Gatekeeper

Chapter 6

"Hi, Tony. What the hell happened?"

Police Chief Tony Brandt rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. Despite the late hour, he was neatly turned out as usual, looking like a slightly bemused college professor on leave from some midwestern ivory tower. A lifelong cop, he'd never managed to affect any of the typical cop trappings, from his manner to his taste in clothes.

"Real mess, Joe. High-speed chase, police shooting, one man dead. Shades of Dodge City."

"The dead man one of yours?" Joe asked, feeling a sudden dread.

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "Henry Jordan caught a round in the vest. He's being kept for observation with a really good-looking bruise. If the shooter had aimed higher-or used a Teflon bullet-we'd be looking at a whole different story."

"Who was the shooter?"

Brandt looked at him curiously. "That's why I called you down here. Sam dropped by this afternoon and asked us to bring the guy in so you could have a chat with him. Apparently, Gail found him hanging out in Laurie Davis's apartment-Roger Novelle?"

Gunther's brow furrowed. He'd tried contacting Gail several times tonight to ask her about that encounter. All he'd gotten was her answering machine, and when he'd driven by her house, none of the lights had been on.

"You call her about this?"

Brandt shook his head. "Didn't have a reason to. After Novelle took his potshot at Jordan, two other officers opened up and killed him. I didn't see what Gail could do for us, not right now, in the middle of the night. The state police will be running the investigation, and I don't doubt they'll want to have a chat-with her and you both, for that matter, given your relationship-but I don't think it's too complicated in any case. We found heroin in Novelle's car, and we've tracked down the user who was buying from him when Jordan surprised them."

Gunther nodded at the sound of the magic word. "Heroin again," he murmured. "Well, I guess that guarantees the cat getting out of the bag."

Tony Brandt gave his ex-chief of detectives a questioning look.

"The headlines will tell you," Gunther partly explained. "The governor's going to try to milk this for all it's worth."

* * *

Gail's house was still dark when Joe pulled up opposite it a second time. Of course, at three in the morning, he wasn't expecting otherwise. He'd called again from the hospital, hadn't bothered leaving a message, and this time was determined to be less delicately self-effacing.

He left his car, crossed the driveway to the kitchen door, igniting the battery of motion detection lights Gail had had installed following her attack, and applied his two keys to the locks she carefully set every night.

He felt odd entering the house, and not just because of the circumstances. He'd once lived here with her, although he'd never felt truly at home. It had been bought with her money and decorated according to her taste, but his lack of comfort had stemmed more from the incentive than from the decor. She had needed him to be nearby, to watch her back emotionally and physically as she struggled to rebuild. He'd been happy to help, of course, had considered it a privilege and a natural extension of his love for her, but he'd also known it wouldn't last, and that despite her protests to the contrary, she'd eventually become firm-footed enough to start longing for her independence of old. His moving out had actually come as somewhat of a relief to both of them.

Still, it felt funny to be "back home," where, as with a long-delayed visit to a grandparent's house, familiar smells and sights commingled and got confused with foreign ones. The pull between feeling like an intruder and standing on safe ground was palpable, and Joe proceeded quickly through the darkness upstairs to Gail's bedroom hoping to end the awkwardness as fast as possible. But he also couldn't lie to himself-by now, he'd become alarmed by her silence.

He paused on the threshold of her room, the moon through the skylight revealing a shape in her bed.

"Gail?"

He half held his breath to better hear some sound from her, watching intently, until the merest hint of a movement finally gave him relief. Only then did he step inside and cross over to the bed.

"Gail. It's Joe."

He sat by her side and gently laid his hand against her head, noticing as he did so the prescription bottle and glass of water on the nightstand.

"Gail," he said, his voice still soft. "Wake up."

With his other hand, he reached behind the phone and hooked a finger around the cord, pulling it free from where it dangled unattached to its nearby outlet. That explained why she hadn't been answering his calls; only the downstairs machine had been picking up.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Come on, sweetheart. It's Joe."

Finally, she stirred, moaning briefly.

He took advantage of that to roll her onto her back, sweeping her hair clear of her face as he did.

"Wake up, Gail."

Her eyes fluttered and opened slightly.

"Joe?" Her voice was groggy and clotted with induced sleep.

"Yeah. It's me. Everything's okay. I had to see if you were all right."

She blinked several times, clearly trying to understand what was going on.

"Everything's okay?"

"I hope so," he told her, kissing her cheek again. "I heard you had a tough time yesterday afternoon at Laurie's place. I'm sorry I wasn't there."

The eyes closed again, hoping to shut out the memory. "He was horrible."

"You don't have to worry about him. We got him. What happened, anyway?"

She had all but surfaced by now, her breathing more rapid, her responses close to normal. He could still sense the effects of the sleeping pills, but his mind was at ease that she'd obviously only taken enough to knock herself out for a while.

She rubbed a hand across her face. "Nothing really. I mean, nothing you could point at. I just had a bad flashback is all. The guy. . something about him. He was creepy and insinuated what he wanted to have happen, but it was his smell more than anything that brought me back. He never touched me, but I almost felt it had happened all over again. I felt. . violated. And scared. Humiliated."

She suddenly raised both her arms and encircled Joe's neck, pulling him down to her and sobbing into his chest. "I thought it was behind me. Even when I was with him, I thought maybe I still had it under control. But then all afternoon I got pulled lower and lower."

He let her cry for a while, rubbing her shoulder, his face half buried in her hair and her pillow, breathing her in.

Eventually, she quieted enough that he could straighten slightly and look at her. "I've been worried about you. Called a few times, drove by earlier. Couldn't figure out where you'd gone. Sam said you came by."

"It's not just that, Joe. It's Laurie, too. I can't get what she went through out of my mind. I feel responsible. Of all people, I should have known to watch out for her. I know how things are out there."

Joe was shaking his head. "Gail, you can't do that. We all have our own lives to lead. We can care for each other and try to help when the going gets tough-you did that when you suggested Laurie come up here in the first place. But she came with her own baggage. You're not responsible for that. Don't forget why you made that initial offer. Her life was a mess back home."

"It doesn't help, Joe. I've told myself all that."

"Where are her parents? Right now"

Gail looked at him, startled. "I. . in Connecticut."

"They're not here? They didn't come up?"

"They will," she said weakly. "They're making plans. They know she's safe. . that I'm here with her."

He let his long silence speak for him.

"I've got to put things right," she finally murmured.

"You're not seeing her as a victim only, are you?" he asked eventually

"What do you mean?"

"That the Lauries of the world, no matter their backgrounds, do have some responsibility for how they end up."

"I know that," she said, her voice tensing.

"It's not just good and evil," he continued, ignoring the warning. "Most dealers are users, and most users end up as thieves, prostitutes, mules, you name it. It's a mixed-up mess, but it's a mess most of them acknowledge right up to the end. That's why some of them actually beat it and get better-because deep down they know they can. They're the only ones accountable."

She was angry at the condescension she heard in his words-the platitudes that allowed him the distance he needed to function in his job. But she also knew what he was attempting, and so merely placed her hand against his mouth and said, "Stop."

He straightened, caught off guard, and studied her closely.

"I don't care about all that," she explained. "I don't care how people rationalize their way clear. I saw how that works when I was raped and reduced to an unidentified victim in the paper. I see part of me in Laurie, Joe, in ways you'll never understand, and I won't put up with it any more now than I did back then."

Gunther was vaguely confused by parts of what she was saying. He thought about asking her what her plans were, knowing how capable she was of setting almost anything in motion.

But he also finally recognized the anger in her eyes, and with it an extra element he thought might be pure bewilderment. There was a shift going on here he'd never before seen in this woman he thought he knew so well.

He stroked her shoulder instead of responding, and simply informed her, "This probably isn't the right time, but I mentioned that the guy you met in Laurie's room had been caught. He was actually killed in a shoot-out with the PD. I didn't want you to hear that on the news."

"Who was he?"

"Roger Novelle. Meant nothing to me, but Willy knew him. Local bad boy. He was dealing heroin when he was shot."

Gail stared into the darkness of her bedroom for a few seconds before asking, "He was Laurie's supplier?"

"We don't know yet. Sam's talking with Tony Brandt, and VSP is doing the shoot investigation. Right now everyone's playing connect-the-dots. I wouldn't be surprised, though."

Gail laid her head back against the pillow, her expression implying that she'd come to some sort of decision. "Thanks, Joe. And thanks for coming by."

He hesitated and then stood up, hearing the dismissal in her tone. He was anxious about what he'd just witnessed, and a little irritated at being shut out. The only saving grace, if it even qualified, was that he thought she might know less about what was going on inside her than he did.

For the moment, though, he would let things lie. He leaned over, kissed her, and retreated through the dark, empty house the same way he'd arrived.

* * *

Sammie Martens turned on the car's dome light and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She hadn't worn the stuff since the last time she'd been undercover, at Tucker Peak, and harbored a neophyte's insecurity about how long, or even if, it would stay put. Not that she was slathered with it-just some eye shadow, a little mascara, a touch of blush, and, of course, lipstick-but it still felt like she was wearing clown paint. She then twisted the mirror to see her hair. That, she was more comfortable with-a simple blond dye job-even if the effect still startled her.

She switched off the light, drove the last eighth of a mile down the road, pulled into the driveway, and cut the engine.

She was beyond Guilford, south of Brattleboro, near the Massachusetts border, parked in front of a historical memento even her parents would have found quaint. It was an old-fashioned, 1930s motor court, the kind that mushroomed all over the country with the new rage of the affordable automobile. A string of separate wooden cabins, now swaybacked, peeling, and looking as if the earth were about to reabsorb them, still reflected the culture of their time, when people in their black Fords pulled off after a grueling day's drive up from the city and set up in their homes-away-from-home, complete with barbecue pits, glider swings, fireplaces for those chilly evenings, and individual front porches from which to socialize with the neighbors.

Once well tended and tidy, the grounds of this place had been left to disintegrate, helped along by a scraggly line of rusting eighteen-wheeler boxes standing guard alongside the road, partially blocking the view and the remnants of the long-dead neon sign advertising the place. Weeds choked what had probably been a neat lawn and colorful flower gardens, and all that was left of the curved gravel driveway was a rutted dirt trail, lumpy with tree roots and rocks, that ran ill defined before the row of cabins.

Sam got out of her car and pulled her tight sweater down over her hips, feeling constrained in a pair of stretch jeans two sizes too small. She'd felt less uncomfortable in a flak jacket, combat boots, and a forty-pound pack.

She surveyed the string of buildings fanned out before her. Once identical to one another as motel units, they'd been remodeled here and there as detached rental apartments, some with extra bedroom wings, others with a carport. A few had been destroyed altogether, leaving a jarring gap in the row, like a broken tooth. In all cases, they amounted to as cheap a form of housing as she knew-a north country version of tar paper shacks, meaning they had to at least hold up under a snow load.

Despite the late hour, she wasn't surprised to see some lights on. The place was no magnet for the nine-to-five crowd.

She walked slowly, fearful that she might twist her ankle wearing high-heeled boots. Not naturally statuesque, she'd had to compensate beyond the makeup and the clothes with a little padding in the appropriate places, making her feel like the Michelin Man on stilts.

About half way down the row, she found the number she was looking for and stood quietly for a moment, taking her bearings.

The old porch to this unit had been dismantled, so access to the crooked front door was an uneven stack of cinder blocks. From what she could see through the uncurtained windows, the door led directly into a kitchen, with what looked like a bathroom in the back. On the left was a small bedroom. All the lights were on and she could hear faint music leaking out onto the grass.

She stepped closer to the bedroom window after checking around for any movement from the neighbors. Inside, stretched out on a disheveled bed, was an unshaven man in his underwear, his head propped up on pillows, his face bathed in the ethereal glow of a TV set Sam couldn't see.

She studied his expression for several minutes, trying to gauge his frame of mind, before moving to the front door and quietly knocking on it.

She had to do this several times before a male voice finally called out, "Who's there?"

"It's Greta, Bill. From Tucker Peak. Last winter."

She heard him stumbling to get up, bouncing against the wall as he hurried to get his pants on. As she'd told Joe earlier, Bill Dancer had done everything he could in his very limited repertory to get her into bed when she'd been pretending to be a ski instructor and he'd been a grease-smeared mechanic. She had no doubts whatsoever about what fantasies had electrified his mind at the sound of her name.

In fact, when he finally tore open the door, she noted he'd put on a clean shirt, still creased at the fold lines, and was chewing a breath mint of inordinate strength.

"Greta Novak, my god. What a surprise. I mean, wow. I never thought I'd see you again."

"Which means you're going to let me stand out here all night?"

He leapt backward, making room, and almost fell over a chair pushed up against the wall behind him. "Oh, shit. No, come on in. Damn, you look really good."

She felt like crouching so she could replace her padded breasts with her face in his line of sight, except that he was already looking lower, smiling like a poleaxed cow.

"God," he murmured again as she swept past him into the tiny kitchen.

"So you said," she answered, looking around.

He followed her glance and immediately started to move things around on the cluttered counter near the sink, which was itself stuffed with dirty dishes. "I'm sorry about the mess. I don't entertain much. I wish I'd known you were coming. I would've cleaned up a little."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm not staying long."

He stopped in midmotion, as if that were one surprise too many-a stunning disappointment he tried to cover with a show of hospitality. "Well, sure, would you like something to drink? I got beer, some Scotch, if you'd like." He dove at a sorry-looking armchair and cleared it of some clothes. "Have a seat, too. Take a load off."

He added a small one-liner to test the waters, always the smooth talker. "Not that your load isn't totally perfect."

Sam chose the least dangerous of his libations as she settled down, crossing her legs with a flourish and rubbing one hand along her thigh. "Give me a beer."

He opened the undersized, rusty fridge and extracted a six-pack. He tore two off and handed her one, which she merely stared at. "You wash the lid on that?"

He stared at her for a split second, as if interpreting a foreign language. "Oh, right," he then said, and made for the crowded sink. He wedged the can under the faucet, rattling the stack of dishes, scrubbed the top energetically, dried it with a quick swipe against his shirtfront, and tried handing it to her again.

She even took some pity on him at that point, accepting the can. "You just never know where these have been."

He perched on the edge of a barstool, his own beer forgotten on the counter beside him. "Greta Novak. At my house. Unbelievable. I didn't even know you lived around here. I thought you were from Europe or someplace."

Sam took a swig of beer. "Yeah, right."

"No, no. I mean it. You have to admit, the name sounds foreign."

"I don't even have an accent, Bill. And the name's made up. I changed it so I could sell myself better."

He laughed nervously, still amazed this was happening.

"Holy shit, you hardly need that. Don't you know what you look like? I mean, Christ, you're. ." But his voice died off as she gave him a hard look.

"Sorry," he continued in an abashed tone. "But you're a fox."

She frowned. "Don't fuck with me, Bill. We both know what I'm talking about. Getting ahead means a shit-load more than getting laid, and you can't get ahead on looks alone."

He looked confused. "Right."

"You need an edge, an angle, you know? Something they can remember about you besides a nice ass."

"Like a catchy name," he suggested, clearly groping.

She paused to let him soak up her condescending roll of the eyes. When she resumed, however, she didn't elaborate but moved the conversation along. "That's a start. But there's an attitude, too. You have to show people you're a winner."

Sam purposefully let a drop of beer fall from the can to her sweater, and made a small show of stroking her breast, ostensibly to wipe the moisture off. His eyes followed the action longingly.

"Which is what brings me here tonight," she added, drawing his attention by waving her hand where he could see it.

He flushed and self-consciously stared her straight in the eye.

"I need your help, Bill."

"Sure. Anything."

"Remember when we worked together on the mountain? All the dope that was floating around?"

He smiled. "Oh, yeah. Lots of good shit."

"Right," she agreed, "and lots of money being made, too, but not by you or me."

Again, he gave her a blank look.

"Come on. That's what I'm talking about, Bill. Turning the tables. People like us doing dope, getting nowhere fast. Time to play the other side."

She could almost see him pull back. "I don't know, Greta. I run some stuff-"

"I'm not talking running, stupid," she cut him off. "I'm talking dealing."

"Oh, shit. That can get dangerous."

Sam stood up quickly and took a step toward the front door. "Yeah, you're right. I'll go find someone else. I was just looking for a name, like a reference, but hey-no sweat."

To her disappointment all he did was hang his head and say, "I'm sorry I wish I could help."

Her hand rested on the doorknob. But that was it. He seemed crestfallen. She switched tactics.

Leaving the door, she crossed over to him, fitting herself between his splayed-out knees as he sat on the barstool. "Am I moving too fast?"

He looked up at her, not sure what to do with his hands, which from their resting place on his knees were almost touching her waist. He swallowed. "You've been here five minutes. It's hard to get used to."

Her fingertips brushed against his upper thighs. Her face was inches away from his, making her grateful he'd taken that breath mint. "I'm sorry, Bill. You know what it's like when you've been waiting for something a long, long time, so that when it finally arrives, you can barely control yourself?"

"Sure."

Sam dropped her voice to a near whisper. "It's like sex. The person you've been after is right where you want them at last. They're spread out, clothes off, can't wait to get it on, but waiting is the one thing you can't do. You're too worked up. The moment of a lifetime is ruined."

Her fingers dug into his legs. She leaned forward so that their noses brushed and their lips almost touched. "Ever had that feeling?"

His forehead was beaded with sweat. With agonizing slowness, his hands slid off his knees and just barely touched her hips.

She slipped free of his legs, ostensibly to retrieve her beer from the arm of her chair and take a swig.

He could barely breathe, much less respond.

"Well," she resumed, "that's what this is like for me. I can't wait to get laid, but instead of a guy, I'm talking money I want to get rich so bad, I can taste it."

"What can I do?" he just managed, his throat constricted.

"A name, Bill. I want to find out how it works, learn the ropes, you know? Be an apprentice or something. Maybe Holyoke'll have the person I'm after." She crossed the tiny room and put her hand back on the doorknob.

Out of the mess of mixed messages she'd thrown him, he latched onto the one key word. "I know people in Holyoke."

She moved back toward him, but not as closely as before. "You're kidding. See? I knew I was right to come here. You think I could meet them?"

Dancer looked nervous. "Greta, I want to help. But these guys are really dangerous. I can work with them. I've been doing it for years. But even so, I have to be super careful. For one thing, being white counts against you, big time. They hate our guts. If I tried to set you up with one of them, no telling how it might end up."

Sam made a baffled expression and once again slid in between his knees, taking his face in her hands. "Bill, I wasn't talking about going solo. I want you to be with me. I want us to do this together." She touched his lips with her fingertips.

He could barely sit still. She could feel the heat coming off him as from a radiator. "Greta," he half moaned, "you never gave me the time of day before. I can't-"

She kissed him very lightly. He leaned forward to get more, his hands landing with more confidence on her waist, kneading her through her thin sweater. She pulled back enough to address him. "That was then. I didn't know what I was doing, and maybe I don't now. But I want to try. I'm tired of my life. I need a change, and I need your help."

His face flushed, he managed to say, "I've done stuff for one of them-been a help. I can make a phone call."

She rested her palm on his chest. "Thank you, Bill. I knew you were the right man for this. What's his name?"

"Miguel Torres. He's one of the big movers down there. They only have three or four, so that means something. He's real good."

She gently stepped back once more, smiling and grateful. "You're a sweetheart. I wish I could stay."

He looked like she'd just stamped on his foot. "You can't?"

"Not tonight. I told you, I only dropped by for a little while. I'm so sorry, though. I didn't realize we'd hit it off so well, so fast."

"Fifteen minutes," he suggested, almost pleading.

She returned to the door, but this time she opened it and stood on the threshold, from where she blew him a kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow. See how you made out. Okay? Don't let me down."

"No, no," he said, standing awkwardly. "I'll make sure you can meet him."

She closed the door and walked into the night, crossing the wrecked front yard to her car rapidly, before he had time to summon any questions. The trick to these things, she knew from past experience, was to let the contact come up with most of the story.

She fired up her car and drove a few miles north before pulling off the road and dialing Joe's home number on her cell phone, unable to resist sharing her success.

"Hello?" Gunther's voice had the false sharpness of someone who was trying to sound wide awake.

"It's Sam. I just left Bill Dancer's place. Pretended I was Greta Novak. I think I just got an interview lined up with Torres in Holyoke."

There was dead silence on the other end.

"That's our in with the task force," she explained, surprised and a little disappointed. "Like you said, we bring an inside connection to the Holyoke crowd-something they've never had before."

"Okay," her boss said slowly. "I see what you're saying. You set a date and time yet with Torres?"

"Dancer'll call him tomorrow and nail it down. I hope."

Gunther seemed relieved at the qualifier. "So it's not a done deal. You moved right in on this, Sam-without backup."

It was her turn to pause a moment before saying, "You said time was wasting."

"Right. Well, get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning. I'm glad you didn't get in trouble."

* * *

Joe remained holding the phone receiver after Sam had hung up, staring thoughtfully into the darkness of his bedroom. He'd been short with her, which he knew she'd take hard. But he didn't feel bad about that. It was typical of Sam to charge off this way, almost in righteous pursuit. She was ambitious, obviously, but she was also one of the true believers, and that, he'd often pondered, could be dangerous-depending on the circumstances.

And these circumstances were not of his choosing.