Cause of Death

14

In Greenville Station once again, where the minute-by-minute historian detective will continue his investigation.

I park, step out of the SUV and look up and down the sweltering sidewalk.

Since there’s no dining at the inn, Pax and Wexler would go to a restaurant — or get takeout to carry back to the room.

Now, go learn something.

I start at the café next door to the inn.

I can’t afford to pay a half G for cooperation each time. I’ve got another strategy.

The man behind the counter is in his forties, heavyset and with thinning black hair. He nods. “Yessir?”

I show him a printout of Wexler’s picture, below which are the words:

Please Help! Our Dear Elliott Soames, father, brother and husband, has gone missing.

My cell number’s beneath it.

“Jeez, I’m sorry, sir. He’s your—”

“Brother.”

“Jeez. You think he’s hurt?”

“We aren’t sure.”

He stares and works hard to make a memory of Wexler materialize.

“I’m pity sorry, sir. I don’t think so. Jeez. Good luck.”

“Bless you.”

Then on to the next — a diner. Nothing.

There’s a Quick Mart across the street. Inside, I note a rack of cheap wine and I wonder if that was the bottle referenced in the Post-it note.

No luck here either.

On the street I scan for Wexler’s black car and don’t see it.

The other stores: gifts, flowers, office supplies. None of those seem likely. Wexler and Pax weren’t here to shop for sundries or antiques.

I picture the two of us in bed, the last time we made love, the window open and a night breeze chilling the sweat on our naked bodies. The next day she would go to Greenville Station to meet Marcus Wexler at the Main Street Inn.

The breath of air was as cool as the anger within me is hot now.

A small park, manicured and tended, dots the town’s center. Some retirees, some lunchers, some athletes. The older folk are mostly men in comfortable clothing and easy-on-the-feet shoes. I get sympathy all around, and one thinks he might’ve seen someone who “kind of looks like him” but can’t recall where or when.

A woman sits down on a bench by herself, opens a bag and unwraps a sandwich. She’s in a uniform — beige tunic-like top and gray slacks. On her chest is a tag that reports her name as Trudi. Her shoes too are kind. A waitress. I show the printout. “Any chance you’ve seen this man around town?”

She looks at the picture and her face brightens. “You know, this is weird, but I think I saw somebody looked a lot like him around the corner, Harper Street. Just, like, a little while ago.” She points. “I don’t know if he’s still there. Maybe. He was getting out of a car.”

“Was it black?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck. Is he sick?”

“He has these episodes.”

Soon I’m back in the car and accelerating. I get to Harper Street and pull over. Yes, the black car is there, a Caddie.

And so is Marcus Wexler.

He’s carrying a small shopping bag as he walks to the vehicle. I look around and, seeing no one nearby, I reach into my pocket and remove what I stole after I left Bragg’s office.

A pistol.

I feel sorry for its owner, one Detective Mark Nichols, according to the nameplate on his desk. He is, or soon will be, in deep shit. Though, of course, he’s somewhat to blame, leaving the weapon in his top drawer unlocked.

The gun is a stubby revolver. While, yes, I’ve fired my father’s rifle, I’ve never fired a handgun before. I want to try it out first. I manage to open the gun and shake into my hand the five cartridges — I thought they were all six-shooters. I pull the trigger. Snap, snap, snap. I pull the hammer back, the way I’ve seen actors do on TV to make a dramatic point. It clicks. I squeeze the trigger again. Snap. Much easier this way and the muzzle doesn’t wobble so much. More accurate. Good. I don’t want anybody innocent to get hurt by mistake. I reload and drop the gun into my pocket, watching Wexler get into the sedan and pull into traffic.

Most of the courses I teach invariably get around to the subject of combat, whatever the era, whatever the locale. Whether the Revolutionary or Afghanistan War, ancient Rome or South Asia, there is a constant: young men, often teenagers, are given weapons and sent into battle. I’ve read thousands of their letters and one thing that used to surprise me is how blasé they could be about their mission to take a human life.

I now know exactly how they felt.