Tumbler, page 6
He drove on up, and he parked in the same place he had the afternoon before.
The cabin was cold and dark.
The envelope was still there, under the saddle blanket.
Du Pré looked at the porch.
He squatted down.
He went to his left and he studied the ground, and then he went down through the grass and sagebrush to the road.
Clear tracks, one man, six feet or so, one-eighty, moccasins or some other smooth-soled shoe.
He had hesitated halfway up to the cabin, then he had gone on.
Parked a small car by the roadside.
Come in the night, to check the envelope and see if the old man was home.
But Benetsee was gone, maybe far away.
Maybe looking down from the butte.
“Some tooth fairy,” said Du Pré, “leaving ten grand. Old man got no teeth anyway.”
Du Pré went around to the back of the cabin.
No one had been on the back porch.
A black bear had been by, hoping for food, and had gone on.
The ground around the sweat lodge had seen coyotes and white-tailed deer.
The creek was beginning to rise with meltwater.
Du Pré went back up the little rise and around the cabin to his cruiser. He got in and he backed around and he drove back to Toussaint, and he saw the little white SUV, parked over in the lot across the road from the saloon.
The lot was also the Toussaint Airport. The windsock was dancing.
Allison Ames was doing exercises by her SUV. She stretched and bent and danced, holding her hands out like they had charley horses in them.
“Ty chee,” said Du Pré.
He parked by her SUV and he got out.
“Mr. Du Pré!” said Allison Ames, “you’ve come to talk to me!”
“Who you write for?” said Du Pré.
“Freelance,” said Ames. “This is going to be a hot piece. I can sell it if I can get it.”
“Who you sell it to?” said Du Pré.
Ames shrugged.
“I’ve got a good agency,” said Ames.
“So how do I know you write things?” said Du Pre.
“Ah,” said Ames. She went to the back of the SUV and she got a big white envelope. She handed it to Du Pré.
“Copies of some of my work,” she said. “You may have it.”
Du Pré looked at her.
“What is it you want?” he said.
“The whole story on the Lewis and Clark stuff you found,” she said.
Du Pré nodded.
“Long story,” he said.
“I got a lot of time,” said Ames.
“I think about it,” said Du Pré. He drove back to Madelaine’s.
She was out in the yard peering at the first green shoots of the lilies and tulips and irises she grew in the raised beds on each side of the porch.
“Only a couple more blizzards it is spring,” said Madelaine.
“They are looking pret’ good,” said Du Pré.
“OK,” said Madelaine. “What is that there?” She nodded at the envelope.
“Ames stuff,” said Du Pré. “She give it to me.”
They went in the house.
Madelaine cooked some breakfast, slabs of ham and scrambled eggs with chiles and cheddar cheese, hot sauce on the side. Thick slices of her good bread, chokecherry jam.
Du Pré looked at the articles.
“New York Times Magazine,” he said.
“OK,” said Madelaine, “so she writes like she said she does.”
“She got some money,” said Du Pré. “Those others they starve out pret’ quick they don’t get what they want.”
Madelaine chewed ham.
The telephone rang.
Madelaine got up and she answered it.
She listened.
“You, Bart,” she said, “you calm down. You are where?”
She listened.
“You do that,” she said. “We be there soon.”
Madelaine put the phone back.
“Julie disappeared,” she said.
Du Pré slapped the table, hard.
CHAPTER 13
BART FIDGETED IN THE back seat. He chewed an unlit cigar and he kept looking out the window at the country rushing past.
Madelaine turned and she put her hand on his knee.
“Calm down, Bart,” she said. “She is, sixteen-year-old kid. She is pissed off. At ever’thing.”
“I thought I was doing it right,” said Bart.
“Nobody can do anything right, you are sixteen,” said Madelaine.
Bart nodded.
“Who is her boyfriend?” asked Madelaine.
“What?” said Bart, coming out of his shock for a moment.
Madelaine looked at him, eyes full of pity.
“Sixteen,” said Madelaine, “they become horny little bastards. All them glands. Glands pumping overtime. Girls, they get boyfriends then.”
“Oh,” said Bart.
“OK,” said Madelaine, “I try another way. Who your niece fucking?”
“Jesus,” said Bart.
“Him dead, long time,” said Madelaine, “so maybe you call your sister, ask, who is Julie’s boyfriend?”
“I never thought of that,” said Bart.
Bart pulled out his odd little shoehorn telephone and he dialed and he waited. He turned away and mumbled into the thing.
Madelaine snorted.
Du Pré laughed.
Bart shut the phone up.
“Conor Burrows,” he said.
“Him missing?” said Madelaine.
“For two days,” said Bart.
“Ah,” said Madelaine.
Du Pré roared.
“Goddamnit, Gabriel,” said Bart, “quit picking on me.”
“Dumb shit!” said Madelaine and Du Pré.
They turned on to the Interstate and Du Pré slowed down to eighty-five.
“Where would they go?” said Bart.
“A motel,” said Madelaine and Du Pré.
Bart sighed and he looked out the window.
“She disappear yesterday,” said Madelaine, “evening, so … they are still fucking their brains out someplace. Probably didn’t get all that far, find a motel.”
Bart nodded.
“Smart kids,” said Madelaine, “so, they will figure ever’body will think they are from the West Coast, they will go, West Coast.”
Bart chewed a knuckle.
A highway exit sign appeared.
MILES CITY.
Du Pré slowed and he turned off and he stopped at the sign and he turned left and went over the Interstate and he followed the main route into town.
Motels.
Madelaine pointed at one.
Du Pré turned in to the parking lot. He slowed.
There was a Volvo with Oregon plates parked in front of Room 119.
Du Pré pulled in beside it.
Madelaine got out.
So did Bart and Du Pré. They hung back.
Madelaine banged on the door.
Silence.
She banged again.
A curtain moved, just a little.
The door opened a crack.
A young man, blond hair all awry, peered out of the gloom.
“Conor Burrows?” said Madelaine.
The kid nodded.
“Sorry, bother you in mid-hump,” said Madelaine, “but you, that Julie, put on your clothes. You are scaring ever’body.”
The kid nodded.
“Shit!” screamed Julie, inside.
Madelaine pushed the door open and she went on in.
There was some yelling.
“How,” said Bart, “in the hell did she know?”
Du Pré laughed.
“Madelaine knows kids,” he said. “So, while ever’body is chewing the rugs, she call her cousin here, say, go see maybe there is a car, Oregon plates, a motel.”
“Oh,” said Bart.
The yelling stopped.
Madelaine came back out.
She grinned.
“You call your sister maybe?” she said.
Bart got out his telephone.
Goddamned thing works from a satellite, Du Pré thought, works anywhere. I don’t like, modern times.
Bart walked away.
Du Pré rolled a smoke and he lit it and by the time he was through Conor and Julie were coming out of the room with their bags. They both looked down at the gravel of the parking lot.
“What were you—,” said Bart, his face red.
“Shut up,” said Madelaine. “You two, go on home. I ride back with them.”
“What?” said Bart.
Du Pré grabbed his shoulder and shoved him in the car before he got in deeper.
Bart muttered to himself for the first fifty miles.
Du Pré reached down under the seat and got his flask and he had some whiskey and he rolled another cigarette and when the two-lane highway stretched north unbroken to the horizon he got the old cruiser up to a hundred and ten and he kept it there.
“GAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!” roared Bart.
Du Pré nodded.
“Fine,” said Bart. “What do I do now? Give those little bastards a house to fuck in?”
“Be easier to sleep, yours,” said Du Pré. “Not so much noise, there at night.”
“They are sixteen!” said Bart.
“Yah,” said Du Pré.
“I’m supposed to keep Julie out of trouble,” said Bart.
“Oh,” said Du Pré.
“I am out of my depth,” said Bart.
Du Pré nodded.
They shot over the top of a hill and down the long grade to the watercourse at the bottom. The cruiser sank on its springs and then slowly rose.
They didn’t speak until they got to Toussaint. Du Pré wheeled in to the lot beside the saloon, next to Bart’s big green SUV.
Du Pré got out and he went in.
Susan Klein was on her stool knitting. A few of the regulars were sipping red beers.
“Find ’em?” said Susan.
Du Pré nodded.
“Good,” said Susan. “UPS brought you a package.”
Du Pré went to it, sitting on the table nearest the bar.
He peered at the label.
Shipped from New York. The shipper’s name was illegible.
Du Pré lifted it. It was light. The box was about thirty inches by fourteen and a foot or so deep.
He took out his pocketknife and he slit the tape and he folded the flaps back.
Compressible packing in slabs, done in thin gray plastic bags.
A case. A violin case.
Du Pré frowned.
Bart came over.
“This you?” said Du Pré.
“Nope,” said Bart.
Du Pré lifted out the case and he flipped the clasps and he opened it.
A violin sat there, gleaming. It seemed to be old but very well cared for. The bow sat beside it.
Du Pré lifted out the violin.
The bow. He tightened the horsehair.
Du Pré tuned the fiddle, plucking the strings while turning the pegs.
He drew the bow.
A huge, rich sound filled the room.
Du Pré looked under the case.
A note.
You need to talk to us.
CHAPTER 14
“WELL, SEND IT ON,” said Foote. “Nothing has been done that is at all illegal. No threats have been made. Which, of course, makes it all the more menacing.”
“OK,” said Du Pré, “it is a beautiful violin.”
“Perhaps,” said Foote, “we can find out who made it and perhaps we can find out who bought it.”
“It is no secret, I am a fiddler,” said Du Pré.
“The money did not attract you,” said Foote, “so they are trying something else. These people are very, very good. I’ll see if our people have any ideas.”
“Yah,” said Du Pré.
Half the fucking CIA works for Foote. Russians fall apart they got to find new jobs.
“Let me know if anything else happens,” said Foote. “The money is being run through a lab now. Did you know that virtually all circulated hundred dollar bills have traces of cocaine on them?”
“OK,” said Du Pré.
He put the telephone back on its cradle.
He went out to his car and he got in and he drove to the parking lot in Cooper, by the grocery store.
The UPS truck was there. Du Pré gave the package to the driver.
He went to the package liquor store and bought two gallons of bourbon, in big plastic jugs.
It was about two in the afternoon.
Du Pré drove back to Toussaint.
He passed his old house, where Raymond and Jacqueline lived now, and he saw many cars parked in the drive and on the road.
Du Pré stopped. There was a crowd around the jungle gym he and Raymond had built.
Du Pré got out and he walked around back of the house.
Julie and Conor were up on the jungle gym, doing tricks.
Julie swung by her hands, stood, then snapped down and up and she turned in midair and caught another crossbar.
Conor followed.
Then Julie swung through the jungle gym, very fast, using her hands and hips, sinuous as a snake. It was graceful and complete.
Conor danced over the top of the gym, tumbling off the end, and catching himself easily, before flipping off and landing softly on his feet.
Julie followed, and then the two of them bowed to the audience.
Small kids whistled and cheered. Three young girls ran up to Julie and they talked to her very earnestly. Julie nodded her head.
“Papa,” said Jacqueline, “you going, learn how to do that?”
“Non,” said Du Pré, “break my neck.”
Alcide and Thierry and Pallas and Berne were transfixed.
“Lots of expensive casts,” said Du Pré. “Maybe Raymond and me, we should take this back down.”
“Non,” said Pallas. “Granpa, you would not do that.”
Conor and Julie went back up the jungle gym, easy as monkeys in trees. They were graceful, effortless, and easy in their bodies.
“Excuse me,” said a voice behind Du Pré, “might I come in there? I need to have a word with my son.”
Du Pré turned.
A man was standing there, carefully. He was just in the street, off the property.
“Sure,” said Du Pré.
“Eamon Burrows,” said the man, when he got near. He held out a blunt broad hand. His grip was firm. He was dressed in often-laundered casual clothing, and deck shoes. A light windbreaker that had seen a lot of wear. His square, pleasant face was deeply tanned, furrowed with wrinkles around the eyes. He spent a lot of time outside.
Him a sailor, thought Du Pré.
“Conor!” said Eamon Burrows, “a word, my man!”
Conor looked at his father, and he came down the long ladder on the jungle gym, easily and quickly.
Eamon Burrows put his arm around his son’s shoulders and the two of them walked out to the street, and then they talked, but very quietly.
Good, Du Pré thought, him, he is not trying to humiliate the kid. Talk to him like he is a man.
Julie had come down, too, and she leaned against the jungle gym carelessly, while watching Conor and his father.
“Eh!” said Du Pré. “You come on, Julie, I take you to the saloon, we have a pop while you wait, eh?”
Julie came gratefully. She didn’t want to stay, distracted, and act cheerful for the kids.
Du Pré opened the door of his cruiser for her and he got in and he went down the street to the Toussaint Saloon.
Madelaine was behind the bar, beading a little purse. She had on her reading glasses, half-lenses. She held a needle up to the light.
Du Pré went behind the bar. He got a Coke for Julie and a ditch for himself. They sat in front of Madelaine.
“Nice man that Mr. Burrows,” said Madelaine.
“Yeah,” said Julie.
“So,” said Madelaine, “two of you, don’t want to be apart, eh?”
“I love him,” said Julie.
Madelaine nodded.
“So what you want to do?” she said.
Julie looked away.
“Get married,” she said. “I think we can in Idaho.”
Madelaine nodded.
“What then?” she said.
Julie drank her Coke.
“Ever’body want to help,” said Madelaine, “which is maybe not help. Maybe you got too many people, helping you …”
“Like that bitch Angela, my mom,” said Julie.
Madelaine was down off her stool and over the bar like that. She grabbed Julie by the shoulders.
“She is your mother,” said Madelaine. “You don’t talk about her that way. You got troubles with her, calling names just makes them worse.”
Julie’s face crumpled and she started to cry.
Du Pré went to the bathroom and he stayed in there awhile. When he came out, Julie was wiping her nose and laughing, while tears still shimmered in her eyes.
Du Pré went outside so he wasn’t inside.
Eamon Burrows and Conor arrived. Eamon was driving a boxy old Volvo station wagon, much eaten by salt air.
“Mr. Du Pré,” said Conor, “this is my father.”
“We met,” said Eamon. He nodded to Du Pré and Conor went ahead of him up the steps.
Thank you, Eamon mouthed as he passed. His eyes were twinkling.
Du Pré sighed. He finished his cigarette and he flicked the butt into the street. He went in.
Julie and Conor and Eamon and Madelaine were deep in conversation. Julie was still snuffling. Conor kept his hand on her shoulder and his face steady.
Eamon Burrows looked earnestly at Julie and Conor.
“This a fair deal?” he said.
Conor and Julie looked at each other. They nodded.
Eamon Burrows shook Madelaine’s hand. He went outside, and Du Pré went, too.
Eamon clapped his hands together, twice.
“Beautiful here,” he said.
Du Pré nodded. Way things are supposed to be.
“You aren’t an eavesdropper,” said Eamon Burrows. “Madelaine talked those two into finishing their school years—Conor has just two months to go until graduation—and then he can come here for the summer.”
Du Pré nodded.
“Good kids,” said Eamon Burrows. “Actually, if the little shit loves her that much, there isn’t a lot anyone can do.”
