevailed, although Willy was still, all these years later, trying to suppress a natural suspicion that the likes of E. T. Griffis were treated as they were because of some hold they had over their cohorts and admirers.

Willy had acquired his cynicism the hard way.

The bartender, a thin, tall man with glasses and a blank expression, placed an unordered glass of what looked like scotch before E. T. and, then, paused in front of Willy.

"What'll it be?"

"Ginger ale."

The barkeep turned away without comment, but Willy caught the glances from those within earshot, including E. T. A stranger didn't come into a bar and order a soft drink unless he was a teetotaler, which wouldn't make much sense, or a cop.

The bartender returned thirty seconds later with a glass, which he placed on a coaster. "Two bucks."

Willy took a few crumpled bills out of his stained barn coat pocket, separated the money from some old receipts, two rubber bands, and an assortment of small bolts and washers, and paid the man.

Willy waited until the barkeep had turned his back, and then reached into another, inner pocket, extracted a small bottle of amber fluid-actually tea-and poured a generous dollop into the drink. The flask bottle vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but not before the same onlookers had seen the quick and practiced gesture. Comforted by both the supposed alcohol's surreptitious appearance and its owner's seeming need to watch his expenses, the others at the bar allowed their suspicions to be lulled.

He left his subtle communication at that, pretending to focus on his drink and the numbing comfort it promised, while in fact eavesdropping on the conversation around E. T.

This wasn't terribly difficult. Both its volume and its content made for easy listening. In essence, it was the same "guy talk" that Willy had listened to and participated in his entire drinking life, dealing with, in no particular order, engines, guns, dogs, women, a touch of politics, and how to use the word "fuck" as many times, and in as many ways, as possible. It was all as soothing, complex, and subtle as it was outwardly moronic, simple-minded, and gross-a distinctly male medley that was routinely dismissed by most women and academics.

And which made Willy, in a moment's distraction, think of Sammie Martens. As his companion of several years by now, she would not have fit into those judgmental categories-a character trait he valued greatly, not that he'd ever admit it. She was as highly tempered, competitive, and driven as he, and as good at holding her ground. This secondhand conversation would have been a natural for her to consider, had she been here, and one she could have joined at any point.

Not that she was hard or vulgar. In fact, it was her contradictory femininity that most attracted him. It remained his particular secret-as was his inability to tell her-that he found her attractive, endearing, funny, smart, and a terrific cop to boot.

None of which had anything to do with where he was at the moment, except that by the time an outburst of laughter snapped him out of his reverie, he realized that he was on his third bogus drink and had been here for over an hour.

He gazed across at his reason for being here, having subconsciously tracked the entire conversation. He'd noticed that Griffis had participated halfheartedly only, as if his appearance had been stimulated less by pleasure and more by social obligation-a byproduct of being a local celebrity. Griffis was listening to one last story with a fixed smile on his face, while slowly pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his green work pants. Willy took this as his cue to simply leave some change as a tip and head out the door for the parking lot, the next step of his plan in motion.

Walking seemingly without care, Willy checked the empty lot for any movement, crossed over to E. T.'s parked truck, quickly bent over and stabbed its front tire with a small knife, and then veered left toward his own vehicle, all in one fluid arc.

There, he started the engine with his headlights off and waited, hoping that his reading of the social mores inside was correct, and that Griffis would be allowed to leave alone by his harder-drinking buddies.

All self-confidence aside, Willy was nevertheless relieved when Griffis did emerge on his own and worked his way slowly-even sadly, Willy thought-to his truck.

He pulled himself up behind the steering wheel, oblivious to the leaking tire, turned on the ignition, and lumbered out of the parking lot with Willy in slow and distant pursuit.

Less than two miles up the road, E. T.'s truck eased over to the side, its brake lights signaling Willy's efficiency.

Willy slowly drew abreast, idling in the middle of the deserted road.

"Great night for that," he observed, looking at the tire.

"No shit," Griffis said, already out of his truck and taking in the damage. "Doesn't make sense."

"Never does. You got a spare?"

Griffis sighed. "Of course not."

"Too cold to change it tonight, anyhow," Willy commented. "Be easier to deal with it in the morning. Wanna lift?"

E. T. straightened slightly and eyed him more carefully, distracted from his tire, taking in this strange person's gaunt, unshaven face, hollow eyes, and that odd, dangling arm he'd noticed earlier inside. "You were in the bar."

"Yeah. Butch Watters," Willy said, adding, "You're E. T. Griffis."

Griffis straightened slightly. "I know you?"

Willy began applying his homework. "Nah. I drove a rig for Bud Wheeler a while back, in Bradford, right before you put him out of business by buying that gravel pit he used. Best thing that ever happened."

"You didn't get along with Bud?"

Willy laughed. "Nobody got along with Bud. I did worse than most."

"What're you doin' down here?"

Willy pulled out his local trump card. "I'm staying with the Mackies on Five Corners Road. Don and I…" he paused tellingly before adding, "were in the service together. I'm sort of between things right now."

He made sure to keep his voice flat, unemotional, matching his appearance, as if uninterested in what he was saying. In fact, he was all but holding his breath, hoping the cover Gunther had set up for him with the Mackies would provide the nudge he needed.

It helped, at least, implying that maybe Don and Sue Mackie were the neighborhood stalwarts-and old friends-that Joe had made them out to be. Either that, or E. T. had read between the lines of Willy's inference of a war wound.

In any case, the older man seemed to soften his natural suspicion. "I oughta just call one of my guys out to take care of this."

But Willy could tell the fish was almost inside the boat. He let his pickup slip forward a foot. "Suit yourself. It's your butt to freeze off." He then asked a question his research had already answered. "You got a cell phone?"

E. T. shook his head stubbornly. "Nah. Stupid things. Probably wouldn't work anyhow."

"I can take you back to the bar," Willy offered. "Seems kinda dumb, if you're already half home."

That clearly did it. The older man finally nodded.

"Right," he said. "I guess I could do with a ride. Get my kid on this tomorrow."

Willy nodded without comment, feeding into the traditional New England version of a conversation, where the less you say, the less you have to explain later, not to mention that it's nobody's business anyway.

"Where to?" Willy asked, as Griffis climbed on board.

"Right. Up to the top, then left. I'll show you from there."

After he approvingly watched Willy negotiate the steering wheel one-handed, E. T. stared out the front of the old truck's smeared windshield.

"Sue still have that cold?"

"Pneumonia," Willy said shortly to pass the obvious test. He doubted Griffis cared one way or the other about Sue Mackie's health. "Antibiotics. Guess they're working."

"Not from around here."

No shit, Willy felt like saying. "New York."

That brought a brief stare. "City?"

"Yeah. Been bumming around a lot lately, though-like working with Wheeler."

The truck was grinding uphill, lumbering to overtake the feeble reach of its own headlights.

"New York's a long ways."

Christ, Willy thought. This was going to take a while.

"Figured this would be a better place to die," he said, risking a little melodrama in the hopes of speeding things up.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Griffis push his lips out thoughtfully.

"The Mackies know about that?" his passenger asked.

"They know what happened," Willy answered obliquely, nevertheless impressed by E. T.'s practical handling of his statement.

E. T. seemed to accept that and didn't speak until the truck had reached the top of the hill, when he repeated, "Left here."

After a few more minutes, during which Willy could almost hear E. T. arguing with himself, he'd been put in such an awkward spot, Willy took him off the hook with "I had a car crash. Fucked myself up, killed my son. I was drunk."

Both the wording and the tone had been carefully chosen-not so terse as to cut off further conversation, not so confessional that it was best not to ask. Just the facts, but sentimentally evocative enough to get the old man thinking of his own losses.

Willy waited patiently, the heavily shadowed snowbanks to both sides of them slipping past like discarded bundles of laundry.

"That's tough," Griffis finally said heavily. "Know the feeling."

Willy didn't doubt it. Not only had he played to E. T.'s recent loss of Andy, but he knew Griffis as a fellow alcoholic-only a nonrecovering one.

"You, too?" he asked open-endedly.

E. T. bit. "Yeah. My youngest. Hung himself."

Willy thought of Sammie again but didn't correct the other man's grammar. Instead, he faked a theatrical double take. "No shit? A woman, right? It usually is."

But he'd gotten as much as he was going to for the moment.

"Nah," E. T. said under his breath, eyes fixed ahead.

Willy let it be. "I can't get it out of my head, especially with this to remind me." He hefted his useless arm's shoulder. "How do you live with it?" he asked after a pause, trying a different tack, knowing he might be pushing too hard. In truth, it wasn't that important to him. He was doing Joe a favor, it got him out of the office and on his own, and he had nothing to lose if he ended up empty-handed. He could take risks.

But, as if E. T. were eavesdropping and not wanting Willy to betray his boss, the older man met him halfway with "I have another son."

Willy nodded. "Guess that would help."

He hoped it didn't, given Joe's suspicions about why Andy had copped to a crime he'd never committed.

E. T.'s monotone response opened that door wider. "Not even close."

Willy smiled slightly in the darkness. I got you now, he thought.

Willy approached the farmhouse on foot, having parked at the bottom of the long driveway. This was a pure impulse, driven solely by nosiness. He could have called Joe or paged him, or even waited until morning to report on his purely social meeting with E. T. He'd just spent an hour with the old man at his home over a nightcap, further ingratiating himself. But he wasn't interested in seeing Joe-it was the serendipitous proximity of the Gunther farm that had become an irresistible attraction. Willy had heard too much about Mom and Leo and the farm and all the rest not to make at least a covert visit. In a way he couldn't-and certainly wouldn't-have verbalized, it had much of the appeal of catching an eminent presence during an unguarded, private moment.

The night was clear, cold, and brittle as ice, the sky overhead jammed with a shotgun blast of sharp-edged stars. Despite his heavy coat, Willy felt chilled to the bone. The snow under his boots squeaked as he walked.

Lights were still on, spilling over the white-clotted bushes under the building's windows. He could see dark wood-paneled walls of what was either a cluttered living room or a library, with book-lined shelves everywhere. A gray-haired elderly woman in a wheelchair sat surrounded by document-laden tables, a TV on in the background, its luminescence commingling with the flickerings from a glass-doored woodstove.

"It's more comfortable inside."

Willy whipped around, his feet slipping slightly on the packed snow of the driveway, making him flail out with his good arm for balance.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed.

"Of course," said Joe Gunther, standing in the shadows by the side of the house, "you'll have to clean up your language. My mother's old-school."

Willy recovered himself. "What the hell're you doing out here?"

Gunther chuckled. "You're asking me?"

Willy scowled. "I was around. You wanted me to hook up with Griffis."

"So I did," Joe acknowledged affably, gesturing with one hand. "Come on in. I'm freezing just looking at you."

Reluctantly, still embarrassed at being caught so flagrantly, Willy moved toward him. "How'd you know I was out here? You taking a leak or something?"

"I saw your headlights," Joe explained. "Plus, I placed a couple of sensors out there a few days ago." He waved into the darkness. "A little paranoia can be a good thing."

He led the way into the farmhouse's kitchen, around to the side, stamping his feet as he entered the small mudroom. "Better take your boots off. You'll catch hell otherwise. You want a pair of slippers, they're around the corner there."

Willy only grudgingly removed his footwear and skipped the slippers. He hated catering to anyone's precious house rules, even if it meant that his feet would remain cool.

They passed on into the house's true warmth after ridding themselves of their coats, entering an atmosphere redolent of a recent warm meal, a wood fire, and the odor of old books. Joe took him into the room he'd seen earlier and introduced him to his mother.

The old lady gave Willy's hand a firm shake and watched him closely.

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Kunkle. I know that already."

Willy snorted. "That's one word."

"A good word, though," she agreed, adding, "complicated."

He laughed, pointing to Joe. "Is that what he says?"

She smiled. "He says less than you might think. But I'm not too bad a judge of character myself. Would you like a seat by the fire? And maybe something warm to drink? You look like you could use both."

Willy hesitated.

"It won't be held against you if you accept, Mr. Kunkle."

He shook his head, caving in and moving toward the stove. "It's Willy, and I give up. I'll pass on the drink, though. Been doing that all night."

"Willy's been pumping E. T. for information," Joe explained, settling into an armchair.

"Really?" his mother commented. "How did you fare with that? He's a tight-lipped old grouch."

"I laid the groundwork," Willy admitted, picking up from his boss that the conversation was unrestricted. "I told him I lost a son and messed up my arm in a car crash-my fault. Drunk driving."

Joe's mother stared at her son. "You really do that sort of thing, don't you? Lie to people."

Joe laughed. "Yup. Sometimes." He asked Willy, "Did you get anywhere with him?"

"I got friendly," Willy answered, still taking in the surroundings, trying to fit Joe in as a child growing up here. "I figured it'd be better to just break the ice. I'll see him in the bar tomorrow. Pick up where I left off."

"How's that going, the bar thing?" Joe asked pointedly, painfully aware of Willy's alcoholism.

His colleague extracted the flask from his inner pocket and waggled it in the air. "I'm getting sick of this, if that's what you're asking."

Joe didn't laugh. "Maybe this angle's not such a great idea."

Willy's face tightened. "Maybe I can handle it."

"Did he talk about Andy at all?" Joe's mother asked, changing the subject.

Willy gave Joe an extra hard look before answering her politely, "Around the edges. What I got is that Dan is a shitty substitute for the apple of his eye. Sorry."

"That's all right," she answered him. "On that score, E. T. is absolutely correct. Dan has never amounted to anything worthwhile."

Willy eyed her appreciatively and paused a moment before asking her, "Did you know Andy? I mean, well enough to help me open the old man up?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. A very sweet young boy. Loved by his father, hated and envied by that useless brother, and, until he went to prison, slated to take over all of E. T.'s business."

"You know that for sure?"

She smiled again. "It's a very small town, Willy."

He got her point. "Did Dan go after Andy regularly?"

"As a bully?" she asked, before answering herself. "I think that oversimplifies their relationship. Dan was all of that-still is-but Andy also looked up to him because of it, the way an abused child runs to his abuser for protection."

"Which explains why Andy might've taken the rap for Dan," Joe suggested.

"You know that," Willy said, "but would E. T.? He's no shrink. What happened to the mother, anyhow?"

"Two different mothers," Joe's mother said, adding, "The first one-hard as nails-left; the second one-a gentle soul-killed herself, which helps to explain the personality differences in the two boys. And you're right about E. T. not being a psychologist. But he does know men. He has to hire them and fire them all the time. I think he was aware of how his two sons interacted. That's why he tried to protect Andy to a certain extent-sent him to a better school, rode him harder to keep him out of trouble. Dan he let grow up on his own-the wild child of legend."

"But the old man wasn't there when the two boys were together in Brattleboro," Joe said. "And that's all it took."

Willy passed his hand through his hair. "Yeah, except, if that's true, why didn't E. T. raise hell when he heard Andy had covered for Dan? He could've reamed Dan a new… Anyhow, he could have set it right."

"Dan was facing the Bitch," Joe reminded him.

His mother laughed at Willy's quick glance in her direction, and added, "Dan is his firstborn. That matters to a man like E. T. I remember hearing at the time how everyone was stunned when Andy was sent to prison. That part wasn't supposed to happen."

Joe was nodding. "Meaning, our theory was probably right. The whole family gambled and lost."

Willy considered that for a moment, his eyes drawn to the flames in the woodstove. "That must be tearing the old man up," he finally said. "He threw his baby boy to the wolves for a loser who's using his business to sell drugs."

There was a silence in the room as the resonances of all this settled in, including one note Joe was surprised that Willy then addressed.

"Mrs. Gunther," Willy said, sitting forward to look her in the eyes, "I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about Leo. How's he doing?" She allowed for a sad smile and shrugged under the shawl draping her shoulders. "I don't know. No one does. We can only wait, and hope, and see what happens." She paused and then reflected, "Which is more than E. T. has right now, and for that, I guess, we should all be grateful."

Mandi144: U cumming up?

JMAN: lol — there's a word I lik

Mandi144: me 2. My rules, tho

JMAN: rules?

Mandi144: no cars, no reel names, not my home

JMAN: no cars? Y?

Mandi144: fantasy I hav. Saw it in a movie. 2 complet strangers. Luvd it

JMAN: wat movie?

Mandi144: never nu the name. But he came off a bus. They never even talked.

JMAN: we cant talk?

Mandi144: lol. Sur we can. But everything else stays.

JMAN: kool. Where we meet?

Mandi144: motel

JMAN: I lik it