Bomber's Moon Read online

  This hadn’t always been so.

  He’d begun conventionally, assuming the self-destructive habits he’d seen practiced by a dysfunctional family and by impulse-driven friends. Ironically, it was the very stanchions of society he now preyed upon who had saved him from most of that. He’d been forced by the state to undergo a substance rehabilitation program, and been reborn as a result.

  Alex was a poster boy for reform, without the hoped-for end result authorities had intended.

  What he’d heard loudest back then was how wasteful he’d been of his brains and potential. What he hadn’t agreed with was how those assets should be applied to the pursuits of the average law-abiding citizen.

  His was the soul of an entrepreneur, he’d discovered, not suited to the limitations of a nine-to-five routine. He could also hold his home life as a root cause for this, and that his attraction to nonconformity was born of a pathological dislike of authority. First his father and then his mother’s subsequent string of boyfriends had all been heavy-handed bullies. He’d learned to skirt supreme rule and seek reward through independence.

  Like a hunter, he’d once told a girl he was trying to impress, he’d found his best ground maneuvering unseen through the civilized underbrush, in search of prey. She hadn’t understood a word of it, but a perfect example was now sitting before him, the analogy’s equivalent of a ten-point buck, cluelessly munching the grass.

  It was a brand-new, fully accessorized Cadillac Escalade that Alex had seen abandoned by its owners minutes earlier as the two of them had left it—hand in hand—in exchange for the southbound train.

  Confident that he’d properly sighted his target, the self-perceived hunter started his truck and left the parking lot. He’d be back, long after dark. Passenger trains in this state were a once-a-day phenomenon, the Escalade’s owners had been carrying luggage, wearing city-bound clothes, and the spot they’d left their ride was helpfully labeled LONG-TERM PARKING. Alex had time to work slowly and carefully.

  * * *

  “Reiling,” the deep voice rumbled across the room.

  Rachel looked up from her desktop computer. All the reporters had intercoms, texting, emails, even cell phones, if it came to that. Not that she faulted the timeworn tried-and-true approach—the newspaper’s entire pressroom was the size of a generous four-car garage. And her boss preferred yelling. It reminded him of the old days.

  That fit. With no hair except a snow-white fringe around the edges and a grizzled beard, Stan Katz looked as old days to Rachel as her grandfather. That included his wardrobe, which apparently contained an endless and only slightly varying collection of corduroys, vests, and argyle socks.

  She knew that was harsh, even at age twenty-four. Katz might have been getting on, but he was no candidate for an old folks’ home. In fact, he still seemed capable of running circles around her and her few colleagues.

  Rachel crossed the room to Katz’s small office, whose desk seemed more tchotchkes museum than work space, festooned with memorabilia, knickknacks, old clippings, postcards, and piles of paperwork. His computer monitor resembled Custer surrounded by hostiles.

  Katz propped one foot against the edge of the desk. “You happy here?” he asked as she stood eyeing his guest chair piled high with books and magazines.

  “Are you happy with me?” she countered.

  He smiled. “Sure.”

  “Then why the question?”

  He shrugged. “People come and go. The Brattleboro Reformer’s the state’s third-largest newspaper, but it’s a way station or a springboard to most people your age. That’s neither here nor there to me. I used to care, but I don’t anymore. I just live with it. But,” he emphasized, dropping his foot and sitting forward, “I won’t waste my time or enthusiasm on somebody who’s gonna dump me at the altar.”

  She smiled back, aware that he’d been married for over four decades and had no true idea of the concept he’d just invoked. “That’s some metaphor. Where’re we going with that?”

  He gestured to the chair, impressed as ever by her self-confidence. “Move that crap onto the floor.”

  She did so and sat as he continued. The pressroom beyond was empty. The Reformer, some 140 years old, had once filled the entire building. Now, perhaps reflecting modern trends, the police department was the majority tenant by a large margin, reducing the paper’s footprint to one small section toward the back. There was more than old age encouraging Katz’s fatalism.

  “You know my history, right?” he asked.

  “I know you were the editor here a long time ago,” she said, about to add, “When the paper had some clout,” but she stopped herself in time, finishing instead with “And that the new owners got you to return somehow.”

  He digested that before admitting, “Yeah, well … Once an old warhorse … The thing is,” he resumed in a stronger tone, “we used to be a pretty big deal. I’d like to get that back, if not in the same way. Times have changed—I know that—along with how people access their news. But I and the people who hired me do want to aim for relevance again.”

  He straightened in his chair, his passion slowly fueling. “I love this town. Always have. And I like that this paper covers tiny house exhibitions and cow parades and whatever the hell else reflects who and what we are. People laugh at Brattleboro as being a left-wing haven for transplanted, tree-hugging trust funders. But that’s nonsense. We care about what’s important, and for each other, and in general, we think people should do more than just sit around and bitch. You know why I came back and gave up perfectly good money trying to teach corporate idiots how to communicate better, while they were busy staring at their iThingies?” he suddenly asked.

  Rachel kept quiet, knowing the question to be rhetorical.

  Katz held up a finger. “Because,” he stated, “I think as journalists we can regain a little of the influence and purpose we used to have, and maybe bump up circulation in the bargain. I want us to be a paper whose phone call no politician or business leader will palm off on his press secretary. On that level, if nowhere else, I’d like us to get back to the old days.”

  “Okay,” Rachel said quietly, still waiting.

  Katz gave her a wide grin, which struck her as almost creepy, given how rarely she’d seen it. “Right,” he said. “And who gives a rat’s ass?” He became more serious, to her relief. “I’m hoping you do. That’s why you’re sitting there. You were hired as a photographer. You’ve done great work, as a shooter and writer, both. You dig, you bend the rules, you use what you’ve got to get what you’re after. All good, as long as you don’t get in trouble or break the law. That’s why I’ve been asking you to write a few pieces, in addition to taking pictures. You been enjoying that?”

  “Very much.”

  “Good. ’Cause I wanna ramp that up.”

  He extracted a small pad from the jumble before him and scribbled something down, still speaking. “Not too many people know this, Rachel, but I insisted on one condition when I came back: I told the owners I suspected the Reformer was part of a buy-one-take-all deal they didn’t want when they purchased the flagship in Massachusetts, and that therefore this paper would pretty much have to fend for itself. They denied that, of course, and maybe I got it wrong. Nevertheless, I said I would wrestle and bicker and bargain with all the usual competing interests facing a typical small-town paper—advertising, obits, sports, the bottom line—as well as do everything from op-ed pieces to the calendar of events to answering the phones and fielding complaints. But,” he emphasized, looking up from his writing, “I would do it only if they gave me a reasonably sized special fund that could never be lost inside the rest of the profit/loss mix. It was mine to spend. To their credit, they agreed.

  “That money,” he concluded, tearing off the top page of his pad and handing it over, “was to be used exclusively for whatever features and/or investigative articles might come our way, but which normal fiscal constraints wouldn’t usually allow us to write. I’ve been in this post for over a year now, and I haven’t used a penny yet. Partly because I wanted to make sure the owners were happy they’d brought me back, which they’re proving by letting me hire a couple more people. Partly because I wanted you to gain your sea legs, which I think you have.”

  He pointed at what he’d just given her. “That’s the name of a private investigator I know. Actually, I know her father better—have for years. Bit of a weirdo, but one of the most connected guys I ever met. Anyhow”—Katz pointed again at the piece of paper he’d just delivered—“since he’s hard to reach, Sally’s the next best thing.”

  Rachel read what he’d written: the woman’s name, email, and phone number. “You want me to contact her?”

  “Contact her, get friendly with her. Mostly, learn from her,” he instructed. “I want you to take a shot at being that specially funded reporter.” He waved toward his inward-facing office window at the pressroom. “You guys have smartphones and social media at your fingertips. Good stuff. I’m not saying otherwise. But there’s a ton that won’t show up there. Face-to-face chats, casual drop-bys, overheard conversations, old-fashioned dogging people’s heels. Right now, we chase the news. We get a tweet, hear about a disaster, and off we go. That’s okay. You’ve done well with that, and it works like a charm for a photographer, especially. You can’t shoot what hasn’t occurred. But if you’re interested in doing more reporting—investigative reporting—you need to develop a nose for what’s about to happen, or what’s happening out of sight. That’s why I want you and Sally to meet. Tell her that.”

  “She know I’m coming?” Rachel asked.

  Katz stood up and looked around, the one-sided meeting over. “Nope,” he said. “That’s what I mean. Make it happen.”

  * * *

&nb
sp; Alex Hale was back. The restaurant was closed, the parking lot dark, and the Escalade sitting where it had been left.

  He was still in his pickup, kind of. In preparation for tonight, he’d taken his usual precautions. He’d altered his plates with black tape so they looked good at a glance, although no longer registered to him; placed a lightweight dummy cap over the truck’s rear bed to change its profile; pinned a red tarp to the hood by slamming it in place, making it look like it had been primer-coated only; and, lastly, stuck magnetic signs onto the doors, advertising himself as a self-employed carpenter. All changes that could be reversed in minutes, distancing his vehicle from the details witnesses usually recall best.

  He positioned the truck nearby but not too close, quietly got out, and began walking around—dressed completely in black—getting acquainted with the area. He looked for windows with lights on, checking for movement, the flickering of a TV screen. He tried determining any traffic rhythm at the end of the street, where it T-boned onto Main. He listened for voices, music, any barking dogs.

  But the absence of most of that had been one of the attractions of this spot. The old station, typical of most railroad installations, was off the beaten path, on Depot Avenue, which, for all intents and purposes, didn’t lead anywhere. There were no homes, no twenty-four-hour businesses, and no sidewalks attracting midnight strollers.

  It was also cold. It had snowed the night before, further encouraging people to stay indoors, keep their windows shut, and—just as important—their curtains closed against the chill.

  On the other hand, there was a full moon, with nary a cloud in the sky, which, when combined with the fresh snow, lent a bright, almost pale blue boldness to the night, similar to the hue at the base of a gas flame. A bomber’s moon, he’d heard an old juicer once call it, in mid-alcoholic stupor. A World War II term. Before lasers and radar and night vision were standard equipment on planes, night bombers ventured out over an enemy’s monochrome landscape, using only their eyesight to seek out targets, much as Alex was doing now.

  So far, so good, as the ancient drinker had commented, laughing. But beware what you wish for. “Whoever you target can target you in return,” he’d said with unexpected eloquence. Apparently, many were the nights when the old man had barely survived the truth of that statement.

  Alex had loved the allusion, being a nocturnal creature by instinct. He’d enjoyed its poetry and wisdom, and had certainly taken the latter to heart, which helped explain his covert appearance and the elaborate disguise of his truck.

  But, too, he’d understood the warning, which had almost startled him with its all-encompassing relevance, especially in his dual hunter/prey identity.

  Satisfied with his surveillance, he finally approached the oversize vehicle, as incongruous here with its chrome and gold accents as it might have looked on an African plain.

  Using a small flashlight, he carefully checked it over, inside and out, without touching it, since it went without saying that it had an alarm. Whether it did or not, he made the assumption, if only so it wouldn’t catch him by surprise.

  On TV, the thief always disables any sensors, picks the door lock, hot-wires the ignition, and drives away, all in under a minute.

  In reality, Alex believed, his goal could be reached just as fast, if a little more crudely. After all, he wasn’t, in fact, stealing the car. And his flashlight had already revealed what he was seeking.

  He looked around one last time, withdrew a ball-peen hammer from inside his coat, and with practiced ease smacked the passenger’s side window.

  He’d mentally rehearsed his movements, planning on the yelping alarm to act as his starter pistol. He was therefore astonished when not a single sound followed the sharp crack of the hammer.

  “What the hell?” he wondered aloud, rooted in place for half a beat.

  But instincts took over, regardless of good fortune. Hopping in through the high window, balancing his torso on its sill, he reached out with one gloved hand for the garage-door opener above the steering wheel, while simultaneously opening the glove compartment. Again, he was in luck. The car’s registration lay right on top.

  Within seconds, both items in his possession, Alex was back in his truck, heading toward Main Street. At no point had he seen a light go on, a voice ring out, or any blue strobes.

  His adrenaline still pumping, he pulled to the side of the road several miles out of town and checked the address listed on the stolen registration, hoping it would be a street location and not a PO box. Again, he was rewarded.

  Punching the location into his portable GPS, he pulled back onto the road in hopeful pursuit.

  This was the process he lived for—the whole interconnected, fraught-with-peril smorgasbord of opportunity, chance, disappointment, surprise, and success. The rush he’d experienced using drugs as a teenager paled in comparison, and helped explain his evolution from that lifestyle to this. Here, he got all the spontaneity and excitement he craved, but with a payoff at the end, if everything worked out.

  And that was an additional attraction. This high could last for days, what with planning, execution, and redistribution of goods—unlike when he’d indulged in pills or dope to take him away for a few hours only.

  The house listed on the registration was on a dirt road, surprisingly almost sixty miles away from Windsor, south even of the Brattleboro station the car owners should have used to catch their train. It wasn’t buried in the woods, but, like so many in the state, not crowded by neighbors, either. Encouraged by the lack of an alarm in the car, Alex nosed his truck into the driveway and killed his engine and lights for a moment, rolling down his windows to repeat the cautious, thought-out survey he’d taken at the railroad station.

  As before, all was quiet and still. Through the trees, which also thankfully provided him cover from the moonlight, he could see a few distant house lights, left on for overnight security. Similarly, there was a light over the front door of this home, making it look both lived in and snug.

  He restarted his engine but kept the headlights off, and turned the truck around, so it was facing the street. Then, with the motor idling, he donned a pair of surgical booties and left the truck to conduct a quick reconnaissance, waiting for dog barks, motion detectors, or even another dreaded alarm.

  But reflecting the state’s barely evolving concern about practitioners of Alex’s vocation, nothing happened. He even knocked on the door and rang its doorbell to make sure.

  He was now ready for his penultimate challenge. He reentered the truck, threw it into reverse, backed up to the attached garage, and hit the door opener. The door nearest to him trundled open, revealing a broad, empty space.

  He continued inside, activated the remote once more, and watched as the door slid shut, closing him in.

  Alex let out a breath, his brain on overload. Who might’ve seen him that he’d missed? How many silent alarms had he inadvertently tripped? Was there video footage of him now, wending its way across the internet to the homeowners or a security firm? And lastly—as he emerged into the garage, still lit from the overhead opener—was the connecting door to the house locked and/or wired?

  He wouldn’t be sure of some of these until much later, if he was lucky, but on the last topic at least, he was off the hook.

  He placed his hand on the inner door’s knob, twisted it, and stepped into the empty kitchen.

  Time for Alex to be robbin’.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sammie Martens turned from the window, where she’d been watching Rachel Reiling photograph police officers by their vehicles, and glanced at her boss. Joe Gunther was, as usual, the motionless one in the group, his chin tucked, his expression thoughtful, his hands in his pockets. There was a dead man on the floor of this rickety, evil-smelling wreck of an ancient tenement, with a knife in his chest and a drying pool of blood encircling him like an undeserved halo. That explained the Reformer coverage. Crime-scene techs dressed all in white were moving about, documenting everything, gathering evidence, keeping busy. It was a homicide in Bellows Falls, probably drug-related, called in by someone not instinctively wary of the police. Who might’ve come in earlier, only to quietly retreat, was anyone’s guess. “BF,” as locals called it, was a town where you didn’t volunteer much. Information was a commodity, to be traded to authorities as barter.