Dead of Winter (19 page)

“So how did it happen?” Louis asked, nodding toward the soldier’s missing arm.

Cloverdale blinked, wiping snow from his face. “Firefight near Hue, Valentine’s Day, 1968,” he said matter-of-factly. “We lost six men, eighteen wounded, including the captain. I lost the arm but got a ticket back to Marked Tree.”

The snow had covered Cloverdale’s head, forming a white helmet over his close-cropped hair. He looked suddenly like an old man.

“How did you get here?” Louis asked.

Cloverdale hoisted the gun higher up against his shoulder. “Well, I did my time at the VA hospital, bummed around the country for a couple years. I stuffed all the war shit into a box and tried to build a life.” He paused, smiling. “Hard keeping the lid on that damn box sometimes.” His eyes drifted to the bag in Louis’s hand.

Jesse honked the horn. Louis looked at the cruiser and waved an impatient hand.

“You’re gonna get snowed in here, man,” Cloverdale said.

“Go on,” Louis said. “Please.”

Cloverdale looked up the road toward the collection of houses. “Randall was in my unit. His family’s from around here. They gave him the land and he decided to make a camp for vets. There’s just seven of us now but we’re building houses for more. We look after each other, you know?”

Louis nodded.

Cloverdale’s face hardened. “I don’t like people who feel sorry for themselves. I mean, what’s done is done. But people on the outside, they don’t know. They just don’t know.”

“Why are you talking to me then?” Louis asked.

Cloverdale looked back at him. “Because I want you to know that we’re not murderers. We’re off the grid. But we aren’t murderers.”

Louis nodded slowly. He held out the Ziploc. Cloverdale took it and looked at the drawing.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“This is one of two. They were found by the bodies of the dead officers,” Louis said.

Cloverdale handed it back. He wiped his face. “It’s a message,” he said.

“Message? What kind of message?” Louis asked.

Cloverdale hesitated, his face twisting slightly. “Your man is military.”

Louis waited.

“Some companies had their nicknames printed up on cards.” He paused. “I heard about this but never really saw it. A company would go in, wipe out a village of Vietcong and then throw the cards down on the bodies. It was a taunt, a kind of challenge to Charlie, letting them know they were there.”

He looked at Louis. “They called them death cards.”

“Do you recognize this one?” Louis asked, holding out the plastic bag.

Cloverdale wouldn’t take it. “No. The number is probably a company or squadron maybe.”

Louis looked down at the bag then put it back in his pocket. He looked up at Cloverdale’s drawn face.

“Thanks,” he said and started to turn away.

“I know your man,” Cloverdale said.

Louis turned back sharply.

Cloverdale just looked at Louis then he smiled slightly. “I’ve met him, hundreds of times.”

“Look,” Louis said, “don’t jerk me around.”

“I was a counselor afterward,” Cloverdale said. “I worked with a lot of fucked-up men and lot of them who could have done what your killer did, given the wrong circumstances.”

“What are the wrong circumstances?” Louis asked.

“You asking me for a profile?”

“Yeah.”

“It ain’t that easy, officer,” Cloverdale said, shaking his head. “Nothing about ‘Nam was easy or obvious. It was the camouflage war and there’s no hope of ever flushing it out.”

“But you can tell me what kind of man I am looking for,” Louis said.

“Yeah, I can.” Cloverdale shifted the gun off his shoulder and rested the butt on the ground. “Look for a normal man.”

“Normal?” Louis said.

“A guy who tried to be normal and failed.”

Louis frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He probably enlisted, maybe because his life was shitty up to then and the military makes a lot of big promises about straightening out your life for you.”

“Go on,” Louis said.

“He probably did all right for himself in the military, maybe even had his first taste of success,” Cloverdale said. “But something happened and he felt like he was a failure again. He might have had a drug or alcohol problem and got the quick trip through the VA system.” Cloverdale paused. “Now they have a nice name for it, post-traumatic stress syndrome. Back then, we were all just addicts.”

“What about after the war?” Louis asked.

“After,” Cloverdale said softly. “Well, let’s just say nobody was exactly throwing rose petals at your man’s feet. Your man went to war, did his job, and then everyone at home told him what he had done was a joke. Not great for the self-esteem.”

Louis waited, wishing he had a notebook with him.

“He probably couldn’t find a job,” Cloverdale went on, “or if he did it was in some factory that probably laid him off when the recession hit. ‘Nam vets earned less, were prompted less, and had more turnover.” Cloverdale drew in a breath. “Check homeless shelters, that sort of thing. There’s still about a quarter of a million vets on the street.”

A horn honked. Louis turned to the cruiser. Jesse was motioning for him. Louis looked back to Cloverdale.

“Can you tell me why?” Louis asked.

“Why he did it?” Cloverdale said. “Shit, who really knows? He might have a hard-on toward authority figures. You know, projecting his frustrations about his life onto any symbol of the establishment.” He nodded toward Louis’s badge. “Cops would qualify.”

Louis shook his head. “A failure at being normal. It can’t be that simple.”

“Think of it as the blue-collar dream gone gray,” Cloverdale said.

Louis held Cloverdale’s eyes for a second then looked up, blinking into the huge flakes. He let out a long sigh. When he looked back at Cloverdale, he was leaning heavily against his gun. His jacket was soaked dark green from the snow. He looked suddenly very tired.

“Your man isn’t here,” Cloverdale said.

“I know that now.”

Cloverdale looked at the cruiser. “You’d better get going up that hill,” he said.

Louis nodded, hesitated then stuck out his hand. Cloverdale stared at it for a moment then shifted the rifle so he could shake Louis’s hand.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Sure. But don’t come back.” Cloverdale gave him a final smile then started back toward the compound. Louis turned and trudged toward the cruiser.

“Hey, Black Pool!”

Louis turned.

“The South,” Cloverdale called out. “You ever think about it much?”

“I try not to,” Louis said.

Cloverdale gave a low soft laugh. He raised the gun in a salute, turned and was lost in the swirling snow.

“Turn on the defroster.”

“It’s on.”

“Well, then turn it up.”

“It’s up as high as it goes,” Jesse said. He rubbed the windshield with his sleeve. “Goddamn it, I can’t see a thing.”

“Jess, pull over,” Louis said.

“What for?”

“I’ll drive.”

“I can drive.”

“Not the way you’re acting, you can’t. Slow down or we’re going to end up wrapped around a damn tree.”

Jesse slowed to thirty-five. The cruiser crept along the snow-clogged county road. Louis let out a breath of relief when they turned back onto the main highway. It, too, was snowed over, but at least it was four lanes the rest of the way back to Loon Lake. They drove in edgy silence for fifteen minutes.

“You get anything useful back there?” Jesse asked finally.

“I’m not sure,” Louis said. He told him what Cloverdale had said.

“So the killer’s military,” Jesse said.

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t think he’s one of those guys?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Gut feeling.”

Jesse gave a small laugh. “Gut feeling. Right.”

Louis stared at Jesse. He was gripping the wheel with his right hand, his left hand bent against his temple. Louis glanced at the speedometer. What the hell was wrong now?

“Jess,” he said, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why you snapping at me?”

Jesse didn’t look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Louis decided to let it go. They rode the rest of the way in silence, picking up the freshly plowed wake of a snowplow just as they turned onto the road at the north end of the lake.

Florence’s voice came over the radio, asking for their location. When Louis radioed back that they were on their way back to the station, Florence told them Gibralter was waiting for them at Dot’s. Louis acknowledged the call and signed off.

“Now what?” Jesse muttered.

“Probably just wants an update,” Louis said.

“Probably wants to chew out my ass for something.”

Jesse pushed the cruiser up to forty-five. The gated entrances to tourist homes flew past. They were coming up fast on a slow-moving red truck and Louis resisted the urge to tell Jesse again to slow down.

“Ford,” Jesse said suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s a red Ford,” Jesse said, peering out at the sludge-encrusted truck ahead of them.

For a second, Louis’s heart beat faster. No, it was too new. Art Taub said the Ford was old and rusted. “It’s not the one. Let him go, Jess,” Louis said.

“No, damn it. His tint’s too dark.”

Jesse flipped on the lights and squawked the siren twice. The driver’s head snapped toward his rearview mirror and he swung to the side of the road. As they pulled up, Louis could see the truck was a new model with not a dent on it, let alone rust.

Jesse was out of the cruiser before Louis could reply. With a sigh, he grabbed the clipboard and followed.

The driver was about thirty, with a thin pale face and a fizz of dirty red hair. He had an old paisley bandana wrapped around his forehead and a small gold hoop in his left ear. On his chin, a sprout of whiskers struggled to form a goatee.

“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked nervously.

Jesse opened the truck door. “Get out.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“Get out of the fucking truck.”

The man moved slowly. Jesse yanked him from the car so forcefully he fell to the pavement. The man grabbed the door handle to pull himself up, his eyes wide as he looked at Jesse. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just faded jeans and a dingy white T-shirt.

Louis stepped forward. “Your driver’s license, please,” he said.

The man’s pale eyes darted to the truck. “It’s in that bag on the seat.”

Jesse reached in and pulled out a Crown Royal bag. He retrieved the man’s license and thrust it out at Louis. When Louis hesitated Jesse said, “You gonna run that or not?”

“This license is expired, Mr. Bates,” Louis said.

“Dear me, there just aren’t enough hours in the day,” the man said with a sigh.

Louis glanced at Jesse. Christ, he was bouncing on his toes to nail this guy for something. The best thing to do was get this over as quickly as possible. He started back to the cruiser.

“Love the uniform, man,” Bates called after him.

Louis heard a clunk and looked back. Jesse had Bates flat against the truck, reaching for his cuffs. Louis keyed the mike and told Florence to run the plate and license. He had to get this over with fast before Bates lost a few front teeth.

Louis leaned against the cruiser and watched as Jesse began to search the truck’s interior. What the hell was he doing now? If he found anything, Bates would scream illegal search. He was just about to call to Jesse when Florence came back advising that Bates was free of warrants and priors.

Bates was hollering to Jesse from the rear of the truck. “You going to search
me,
too, officer? I like them full-cavity body searches. You ever done one of those?” Bates looked at Louis. “What about you, Mandingo?”

“Shut up,” Louis said.

Jesse came out of the truck holding a small plastic bag.

“What’s that?” Louis asked.

“Looks like grass to me,” Jesse said, shaking it in Bates’s face. “I asked you if there was any drugs in the truck, asshole. You lied to me.”

“Hey, you didn’t have any right to search my truck,” Bates said. “I’ve got rights here.”

Jesse spun around and grabbed Bates by the back of the T-shirt. “Keep your fucking mouth shut!” He slammed Bates’s head down against the side of the truck bed. Louis jumped forward, ripping Jesse’s arm from Bates’s collar.

Blood dripped from Bates’s nose as he staggered backward. Louis caught his sleeve to keep him balanced and glared at Jesse. “That wasn’t necessary,” Louis said.