Bellows Falls (31 page)

Gault’s expression didn’t change. He continued looking at us distastefully from under bristling eyebrows. “Swell,” he said, and turned on his heel.

We followed him into a dingy, cluttered, mildew-smelling office. He tossed aside a newspaper spread across his desk and quickly dialed a number from memory.

“Mr. Gault?” I added. “I think you ought to know I found Norm Bouch parked in a van down the street just now, staking this place out. I probably don’t need to tell you it’s a lucky thing I scared him away.”

He gave me a long, considered look and then returned to the phone. “Bob? It’s Gault. Get your ass down here. I’m in deep shit this time.”

· · ·

It was Steve Kiley’s voice. “Peter Neal has a great-uncle who owns a farm in Addison County, south of Vergennes, in Waltham township.” He gave me precise directions out of Middlebury.

“You sure he’s there?” I asked, the phone tucked under my chin as I struggled to pull on a pair of pants. I was standing in my office, having left Arsene Gault in Jonathon’s care. Gault, after conferring with his lawyer, had demanded protective custody prior to appearing at the inquest the next morning.

Kiley sounded amused. “I thought we’d let you figure that out—least we could do.”

I didn’t begrudge him the dig. “Fair enough. Thanks for the help.”

· · ·

Addison County extends like a slightly wrinkled blanket from the western foothills of the Green Mountains to the shores of Lake Champlain, south of Burlington and north of Rutland. Addison’s national claim to fame is Middlebury, home to the college of the same name. For Vermonters, however, it is the county’s primary function that matters most. It is farmland—a vast, rolling, dark-earthed footprint of the ancient glacier that split the Greens from the Adirondacks, both of which loom on either border, as if resentful of the valley that keeps them apart. The sky in this part of the state—everywhere else blocked by hills and peaks—is a huge, arching dome, shimmering hot and blue as we drove beneath it, although the remnants of this morning’s rain lingered as gray mist in the mountains, like soiled cotton caught on thorns.

Vermont, despite its reputation for cows and farms, is better represented by trees and stone, another contrast to Addison’s unique features. Driving along the smooth, undulating, narrow black road north of Middlebury, I was struck yet again by the pure plenty of this patch of earth. Each treeless hilltop revealed another panorama of farm after farm stretching off into the distance, pinned in place by clusters of glistening silver and blue silos. The breeze was pungent with cow manure, cut grass, damp soil, and the fresh tang of the cold Champlain waters, forever shimmering like a mirage at the foot of the Adirondacks. The wildflowers scattered by the sides of the fields and ribbon-smooth roads echoed the perennials proudly coloring the window boxes of widely spaced neat white farmhouses.

There were three of us traveling this countryside, all but oblivious to its charms—Jonathon and I in the lead car, followed by a local deputy sheriff, loaned to us as a courtesy.

Jonathon was reading the faxes Steven Kiley had sent us on the heels of his phone call, holding them flat on his lap against the wind from the open window. “Mr. Neal certainly fits the Lenny Markham mold. I wonder how Bouch found these guys?”

It was a rhetorical question. We both knew people like Norm met one another both conventionally and by the good graces of the system Jon and I worked for. Be it through parole offices, prisons, or social rehab and counseling sessions, society had made it a point to bring these people into constant and continuous contact, from where—antisocial though they could be—they learned to network along with the best of the upwardly mobile.

“We’re getting close,” I warned him.

He looked up and gazed across the agricultural mosaic. To our right was a huge, gently sloping field, with a large farmhouse and a group of buildings at its bottom. Bordering the field’s far edge, a narrow dirt lane connected the road we were traveling to the farm’s dooryard. In between, as small as a Tonka toy and trailing a plume of ocher dust, a tractor slowly worked the field. Its driver, a tiny smudge of red shirt from this distance, was crowned with a mane of gleaming white hair, which glittered like a torch in the sun.

“That’s him,” Jonathon said, his voice terse.

“How do you know that?”

He tapped the paperwork in his lap. “It says he’s almost an albino, with shoulder-length hair.”

“Damn,” I said. “It’s not often this easy.”

I spoke too soon. As we neared the road to the farm, I saw the tractor stop, and its driver shield his eyes to peer in our direction. I suddenly rued our agreeing to have a marked police car as an escort.

“There he goes,” Jon said.

Sure enough, Peter Neal abruptly started rolling again—fast this time—aiming directly for the lane.

“What’s he doing?” Jon pondered.

I swung into the lane myself and hit the gas, trying to close the distance before he got there.

Neal beat me to it. The tractor lurched over the ditch, bounced onto the road and stopped, blocking the way as effectively as a dam. Neal leapt from his seat, his hair flying behind him like a flag, and began sprinting toward the distant buildings.

I sped right up to the roadblock and ground on the brakes, skidding to a halt before it. I climbed out and ran to the tractor, the heat from its cowling rippling the air above it. The keys were gone. I’d turned to shout to Jonathon, when I saw the sheriff’s car leave the road in an attempt to go around and come to a shuddering stop in the soft earth of the ditch. The deputy staggered out, dazed and rubbing his chest from where his seat belt had bruised him.

Jonathon was out and running around the tractor, in hot pursuit.

“Call for backup,” I shouted to the deputy and jumped down to follow Jon.

Ahead of us, more distinct as we neared the barn, the goal of Neal’s flight became clear—a four-wheeler was parked to one side of a feeding pen, ready and able to take him cross-country and away.

“The ATV,” I panted to Jonathon, still ahead.

“I see it.”

A mere hundred yards before us, Neal straddled the machine. A cloud of blue smoke burst from its tailpipe and floated off in the breeze like a balloon. The vehicle lurched three feet forward and stalled. We could hear the starter motor grinding in impotent rage, trying to ignite a flooded engine.

All the while, Neal’s pale face kept flashing in our direction as he checked on our progress.

Jonathon yelled as he ran. “
Police
. Stop where you are.”

For a split second, Neal seemed to consider it. Then, with an angry kick at one of the tires, he bolted into the barn.

Without hesitation, Jon cut to the left and ran the length of the building to seal off the rear exit, leaving me to handle the front.

Gasping for air, I staggered up the cement apron before the two large sliding doors and tucked myself out of sight of the dark, cool, cavernous interior. Waiting for Jonathon to get in place, I studied the doors next to me, noticing they were equipped with a hasp and a long stick on a string.

“Peter Neal,” I finally shouted into the gloom. “This is the police. We’re not here to hassle you. We just want to talk. Come on out.”

Aside from the sounds of a few animals shifting around, I heard nothing from within.

“Neal, we know you worked with Norm Bouch, and that you’re more worried about him than about us. That’s why we’re here. We want to help you.”

I looked back along the road. The young deputy was awkwardly jogging our way, his hands on his hips to keep his gun and stick from flopping around.

“Neal,” I tried again. “There’s no point to this. We’re on the same side here. Come out so we can talk about it. There’ll be no cuffs, no arrest, no nothing. Just talk.”

The deputy reached me. I silently put him in my place and retreated to the dooryard, analyzing the building. Aside from the doors front and back, there were only several small windows running along the long walls. The silo was connected to one side. A short, low, roofed passageway ran to what looked like an equipment garage on the other.

Hoping to encourage Neal like a mouse in a maze, I motioned to the deputy to shut the doors and lock them, and then follow me as I circled the neighboring garage, looking for an alternate entrance to the large closed door at its front.

I found it near the back—a disused narrow doorway, half blocked by a sheet of plywood hanging by a single hinge. Doubled over to avoid knocking anything loose, I slipped into the darkness, the deputy still close behind.

Almost totally blind, I was enveloped by the familiar smells of my childhood—oil, gas, and manure, against a background of hay dust and the distant sweet odor of silage filtering through from the barn next door. As my eyes adjusted, the disembodied shapes around me emerged into a harrow, a manure spreader, a baler, and assorted other machinery. Far to the front, as I’d hoped, was the outline of a pickup truck, its nose almost touching the front door.

I pulled my gun and gestured to the deputy to do likewise, motioning him to work his way forward along the near wall. I took the opposite side, nearer the barn, and slowly picked my way through a tangle of agricultural odds and ends, thinking back for a moment to when my father, my brother, and I spent long winter evenings servicing the equipment we’d use for spring planting.

There was a faint sound from the passageway leading to the locked barn. I crouched behind an empty oil drum and waited. I saw a shadow furtively flit past against a strip of sunlight through a crack in the wall, heading for the truck. I waited until I heard the slight squeal of the passenger door opening before I followed. With the click of the door quietly being pulled shut, I sidled up to the side of the truck, swung around to face the open window, and leveled my gun at the pale-haired shadow of the man sliding toward the steering wheel.

“Don’t move, Peter,” I said.

He froze instantly, his whole body coiled to react, and I suddenly knew in my gut this wasn’t going to work, that he would yield to impulse and do the one thing I’d been hoping to avoid.

Then, just beyond him, the deputy appeared in the driver’s window, pointing his gun, as I was, at Peter’s head. It wasn’t a great tactic—had either one of us fired, we probably would have killed the other along with Neal. But fortunately, he didn’t put us to the test.

He dropped his hands to his lap and said, “Okay.”

I opened the door and crooked a finger at him. “Come on out.”

He slid over and I grabbed his arm, twisting him around as he came out so he was facing the truck. “Lean up against the cab, step way back, and spread your legs.”

The deputy circled around and covered him as I carefully checked him for weapons. I then removed my cuffs and snapped them on his wrists.

“I thought you just wanted to talk. You said no arrest,” he complained.

I ignored him and turned to the deputy. “You better call off the cavalry. And tell Jon where we are.”

He nodded and left the way we’d come. I steered Neal toward the front door and slid it open a few feet, letting the bright sunlight knife into the darkness. “It’s amazing what you’ll say when you want something,” I told him, and pushed him outside.

There were several hay bales stacked against the garage wall. I pointed to one of them. “Sit.”

He did as I asked, tossing his white hair out of his face and staring at me belligerently. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Jonathon Michael rounded the far corner of the distant barn and approached us. I waited until he was within earshot before answering. “We’re from the attorney general’s office, Peter, which is some of the worst news you’ve ever had.”

He gave us both a sneer. “I’m scared to death.”

“We know that. That’s why you’re here. ’Course, it’s not us you’re scared of. It’s Norm Bouch. And in your place, I would be, too.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Lenny Markham did,” I said. “So did Jasper Morgan. As you know, we found one, and Norm found the other. And Lenny’s not complaining. How long you been down on the farm, Peter? Twenty-four hours? Less? We got to you pretty quick, didn’t we? And we have no idea how close behind us Norm might be. We just know he’s out there, taking care of loose ends.”

Neal didn’t answer, but the anger had slipped from his face.

“I don’t think Mr. Neal’s interested,” Jonathon said softly. “We might as well pack up and leave—let this brave young man with his trademark looks fend for himself. Maybe he can dye his hair and go live in New York or something.”

I shrugged and pulled out my handcuff key. “Turn around.”

Peter twisted on the hay bale and I undid the cuffs, but he remained sitting there, meditatively rubbing his wrists. His expression reminded me of one of my uncles’, when he was deep in the middle of a late-night card game. “What do you have on Bouch?”

I feigned surprise. “You know him?”

“Up yours.”

“We’re taking his operation apart, piece by piece,” Jonathon answered.

I tried reading into Neal’s question, thinking he had something specific in mind, and remembering how J.P. Tyler had thought two people had moved Morgan’s corpse. “And we know you and he visited Jasper in that motel.”

“You have proof?”

He might as well have confessed. I smiled. “We have you.”

He stared at the ground for a moment, weighing the odds. “What would I get out of the deal?”

“Did you kill Jasper?” Jonathon asked.

“No, but I saw Norm do it.”

“Then,” I answered, “I’d recommend you get immunity. You’d also get to live.”

He paused a while longer. “You close to catching him?”

I understood his concern, having seen it mimicked by Arsene Gault. “We’ll put you under lock and key till we do—protective custody.”

He finally nodded and stood up. “Okay. It’s in the barn.”

He slid open the doors I’d had the deputy lock earlier and led us down the center feed passage. A couple of cows stood in their stanchions, noses shoved into troughs. Near the back wall was a wooden ladder leading up to the loft. Neal climbed it with practiced ease and returned us to the front of the barn, running a tall, dusty gauntlet of stacked bales. Just shy of the closed hay door, he stopped, reached above a thick overhead beam, and retrieved a manila envelope. He handed it to me without comment.