The Bar Watcher (32 page)

Jeezus.

I didn't move a muscle until I was sure I knew what the guy had in mind. He crept toward Stan, who was apparently so focused on getting down to business at the grotto he still didn't know there was anyone behind him.

When the guy was only about five feet behind Stan, I saw him raise the rock over his head with both hands. I jumped out into the path and yelled “
Hey!
” then took off running—or as close to running as the trail would allow—straight for Stan. He just stood there, probably startled out of his gourd.

The guy behind him dropped the rock, turned and ran back down the hill.

I reached Stan, who was still standing like a deer caught in the headlights, completely blocking the path, forcing me to almost come to a dead stop.

“
Move!
” I said, reaching to grab him by the shoulders.

I all but threw him out of the way. He stumbled into the underbrush, and I continued down the twisting path. I could catch only occasional glimpses of the guy ahead of me, moving fast. When he reached a point where three trails came together, he darted off into the woods. He turned his head slightly to look back at me—and ran into a low-hanging branch of a pine tree, which caught him and spun him around, hard.

But he regained his balance and continued running, disappearing into the woods. Damn!

When I got to the point where he'd entered the woods, I realized he could backtrack to any one of the three trails. I chose one at random and continued running. Nothing.

There were more guys along the trail as I neared the bottom of the hill, and I hadn't had a good enough look at him, other than as a running figure, to be able to know if he was one of them.

Totally frustrated, but pretty sure he wouldn't make another move on Stan that night, I found my way to my car and drove home.

*

I had the dream again—one I'd had several times in the past few weeks. I was in a crowded, dark bar where I couldn't make out faces, or features, just eyes. I woke up around 7:30, and without giving it much thought got dressed and headed out to my car. No shower, no coffee, just the knowledge I had to return to the Woods—I had no idea why.

Riverside was all but empty; only three cars parked along the entire stretch of the Woods. I pulled up close to the trail from which I'd emerged not all that long ago and retraced my steps as best I could to where the three trails met. I had a very strange feeling, and still had no idea what it was, just a familiar tightness in my stomach.

I tried to pick the exact spot where I'd seen the guy run into the woods, and managed to pick out what I thought was the pine tree he'd smacked into. I walked slowly toward it, trying to retrace his steps. Why? What the hell was I looking for? Footprints? Dick Hardesty, Boy Deerstalker.

I went to the tree and tried to pick out the limb that had caught him.
Now what, Nattie Bumpo?
I asked myself.

My attention went to the ground beneath the tree, caught by a brief glint of something. Bending down, I pushed aside some loose pine needles and picked up a thin silver chain.

Chapter 14

I've done some pretty stupid things in my life, but what I did after picking up the chain was without a doubt right there at the very top of the list. I put it in my pocket and opened the car door. How had I gotten from the tree to the car? I couldn't tell you. I was suddenly aware my mind had been a total blank between those two actions. I wasn't thinking anything, I wasn't feeling anything—how I even managed to walk across the street to the car without being hit I couldn't tell you, other than it was a Sunday morning and there wasn't much traffic.

Back in reality and seated in my car, I was still numb and operating pretty much on autopilot. When I felt I was at least sufficiently together to be able to drive without getting into an accident, I started the engine, checked the rearview mirror for oncoming traffic and pulled out into the street. I didn't tell myself where I was going until I pulled up in front of 247 Cloverland.

I parked, got out of the car and went to the door. For a relatively small building, it had a lot of tenants, according to the mailboxes in the small entry. I found one that said “T. Brown, 218,” climbed the stairs and went down the hall to the door marked 218. I knocked. No answer, but I could hear the soft sounds of music.
Francesca di Rimini
. I knocked again.

“Toby,” I called, “it's Dick.”

A moment later, I heard a security lock turned, and the door opened.

I had been dreading facing him. I know I should have called the police immediately, but I also knew—or hoped to hell I knew—that Toby would never hurt me. And when I saw the look on his face, any possible concern I might have had for my own safety vanished.

His eyes were red, and I'm sure he hadn't slept.

“Hi, Dick,” he said, his voice oddly flat. “Come on in.”

I entered his tiny apartment and noticed a couple cardboard boxes on the small couch and another on the coffee table, and could see, through the open bedroom door, two suitcases on the oddly slanted bed. Two other sealed cardboard boxes were stacked near the door, a large roll of duct tape sitting on top.

I reached into my pocket and took out the chain.

“You dropped this,” I said. “I know how much it means to you.”

He looked at me, and his eyes filled with tears that ran down either side of his nose and onto his upper lip. He reached out with an open hand, and I dropped the chain into it.

“Thank you, Dick,” he said softly. He made a quick scooping swipe with the back of his free hand from the bottom of his chin to under his nose.

“It's over,” I said.

Toby nodded. “I know. That's why I was leaving today. I can't stay here anymore. I was going to call you before I left, though, to say goodbye and thank you for being my friend.” He looked at me very seriously, his eyes searching my face. “Are you still my friend, Dick?”

Still his friend?
my mind yelled.
He's killed seven people and almost killed an eighth! Are you his friend?

“Yes, Toby, I'm your friend,” I said, and I meant it.

What a poor fucking excuse you are for a PI,
my mind said.

Toby tried to smile then looked around and said, “Can we sit for a minute?”

“Sure,” I said. I realized I was a lot calmer than I had a right to be, but I was also indescribably sad. There was so much I wanted to know, and so much I realized now I didn't really need to be told, that I already knew.

As Toby bent over to move the open cardboard box from the couch to the coffee table, I saw a framed photo. I reached into the box and took it out. It was a black-and-white photograph of two dorky-looking teenagers, smiling into the camera with their arms around each other's shoulders. One of them was enormously overweight, the other not as grossly fat but still about 50 pounds overweight.

“That's JJ,” Toby said, tapping the glass over the figure on the left. “My best friend.”

“And the…” I started to say, then nearly bit my tongue when I realized who it was.

“That's me,” Toby said. “I weighed two hundred and thirty pounds when I was sixteen years old.”

I shook my head. “It must have been really hard for you.”

Toby gave me the merest shadow of a smile.

“You have no idea,” he said. “I'm pretty sure if I go to hell when I die, it can't be much worse than being fat and ugly and gay in a small farm town. The adults never said much, because they liked and respected my folks, but the kids! Oh, God, the kids. Especially two of the local jocks who thought the bigger the bully you could be the bigger the man you were.” He was silent for a moment then stated, “They killed my folks.”

I'm sure my incomprehension was written all over my face.

“You don't mean literally, I hope?” I managed to say, fully aware of how stupid a question it was.

He shrugged. “They weren't arrested for it, if that's what you mean,” he said. “It was never proved. But the night my folks died, I was supposed to go to some school thing. We had an old beat-up pickup my dad and I managed to keep running with wires and tape. But I got sick while I was coming home from school that night and went right to bed.

“My folks decided to go into town to return some canning supplies my mom had borrowed.” He gently chewed his lower lip for a moment or two, remembering. “They never came home. They went off a bridge halfway to town. They said it was an accident, but it wasn't. I know those two jocks were responsible. They saw the pickup, thought it was me going to the school thing and ran it off the road. They'd done it to me before. But this time it wasn't me.”

What could I say? Apparently, Toby didn't expect a response. He was caught up in his story, and I was equally caught up in hearing it.

“So, I went to stay with relatives in Georgia and decided I'd had enough of being the ugly fat kid. I started working out, and changed my diet, and slowly but surely, I made myself over. I kept in touch with JJ, of course, and convinced him he should do what I did. And he tried—he really tried, and he lost seventy-five pounds.

“When I moved here, I had him come out for a visit. He looked great—we almost didn't recognize one another after having been friends for nearly twenty years. He hadn't gotten to where he wanted to be yet, but he was really looking good and starting to feel good about himself for the first time in his life.”

He stopped talking for a moment, and reached out and took my hand.

“Am I talking too much, Dick?”

I squeezed his hand.

“No, Toby, you're not. Don't stop.”

He sighed. “It's my fault, really. We'd both realized we were gay about the time we turned fourteen, but we were too good friends to do anything about it with each other. We just looked and dreamed and pretended we weren't fat and ugly—kind of hard to do when you're reminded every day. But at least we had each other.

“So, anyway, when he came out to visit, Rage had just opened up, and I thought I'd let JJ see what the gay community had to offer. I didn't know you had to be a member, but when I asked about joining, the clerk called that Comstock guy out, and he told us I could join but JJ couldn't because he wasn't attractive enough—my God, Dick! Can you imagine? Can you imagine what that did to him?”

I could, indeed, and suddenly wondered if he and his friend had been the ones Jared had mentioned seeing his first night at Rage.

“JJ'd never been anywhere where there were other gays,” Toby continued. “I guess from what I'd told him he expected that, since we'd all lived with prejudice and hatred all our lives, we'd all be like one big loving family. Comstock took care of that with one sentence. It told JJ that, no matter what he did or how hard he worked, people would always hate him, even what I'd told him so often were his own people.

“He just wasn't the same after that. I told him he should move out here with me, but he said he wanted to go back home, where at least he knew who hated him.

“That's when I started sending those notes to Comstock. I slashed the top and the tires on his car on my way to work one morning, and when I got home that night, I got a letter from JJ's mom. He'd gone out rabbit hunting, and apparently tripped, and his gun went off. I know that's not what happened, but I hope his folks don't.”

He sighed and released my hand.

“So, I went back that night and killed Comstock. I'd found his key box that morning and took the keys just so that, if he ever needed them, they wouldn't be there. When I went back that night, I used them to let myself in. I opened the side door just a crack and saw nobody was in his office, so I went in. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and picked up the letter opener and stood behind the door, and when he came in, I stabbed him. And you know what, Dick?”

He looked at me, and I found myself shaking my head.

“When I used to have to shoot animals, I'd feel terrible about it. But when I killed Comstock, I didn't feel a thing. I was just taking out the garbage.”

What's happening to you, Hardesty?
my mind demanded, sincerely shocked.
This guy kills people, and you agree with him!

Toby sighed again. “And then, the night I saw you in Glitter, that Richie character treated that poor older guy with such contempt, such disrespect, such meanness I knew he was just like Comstock. And I realized I didn't have to just stand back and watch that kind of thing anymore. So, I followed him home and went into his garage—he was pretty drunk, because he just sat in his car for a while. When he finally got out, I just pushed him really hard, and he fell forward and hit his head on the stoop. I turned the engine of his car back on, pressed the door close button and left the garage while it was closing.”

He looked at me again. “Do you want me to go on?”

I shook my head no—I'd heard enough. I didn't need the details.

Toby smiled a strange, sad smile.

“And not once did I care,” he said. “Not once did I feel I'd done something bad. When I'd kill a deer, my dad would say, ‘You've got to do what you've got to do, boy.' And he was right.”