Open Season Read online

  “Is he friendly?”

  “He’s not a snitch, if that’s what you mean. He’ll take some work.”

  “Well, let’s do it.”

  Kunkle remained seated, his face regaining that familiar cloud. “So who shakes him down?”

  I stood and showed him both palms. “Hey, Willy, he’s your baby. I’m just riding shotgun.”

  Still Kunkle stayed where he was, reading the summary. “So Stan followed you to Susan Lucey’s and supposedly Christ-knows-who tailed you from Connecticut. Have you been watching your back lately?”

  I still hadn’t told anyone about the private detective from Burlington. “I didn’t see much point.”

  “Why not? It sounds like an easy way to pick up bad guys, maybe even Ski Mask.”

  “So what do we do? Get one of our own to tail us, and hope he picks up the competition?”

  “It’s an idea. We might get lucky. If nothing else, it might dissuade people from following you around and lousing up the case.”

  It seemed silly as hell to me. I don’t know why—pride maybe—but I wasn’t going to antagonize Kunkle now that he’d agreed to help out. I picked up the phone and arranged to have an unmarked car follow us from a distance.

  · · ·

  Ted Haffner lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of West Brattleboro—the last cluster of urban dwellers before Route 9 began its gradual climb into the Green Mountains. In fact, it was so much on the fringe it was hard to tell whether the homes or the trees were gaining the upper hand in taking over the real estate. My personal bet was on the trees. Mostly evergreens, they stood tall and dark, their bristling skirts massive and ancient in the flat, gray light. The trailers, by contrast, sandwiched between the icy crusts on their roofs and the rough turmoil of ground-up, dirty snow around them, looked like the remnants of a civilization long on the ropes.

  We bumped along a winding track, weaving between snow covered sofas, rusting cars and assortments of trash and cordwood. No one was visible, although several of the battered, dark-windowed homes leaked thin strings of gray smoke from their oily metal chimneys.

  “I see the drug trade stood Mr. Haffner in good stead.”

  Kunkle was at the wheel, trying to save his car’s suspension from as much abuse as possible. “Like I said, as a businessman, his mind tended to wander.” He stopped before an oblong metal shack, modest even by these standards, a mobile home whose only movement was toward disintegration. “This is it.”

  We climbed out and walked unsteadily across the frozen debris scattered outside the small aluminum front door. Kunkle pounded on the wall. “This is purely a formality. He never does answer.”

  He grabbed the doorknob and pulled. As the door swung back, I noticed a faint, wispy cloud billow out like a belch. Kunkle put his foot on the high threshold and heaved himself inside. I followed him, my nostrils flaring at the overheated stench. Before my eyes adjusted, I thought the place was totally blacked out, but a faint glow slowly grew at the far end, where Kunkle was already talking with someone.

  “Hey, Ted. How’re you doin’?”

  There was a mutter in response. I groped down the length of the trailer, leaving the decayed and littered kitchen/living area where we’d entered, squeezing through a tiny hallway with a stinking bathroom on one side and ending up in a heavily curtained bedroom. Kunkle was sitting on the edge of a bunk, looking at a long-haired, bearded man propped in the corner against a pile of blankets and dirty pillows. To say Ted Haffner appeared unwell is an understatement—I’d seen pictures of Egyptian mummies that looked healthier. Curiously, his eyes were clear and normal looking, as if the body and the mind were totally separate entities, the one dying, the other trapped within.

  I could distinguish the slurred muttering now. “This is private property. Scram.”

  “Don’t be hostile, Ted. This may be worth your while.”

  “How much is my while worth?” I thought that was a good question, given his appearance.

  “Twenty bucks.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “All right. I’ll ask the question, and you put a price tag on it.”

  “Five thousand for the time of day.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “Hell, my wife doesn’t like me; she still takes my money.”

  “She’s greedy and stupid then.”

  “So I guess that makes you just plain stupid, right?”

  “Why don’t you get out of here? You’re trespassing.” Haffner made an attempt to get up, but it was half-hearted and unsuccessful. He lay back, breathing heavily.

  Kunkle placed his hand on the man’s bony chest. “You don’t look too good. You got something around I can get you?”

  “Yeah, shoot me up.”

  “Food, Ted, food. When was the last time you ate something?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You can’t afford it, can you? I got a history question for you; it’s not a snitch job. You tell me about old times, I lay a fifty on you and you get a square meal, or a trip to outer space. What’s the harm?”

  Haffner looked at us sullenly, weighing the offer. “What’s the question?”

  “About three years back, when you were top dog, a buy was made—a one-bag deal that ended up in the room of the black guy who iced the chick at the Huntington Arms. You remember that?”

  “Sure I remember.”

  “But the black guy didn’t make the buy, did he?” Haffner gave us a big smile. “You said history. This sounds more like current events.”

  Almost simultaneously, I heard the floor creak behind me and felt a cold draft on my neck. I turned to see a tall man wearing a black jumpsuit and ski mask pointing a gun at my head. He had made the distance from the front door to the back bedroom in an instant. “Hi, Joe.”

  Kunkle jerked around, his hand moving to his belt.

  “Don’t do it.” Kunkle saw the gun, now jammed in my throat.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Haffner again tried to sit up.

  “Shut up.” Ski Mask moved into the room and looked around. I was having a hard time breathing with my windpipe half closed off. He motioned to Kunkle. “Hand over the gun.”

  Kunkle handed it over. Ski Mask slipped it into his jumpsuit pocket and added mine to it. He then told Kunkle to slip his handcuffs through the handle of the closet door farthest from Haffner’s bunk and to lock himself in. He attached me to the other end. Finally, he patted us down, took the key to the handcuffs, and sat where Kunkle had been.

  He put his own gun away and smiled at Haffner. “So, what were they asking you?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Ski Mask turned toward us. “What’s his name?”

  Kunkle looked at me in amazement. “Is that him?”

  I might have laughed if I hadn’t felt such an enormous sensation of menace in this man. Ski Mask was like a panther who had stalked his prey for days on end, calming his growing hunger with thoughts of the inevitable feast. The tone in his voice indicated that mere thinking was no longer doing the job, that some action was required, at whatever cost to all concerned. I was scared to hell for everyone in that hot and fetid room.

  I felt all this because he was obviously taking a calculated chance. The two questions he had asked—Haffner’s name and the topic of our conversation—indicated just how much he was gambling that this one half-dead man might give him a crucial advantage. In fact, if we were lucky, he’d gambled too high; I was thinking of the tail Kunkle had insisted upon.

  “His name’s Ted Haffner, but he’s got nothing to tell you. He’s a dead end.”

  “Maybe that’s because you don’t know how to ask the right questions.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, black, cylindrical object. It clicked sharply in his hand, and a thin, tapered blade sprang into view, glinting in the half-light. “Or maybe your methods are ineffective.”

  Haffner started to squirm on his bed. “Wh
o the hell are you, man?”

  “I’m here to collect all the answers you weren’t going to give these gentlemen.”

  “What do I get out of it?” Haffner’s voice didn’t carry much conviction.

  “Nothing.”

  “We were looking for a drug dealer. The one who sold Bill Davis his junk,” I interrupted.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? It might give us something. It was a long shot.”

  “Not a hot lead, huh?”

  “Not with him. He was our first stop of the day.”

  Ski Mask turned his back to me. “That right, Ted?”

  “Yeah. I know nothin’ about nothin’.”

  I heard Ski Mask chuckle. He grabbed one of Haffner’s hands and placed the point of his knife at the hollow of his arm, on the inside of the elbow. “Have you ever carved a chicken, Ted?”

  Haffner’s eyes were huge and white against his grimy face. “Sure.”

  “You know how you’ve got to get your knife right into the joint to cut off the drumstick?”

  Haffner didn’t answer.

  “It’s a good thing the bird’s dead, because that little maneuver hurts like hell.” He applied a little pressure. Haffner let out a small noise and a single drop of blood appeared at the knife’s point.

  “Jesus, man. What do you want?”

  “I want the simple truth. What were they asking you?”

  I spoke up again. “What I told you was the truth. You’re going over the edge.” My hope in the backup car was fading fast.

  He didn’t even look at me. He just pushed the knife a little harder. Haffner whimpered. Ski Mask’s voice was absolutely flat. “Joe, every time you interrupt, I’ll stick him a little harder.” He shifted his weight slightly. “Now, what were they asking you?”

  “They wanted to know who bought the junk that ended up at that nigger’s place.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know.”

  “I’ve done this before, Ted. The pain is like nothing you’ve ever known.”

  “I swear to God; I really do. I got no reason to lie to you. I don’t know who bought the stuff. It wasn’t someone anybody knew. It was a one-shot deal. No one ever saw the guy again—honest.”

  “Then who sold it?”

  Haffner’s face was shining with sweat. It was dripping off his chin. His breath began to come in quick gasps. “Oh, Christ, what was his name?”

  Ski Mask’s arm moved ever so slightly. “No, no, stop, please. Wait—I remember. It was Hill. Lew Hill. Lewis Hill.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Now? I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. People move around a lot down there.”

  “Where? Where did he live, last you knew?”

  “Near the old organ warehouse, on Birge.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Jesus, the address. I don’t know. Who knows addresses? It’s a big place, near the turn-off to the bridge. They call it the Misery Hilton. People know it around there; just ask. I’m sorry, I don’t know the number.” He was weeping now; the sweat and saliva sprayed from his lips as he spoke. His entire body was trembling.

  Ski Mask let him go and withdrew the knife. Haffner suddenly closed his eyes hard. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, and then everything ceased. A final breath of air escaped from between his lips, causing a line of bubbles to drip down his chin.

  Ski Mask placed a finger alongside the carotid artery, paused for a moment, and then stood up. He carefully replaced the knife in his pocket. “Heart attack, I would guess.”

  Kunkle and I watched in stunned silence as he left. We heard him walk to the front door and slam it behind him. Then all was quiet, and we watched the sweat dry on Haffner’s face.

  23

  KUNKLE AND I WERE UNCOUPLED a full hour and a half later by two very sheepish plainclothes patrolmen who had been cooling their heels at the entrance of the trailer park, watching for a man who had apparently come and gone at his leisure. Kunkle’s fury was such that it rendered him speechless, a fact for which I, and certainly the other two, were extremely grateful.

  All personnel—every patrolman and detective—were sent out to find Hill before Ski Mask did, and I later felt that if there was a God, he displayed his mercy by allowing Kunkle to come up the winner. Hill was located two hours later in the back room of Login’s Cafe, bracing himself for the day ahead with a half bottle of scotch. As it turned out, he needed all the numbing he could get—he was already the worse for wear by the time Kunkle dragged him through our doors.

  I raised my eyebrows at the spreading blue and red bruise on the dazed man’s cheekbone.

  “He resisted,” Kunkle muttered and shook Hill by the collar as if to show the fight was still undecided.

  It seemed to me Kunkle’s grip was the only thing keeping Hill on his feet. He rolled his eyes and whined, “Resisted, hell. I didn’t even know who the son of a bitch was. I ought to sue somebody.”

  I walked with both of them downstairs to the holding cells. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive. The reason you’re here is because somebody is out to kill you.”

  Hill twisted around to stare at me. “Who?”

  “You remember Ted Haffner?”

  “Haffner? Give me a break. He can’t even get out of bed.”

  “I won’t argue with that. He died two hours ago, right after he put the finger on you.”

  “What the hell did I do?”

  Kunkle shoved him into a cell and slammed the door shut. The metallic crash reverberated off the concrete walls. Kunkle hit the switch of a flood lamp for the closed-circuit surveillance camera aimed at the cell. Hill shrank under the effect. His voice was little more than a murmur. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “We’ll be back.”

  We returned upstairs. I asked Kunkle to start filling out the report on this morning, and then I called Dunn’s office to request the immediate presence of one of his people. I finally went into Brandt’s office.

  He was on the phone, listening. He motioned to me to sit. After a couple of minutes, he said, “Thanks. I’ll get back to you,” and hung up. He tilted back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  “We’ve got Hill downstairs.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “I haven’t asked. I thought you and someone from Dunn’s office might like to listen in. Kunkle smacked him around a little—claimed resistance.”

  Brandt shook his head slightly. “What was your assessment of Ski Mask this morning?”

  “Mid-forties, athletic, very precise and under control, cold as ice. He’s a fast-moving son of a bitch, I’ll give him that, and I would guess he has a military background, or at least that kind of training. And,” I added, “he doesn’t have an accent.”

  Brandt gave me an odd look. “Did he kill that man?”

  “No. He didn’t help him along any. He certainly abused him—tortured him might be better—but Haffner died just a tad before his natural time, maybe a full half hour, the way he looked when we found him.”

  There was a knock on the door and an assistant state’s attorney named Powers stuck his head in. “You rang, Sahib?”

  Brandt stood up. “Let’s find out what Mr. Hill has to say.”

  On the way down, I told Maxine to get Kunkle. I didn’t want his nose any further out of joint. It took him thirty seconds to join us in the basement.

  Hill was leaning with his forearms through the bars of his cell full of renewed self-confidence. “What’s this bullshit about some guy trying to ice me?”

  “He hasn’t tried yet. When he does, he’ll probably succeed. He seems very good in that department.”

  “Who is he?”

  “We don’t know. We’re calling him Ski Mask for now.”

  “Hey, I’ve been reading about him. What would he want with me?”

  “Three years ago you sold some smack in a one-shot deal that ended up in the ap
artment of the black guy we nailed for Kimberly Harris’s murder. Do you remember that?”

  Hill’s eyes rested warily on me. “I remember the murder.”

  I pointed to Powers. “He represents the state’s attorney and is here to assure you total immunity for anything that might be said today, right?” Powers dutifully nodded.

  “So, you’re not under arrest, and we don’t want you for the deal or for anything else. We’re only after information. If you want a lawyer for some reason, be my guest, but understand that the only reason you’re in here is for your health. If you want to leave, you may leave.”

  He smiled and looked at the bars before him. I gestured to Kunkle to turn the lock.

  “Satisfied?”

  He pushed the door open but then settled on the cell bunk with his legs crossed and his hands behind his head, feeling cocky. “What makes you think I had anything to do with that deal? It’s not like you can trace a serial number.”

  “You were Haffner’s dying words. And you people have your trademarks—word gets around.”

  He thought for a minute. “What’s this Ski Mask after?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” I said. “We thought he might be a buddy of Davis’s—the black guy in jail—but he’s obviously connected to the girl who was killed, possibly the father of her unborn child. Whatever he is, he’s a nasty son of a bitch. He tortured Haffner.”

  “To death?”

  “He’s dead all right.” I saw no reason to belittle the impression.

  Hill dropped his feet to the floor and rose to a sitting position. “It was a long time ago.”

  Brandt smiled. “Haffner remembered—with a little help. You tell us what we want to know, and we’ll be able to spare you the same kind of help. If not, you’re on your own.”

  “I’m on my own anyway. You guys obviously weren’t too useful to Ted. I’ll take my own chances.”

  I turned off the floodlight. “It’s a free country, as they say. What about the deal?”

  Hill rose and walked out of the cell. “I sold the stuff. I don’t know who to, though. He kept his face covered and whispered a lot—pretty corny.”

  “Was there anything else about him? Young, old, tall, short—stuff like that?”