The Surrogate Thief Page 15

  She smiled at the memory. No wonder she’d thought of this as a meeting place. It was one of the only upbeat constants in her life—a reliable album snapshot of happiness and goodwill where regular folks convened to have a good time each year before buttoning up for the winter. In more ways than one, in fact. When Hannah was a teenager, the saying used to be that you hadn’t been to the fair until you left with a pint in your pocket and someone else’s wife on your arm. Things had been so acceptably rowdy in those days that even the sheriff’s department had sponsored a girlie show as a fund-raiser.

  Naturally, everything was “respectable” now, and Hannah had to admit, she didn’t miss some of the lechery she’d been a victim of at the hands of a few older drunks back then. As for the antics among her fellow teens, that was something else. She lost her virginity here, behind the racing sheds on the bank of the North Branch River, and despite the fumbling at the time, still recalled the moment fondly.

  She set out downhill, aiming for a narrow, two-lane temporary footbridge that the fair staff had erected just for this event. The North Branch was fickle enough to have run riot over the years, so much so that all the barn doors were left open during the winter, allowing the spring floods simply to tear through the buildings rather than rip them from their moorings. Against fury like that, any so-called permanent footbridge would have been an exercise in futility.

  All that seemed incongruous today. As she crossed the bridge, Hannah admired the river’s peaceful gurglings around the pilings, empathizing with how the carnies always chose the curve of the tree-shaded bank just to the right to line up their mobile homes and trailers. She imagined that Tunbridge was one of the few venues they frequented where such sylvan gentleness was located so close to the frenzy of their jobs.

  She stepped onto the fairgrounds proper and worked her way between the cow sheds before her. Here, farm kids by the dozen tended animals so curried and washed and meticulously trimmed that their hides took on the softness of brown butter. She’d loved hanging around here as a youth, not just for the boys but for the lowing beasts, too—their huge bulk and warm odors as inviting to her as the smell of fresh hay after a cutting.

  She proceeded to the north end of the midway and melted into its crush of humanity, dense as any subway crowd at the height of rush hour. Here the smells were of boiling fat and fried dough, of sugar and beer and too many people, all things she found as appealing in their way as the ones she’d just left.

  Basically, there was nothing that wasn’t going to seem good to her right now, because today, as the saying went, was the beginning of the rest of her life.

  Which could definitely stand improvement. Hannah, she’d come to believe, was one of those people whom good things avoided. A decent man, any children whatsoever, a home to call her own, a fulfilling job—even a car that worked properly—had all eluded her over a life filled with brawls, heartbreak, single-wide trailers, and a longing so deep, she thought it had no bottom.

  Until she’d read that headline: “Cold Case Files? Cops Reopen Ancient Murder.”

  That’s when she’d called T. J. to let him know she was still alive—and still equipped with a good memory. Not to mention a little something extra, in case the cops needed proof. Not surprisingly, she hadn’t told him that part. That, she was keeping in reserve—her ace up the sleeve. After all, there was no point in revealing too much. He might come to see her as expendable, and she never wanted that to happen.

  She smiled broadly to herself, weaving through the crowd. To think that a stupid job she’d held for a few months so long ago would suddenly become a gold mine—not once, but twice. She stopped at a fried-dough booth to indulge in a bit of celebratory excess.

  The afternoon went by in similar high spirits. The harness racing was fun and profitable. She made ten bucks on a bet, which was clearly a good omen. She wandered by every booth, visited every tent, took the rides that wouldn’t upset her stomach, including a tour on the Ferris wheel, where she caught a bird’s-eye perspective. But as day yielded to night, and the sun gave way to the throb and blur of neon and flashing arcade lights, she did have to admit to a slow but steady building of second thoughts.

  She knew she’d chosen the right place. She was familiar with every inch of it, both public and private. She was also secure in the context. Meet in a crowd—that’s what the movies always said. She’d given clear and easy instructions—contact at the entrance to the bingo hall at ten p.m.—and had even thought to tell him to watch for the woman wearing a cowboy hat and a red blouse, an unusual outfit to compensate for how much she’d aged and for the number of people that were sure to be milling around her.

  She’d covered everything. And couldn’t stop worrying about what she’d left out.

  By the appointed time, all the fun had evaporated. She was back where she usually was, convinced it would go wrong and that she’d get the short end of the stick again. She stood by the bingo hall entrance, feeling stupid in her hat, drawing bemused looks from passersby.

  Ten p.m. Ten-fifteen. Ten-twenty.

  “Nice hat, Hannah.”

  She whirled around at the proximity of the voice, right by her ear, and came face-to-face with a bland-faced man with brown hair and a mustache.

  “Who’re you?” she demanded, her voice high with tension.

  “The man with the money.”

  “Where’s T. J.?”

  “Busy. He sent us.”

  Us? She glanced around nervously. In the swirl of passing bodies, she saw three others standing still at various distances from them, all looking at her.

  “Why so many?”

  The brown-haired man smiled. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “Do you have it?”

  He ignored her. “He wants assurances this will be the last time you call him.”

  That angered her. “The last time? I haven’t called him in over thirty years. What’s he complaining about?”

  “So, this is it, then?”

  It was an interesting question. She hadn’t actually thought that through, that this could become a steady source of income. “Sure,” she lied.

  His smile widened. “Good. That’s all we needed to hear.”

  “Fine. You got it?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. Follow me.”

  She stood fast, her arms straight by her sides. “I want it here. Now.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “It’s in a briefcase, Hannah. I left it in the car. No point lugging it all over the place.” He then added as a joke, “It’s not like it’s a check.”

  Still she hesitated. He didn’t seem threatening, and what he’d said made sense. But where was T. J.? And why were the others here if the money was in a car?

  “I’ll wait,” she said. “Bring it to me.”

  The smile faded. “Hannah. T. J.’s doing you a favor here. Did he complain when you called? He said he’d help you out right off the bat, didn’t he? Don’t be a pain. Come get your money so we can all go home.”

  She looked around again, now feeling almost panicky. “I don’t know.”

  The man shrugged. “Fine, call him tomorrow and work something else out.” He motioned to the others and turned to go.

  “Wait,” she blurted.

  He paused.

  “Okay.”

  He seemed to relax and leaned toward her in a conspiratorial way. “Great, and you know what I said about this being the only time?”

  She had to strain to hear his near whisper in all the surrounding noise.

  “Well,” he continued, gently taking her arm and beginning to walk her south, parallel to the midway and toward the parking lots below the fairgrounds. “I’m just an employee, and T. J.’s a real easy touch. I wouldn’t take that part too seriously, if I were you.”

  She didn’t like being held that way, but he did seem to be on her side. “Really?”

  “Sure. Give it some time, and then maybe talk to him about being put on a kind of salary. God, you read about that sort
of arrangement all the time, don’t you?”

  It was true, she guessed, but her mind was still in a whirl. She remained anxious—almost skittish. It wasn’t what she had planned. It was becoming complicated, and it was slipping from her fingers. Just like always.

  To give herself a little breathing room, she jerked her arm free of the man’s grasp. In that split second, she both saw his face flash with anger and sensed one of the men right behind her suddenly moving as if to head her off.

  It was all she needed.

  She pretended to shift left, toward the midway and the solid column of people there, and then cut right as her escort went for the feint, pushing the off-balance brown-haired man out of her way as she cut into a narrow alley between the two buildings beside them, tipping over a large trash barrel behind her as she went.

  It worked. She reached the fence separating the alleyway from the racetrack and climbed over it before the men behind her could clear away the barrel.

  Opposite her was the covered stage, facing the grandstand to her left. She cut away from the music and the bright lights and ran north as fast as she could, making for the entrance of the track’s central oval. She heard a fair attendant yelling over her shoulder at the men climbing the fence in pursuit.

  The inner oval combined all of the fair’s offerings. There was a second midway, complete with rides, tents, and booths, and a second crowd of people. On its far side, near the river, was also where most of the vehicles and trailers belonging to vendors and other personnel were parked in near-total darkness. As kids, that was often where Hannah and her friends ended up to indulge in some of their more private activities.

  She quickly glanced back as she passed through the gate. All four men were coming on at a run.

  Now convinced her life was at stake, she plowed heedlessly into the people before her, at once desperate and hopeful that her actions would cause problems for her pursuers.

  She was right. Slipping by the initial shouts of angry surprise, she was aware of a secondary outburst being triggered by those in her wake. Risking a second backward look, she saw them being slowed and blocked by the protesting crowd.

  Except that now there were only two of them.

  Hannah kept struggling west toward the darkness. Like a passing fog, the crowd abruptly melted to a few stragglers as she passed the entrance to the second midway and headed for the horse barns barely visible in the gloom. If she could reach the far gate, leave the oval, cross the track, and work her way between the barns and the riverbank back toward the bridge and her car, she might still get away. At which point, she thought bitterly, old T. J. wouldn’t know the meaning of the word “misery.”

  A man’s shadow suddenly appeared out of the night, blocking the gate and her planned route.

  She veered right, still inside the oval, running toward the lights of a small circular clearing lined with some secondary food booths. A thin cluster of people and their kids were milling around eating French fries and cotton candy.

  She slowed slightly, tossed her hat away, and headed for a knot of two large families debating what to do next.

  Startled, they made way for her as she knifed through their midst, closing behind her like a body of water. Hidden for just a moment from anyone following, Hannah ducked and slipped in between two booths, again aiming for the railing separating the oval from the surrounding track. She was now facing north. On the far side were the cow barns, filled with people as before, and beyond them the bridge to her car. She could almost make out the steep parking lot in the night sky above the low-slung wooden buildings ahead of her.

  Stealthily, in the blackness of the narrow space between the two booths, she leaned over the railing and checked the track in both directions.

  Nobody.

  Shaking by now, sweating and near exhaustion, she climbed the railing and jumped.

  She heard footsteps running from her left, the same direction of the man who’d blocked her exit earlier. Bolting in blind fear, she sprinted for the distant fence, climbed it at a run, missed her footing, and fell sprawling on the far side, twisting her wrist and skinning her face on the grass.

  “You okay, lady?” a young voice asked from near one of the dimly lit barns.

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t think to seek safety among the people caring for their animals. Didn’t think of all the deputies that she’d avoided with scorn as a teen. She’d been reduced to one mindless goal: to get to her car.

  Stumbling, in pain, she set a straight course now, directly between the barns and toward the footbridge beyond, unaware and unconcerned about what might be happening behind her.

  The bridge loomed into view, empty of people, poorly lit. Here, suddenly things were quiet again, on the fringes of the fair, with shadows cast long and deep by the bright lights behind her. She stopped abruptly, caught up in the contrast, a sense of foreboding catching in her throat.

  Her target within sight at last, she moved only hesitantly toward it, her ears tuned to the slightest anomaly. But all she heard was the canned, repetitive music, the hum of the distant crowd, and the sleepy lowing of an occasional cow.

  Hannah tentatively placed her hand on the bridge’s handrail and stopped a final time to look around. One last dash should do it, up the hill to her car and gone. She reached into her pocket and removed her keys.

  Again, the dark outline of a man appeared before her, this time blocking the far side of the bridge.

  “Hannah.”

  The voice was quiet, almost otherworldly, coming not from ahead but seemingly from the night itself. She spun around, saw another silhouette approaching from where she’d come. She stared wide-eyed at the gap between the two barns she’d used earlier upon arrival, when she’d been feeling so upbeat and hopeful. A third outline stood there, waiting patiently.

  On sheer impulse she ran east, upriver, where she knew very well there was no outlet. The bluff overlooking the flood plain pinched together with the river and eventually formed a sheer drop into the water. But it was the only way clear.

  The fourth man—the one with the mustache—appeared so fast right before her that she actually fell into his arms, like a lover yielding freely. She didn’t feel the knife go in, but merely her legs going limp, as if from simple exhaustion.

  Which wasn’t so unreasonable. She was very tired, after all, in all senses of the word. She looked up into his face, saw the gentle eyes, and wondered why she’d put up such a fuss. Now that they were together at last, he didn’t seem so bad.

  He carefully lowered her to the ground by the rippling water, moving with her as she lay down. The familiar sound made her smile. So many years ago, that young boy fumbling with her clothes. Such a peaceful, endearing rite of passage. A moment of pure innocence.

  A time to remember.

  Chapter 15

  Joe knew he was fixating. Fully conscious that he’d caused the deaths of Katie Clark and a now presumed-innocent Peter Shea—but ignorant of why or precisely how—he’d tapped every resource to reopen the original investigation. His desk was piled high with files, reports, Internet printouts, phone message slips, and letters, some of them yellowed and worn with age, all relating to people who’d been peacefully hibernating in the boxes he’d retrieved from the basement weeks earlier.

  He knew as a virtual certainty that somewhere in the midst of it all was someone, deemed unremarkable at the time, who now had good reason to keep the past where it usually stayed.

  But finding that someone was proving to be difficult.

  He entered the VBI office carrying more documents from downstairs and was only slightly surprised to find Sammie Martens hard at work, even on a Saturday. So far, Joe had been tackling the Oberfeldt case alone, not wishing to add to anyone else’s load. Since the only new activity related to this had occurred out of state, Joe had been hesitant to officially assign anyone to help him out.

  “Just got a call about a murder in Tunbridge,” she commented, looking up from her paperwork.

/>   He stopped in midstride. On average, there were about seven murders in the state every year. Hardly a bloodbath by New York standards, but as a result, any homicide was a real topic of interest up here.

  “At the fair?” he asked, as aware as most locals of this regional tradition.

  “Yeah. They found a woman’s body this morning in the river. She was tangled up in the footings of a pedestrian bridge. That’s what the report said, anyhow. I have no clue. Fairs aren’t my thing.”

  Joe smiled and continued to his desk to deposit his files. No, Sam would be more inclined toward a good, competitive paintball battle, he thought.

  “Who’s on it?” he asked.

  “VSP’s the lead, but we have a couple of our guys from the Waterbury office there.”

  “By invitation?” he wanted to know, sitting down.

  She gave him a look, knowing all too well the VBI’s cardinal rule of engagement. “Yes, Mother. We’re doing the usual, offering money, manpower, and expertise,” she added. “And this time we got invited from the get-go.”

  He nodded with satisfaction. “Nifty.”

  That was a first, and an important one. Where the state police went, others often followed.

  “Usual sex-and-liquor falling-out?” he asked her, sitting behind his desk.

  “A whodunit,” she replied. “Guy used a knife. Caught her under the ribs and sliced her descending aorta, according to the ME’s office—unofficially, that is.”

  Joe stared at her, speechless.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He held up his hand. “Wait a second.” He began rummaging through the piles before him as she watched keenly. This man had been her boss in two different jobs by now and could safely be considered her mentor. The times when she despaired of her abilities the most were those when she feared she’d never acquire his sixth sense. Saying negative things about Joe Gunther was ill advised in her presence. Which was where she and Willy Kunkle sometimes clashed, among other places. Despite the fact that Gunther had saved Willy’s job countless times, Willy was not a man to play favorites, although, to be fair, he treated Joe with a tiny bit more respect than he did everyone else.