Skunk Hunt (42 page)

Jeremy clamped his mouth shut. Drawing the
truth out of him was like sucking a hamster through a straw. What
he said next had nothing to do with maintaining a secret or losing
an advantage. It was a simple confession of ignorance, but it
induced all sorts of constipated groans and spasms before he
finally said:

"I didn't send the letters."

"
We
didn't send them," Yvonne amended.

"Well Todd sure as hell didn't send them," I
reasoned. "He's the worm. He wouldn't want his can opened."

"Stop trying to be clever," Yvonne
reprimanded.

"Okay," I sighed. "But you see what I mean.
If it's not Todd and it's not you, it has to be...well, someone has
been going to a lot of trouble to set us up. Where do Carl and Dog
come in? Were they the ones who took a potshot at us on Route
6?"

For an instant, a Joker slipped out of
Yvonne's poker face.

"You know who it was?" I said, in a voice
that was almost demanding. I was pretty worked up. You have to take
high-powered rifles seriously, even if the shooter isn't trying to
hit you but only sending you a warning. You have to treat them
dead-seriously if they don't know what they're doing, which for
some reason I suspected was the case. Everything else had been
half-assed, so why not the shooting?

"He's making it up," Jeremy said, scowling.
"Or he's cracked under the strain. You should drop it, Mute. I was
never shot at."

Once again, Kendle's placid face shifted,
expanded and collapsed in a chubby stellar implosion. She only
spoke because it looked as if Jeremy was going to add two cents to
his chump change.

"If it didn't happen, it didn't
happen." She chewed this morsel with her cud. "But if it
did
happen, it probably would have
been one of the Congreve brothers."

"Oh shit," I said.

"Yeah."

"Oh shit," I said again, my wind going out
with the words.

The Congreve brothers, the Sad Sacks
who had dressed the part, played the part, and been condemned for
their part in impersonating the Brinks guards, the pair who had
held guns on the
real
guards.

"They're out?"

"They were released right after Skunk
croaked," said Jeremy, wilting under his own tough guy act. "Ten to
one the cops are following them, hoping they'll lead them to the
money."

"Oh," I said, glaring at Yvonne. "Real
cops?"

"I suppose," she said.

"And were the real cops watching when the
Congreve brothers took a shot at us?"

"Or maybe it wasn't the Congreve brothers,"
said Kendle. "I told you I don't know, didn't I?"

None of this news was expected, but at least
some things began falling into place. Unfortunately, an equal
number began falling out of place.

"I thought Carl and Dog got involved because
of Sweet Tooth," I confessed.

"Sort of yes and sort of no," Yvonne said,
fidgeting. Either I knew too much of the wrong things, or I was
close to learning, and prolonging the conversation would increase
the risk.

"Problem is," said Jeremy, "we have another
problem."

"Where did you guys get the cash that you
used as bait?" I asked. Their blank expressions told me I needed to
elaborate. "The money at the farm and at the old power plant?"

"That's the problem," said Jeremy.

"What, that Sweet Tooth has run off
with it?" Then, looking at Yvonne, I amended, "Well,
some
of it?"

"The problem is that there was any money at
all," she said, dodging my reference to the original fifty grand.
"Jeremy does odd jobs—"

"Doubletalk
works
?" I gawked.

"And the salary of a DOC prison guard isn't
fit for human life," Kendle concluded. "If it weren't for the state
benefits, I'd—"

I wondered if she was about to say, "I'd walk
the streets," then gave her the benefit of the doubt because
imagining her strutting around in pink shorts and high pumps and a
halter top permanently damaged my limbic system.

"And you're sure you didn't send those
letters?" I prompted. "There wouldn't be much left after the house
payments, taxes
et cetera ad
vomitum
. Me, you, Sweet Tooth, Carl,
Dog...Todd…
Elizabeth J. Neerson and
children
...you're talking about pocket change, and
that's if we're lucky."

"We wondered about that, too," Jeremy said.
From a slight inflection I concluded sharing had been the last
thing on their minds. "But when we found $50,000 at that
farm..."

"That's what bait is for," said Kendle, a
tacit admission that she had snapped at it.

"Did Todd know I existed?" I asked, giving
Kendle a hard-boiled look that probably came across like a runny
four-minute egg. "Carl and Dog seemed to have some kind of deal
with him."

Jeremy went all edgy again and I guessed the
answer. At some point, when he was strapped for cash, he had gone
to the River Road house and tried to tap Todd for his share.

"You told him, didn't you?" I went on. "He
didn't believe you, right? Who would want a Skunk for a dad? He
probably thinks his father is a bank president who died from gout.
So you told him if he wanted proof, just go to Oregon Hill to see
his twin. Right? So did he come? Did he see me?"

"He didn't act surprised when he saw you
today, right?" Jeremy guessed.

"How did you know he saw me today?" I
asked.

"Yeah," said Kendle, "tell us."

Abashed by his slip-up, he went on the
offensive, which naturally led to a fall. "Why shouldn't he tell
me?"

"'He' meaning who?" asked Kendle

Jeremy took this further demonstration of his
own conspiratorial incompetence with all the grace of a seal in the
desert. While he flopped around aimlessly, I put the story
together. Some of it, at least.

"You're all in it together, but you're all
trying to stab each other in the back, and the only reason I'm here
is because of the letter you say you didn't send." I looked at the
pieces before me and wondered where Kendle came into the picture. I
couldn't believe Jeremy would share his booty with this one-girl
grunge factory. Maybe she had done him the way she had done me, by
falling on top and letting physics take over. They had probably met
in prison, a classic jailbird and lovebird duo. To impress her with
his prospects, or to force a pause for air, he had whispered
'Brinks' in her ear. I looked for traces of wax on his tongue.
"Let's see...Doubletalk remembers his posh first years, but maybe
not the address, so you work together to find that house. That
leads you to Todd, who shows you the door. I guess you threatened
Todd by telling him and his folks you would bring in the cops and
they would lose everything unless they shared the money. Maybe
convince them to sell the house and split the proceeds. To make the
threat more threatening, you have Sweet Tooth bring in Carl, who
has experience throwing his weight around. Sweet Tooth..." I
paused, stumped.

Jeremy was sucking his teeth, working a
prospective lie into a lozenge.

"How long ago was this?" I asked. A person's
cultural taste and inclinations are sometimes hard to gauge at a
glance, but in this case I could tell neither Jeremy nor Yvonne saw
anything dubious about pole dancing in a sordid dive. Maybe I was
the one out of step. I'd heard somewhere that there was a push on
to make pole dancing an Olympic sport. Either the Committee was
looking for ways to boost viewership, or the gymnastic aesthetes
wanted something more than flat chests pressed against the
balancing beams.

Both Jeremy and Kendle failed the fidget
test. Timing was everything, and they knew they risked betraying
the extent of their premeditation with a straight answer. I goaded
them:

"A year ago? Two?" My query bounced off like
a Nerf ball. I tried a different approach. "Something went wrong,
didn't it? Instead of stiff-arming Todd, Carl and Dog became chummy
with him. That was the impression I got back at the PFZ. That would
explain the blanks in the gun. But they ended up trying to cut you
out of it—"

Something unsavory entered my calculation, a
sour version of a sweet tooth. Was it really possible Barbara was
colluding with Carl and Dog? Was she helping to rob both—all three,
I mean—of her brothers? Flatulence might be the least of her
problems. The way she had disappeared, maybe she was suffering from
a sore conscience. I could hope.

I was sure the sterling couple in front of me
had already factored this possibility. There was no point bringing
it up, especially since it cast a shadow on the least unlikable
member of my family.

"It's been a long day," I said.

"It's not even two," said Yvonne.

"Well, it's getting even longer," I said.
"One of you is going to give me a lift to River Road, right? That's
where I was parked when Carl and Dog hijacked me."

"I'll take him home," said Jeremy.

"No, I will," said his bigger half.

"Don't put yourself out," my brother
insisted. It didn't sound like the voice of courtesy. I wondered if
he suspected my WWF moment with Yvonne. Could we be planning a
rematch?

"No bother," Kendle shot back with malicious
civility.

They didn't trust each other, that much was
obvious. It was just possible Kendle didn't want me mouthing off
about how I had nailed her, or she had nailed me, or whatever. But
I didn't think so. I sensed they still considered me full of useful
secrets, as opposed to the useless ones, like who I had slept with
the day before and who had been looking on from the closet.

Meanwhile, the tug of war between my brother
and Kendle continued, with me the taffy being stretched in the
middle.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work today?"
Jeremy said.

"I'm on sick leave," Yvonne said. "I sprained
my back."

No kidding, I thought.

"So you should be home in bed," Jeremy
countered.

"I'm beginning to see why your family called
you 'Doubletalk'."

"Is that an insult?" said eversharp
Jeremy.

I suppose it's nice to be wanted, but too
much of anything is a strain on the system. I began to walk.

"Hey!" they called out simultaneously.

And then Jeremy jabbed me with the unexpected
obvious: "Hey, Mute--what about the handwriting?"

That froze me for a moment. Damn. Someone
could have forged the signature, but an entire letter? I had not
seen many samples of Skunk's handwriting over the years, but enough
to recognize the half-illiterate valleys and escarpments of my
father's scrawl. It was a conundrum I refused to address in front
of these two, since it reinforced their innocence--and I knew they
were guilty as hell.

"I can take the bus," I said, unfreezing. I
didn't have a cent in my pocket, but at least by walking I could
get where I was going, eventually. Whether I got into Jeremy's
Porsche (which I assumed was protectively tucked away out of sight
at the far end of the lot) or Kendle's van, my destination would
not be guaranteed.

But guarantees are the tooth fairies of adult
commerce. Jeremy and Kendle had switched from shouting to
screeching as they watched me hike out of sight, though it was
quite a while before I was out of earshot. I was walking on the
sidewalk along Forest Hill Avenue, absorbing the shock waves of
oncoming traffic, when a van stopped next to me and Dog hopped
out.

Kidnapped twice in one day, by the same
people. There should be a law.

Oh yes…and Todd was with them.

CHAPTER 21

Dog wasn't Dog anymore, but Joe Schmuckalooza
from some third-rate dinner theater version of a fifth rate
musical. The period piece belonged to the Fifties (which has also
gotten low ratings from the critics) because Dog had gone Daddy-O
in a gaucho shirt, Air Force khakis and two tone shoes. He was so
fresh and lemony he might have stepped permanently pressed out of a
front loader, but the pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve
was pretty cool.

"Don't make me do anything that will take me
out of character," Joe Dog said with a chipper grin. "I'm a
peace-loving nerd who is being investigated personally by Joe
McCarthy."

"Did they have nerds back then?" I asked.

"They were
all
nerds back then."

I wanted to keep up the conversation, for no
other reason than to avoid looking at my twin. It was like staring
into a mirror and seeking the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Otherwise, I was slipping comfortably into
the Stockholm Syndrome. I greeted Carl with a friendly nod and
angled myself into the rear flip-down. Monique was not among the
kidnappers. Between Joe Dog, Todd and myself, Carl might have
decided she would distract too much from the business at hand. We
were near the Pony Pasture, part of the James River Park system.
Parts of it were woody and isolated. A good place to dump a body.
Thinking I might become mulch in the butterfly garden, I began my
defense without further ado.

"I don't have anything, I don't want
anything, I don't know anything, I don't want to know anything." I
thought that covered my bases pretty nicely.

Todd snorted nastily and I felt compelled to
acknowledge his presence.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I said.

"It means..." And he snorted again.

God, what a fright. Todd was me all
over, down to the slight chubbiness, weasely voice and a propensity
to rattle his phlegm like a pair of dice at the back of his throat.
But in my view, the differences were more distinct than the
similarities. He was wearing shorts, exposing scrawny legs that I
always felt aesthetically obliged to cover with baggy cargo pants.
He had adopted the comfortable
laissez-faire
of wealth, where money spoke louder
than fashion. It's hard to explain. His rumpled T-shirt bore no
logo, name brand or otherwise. The glint of his watch did not blind
me with gold or excessive functions. His hair was slicked back so
neatly I wondered if he was stage-bound with Joe Dog in the revival
of Fifties
kitsch
. He was just
a guy—but if both of us showed up at a gated community, only one
would be allowed in. The guard would be able to tell us
apart.