10 10 “I don’t know why he came here,” I said.
“He say anything?”
“Yes. Four words. He said, ‘Not the Bunny. Tailgate.’”
Dom stared at me. “That’s all? ‘Not the Bunny. Tailgate.’ What in hell does that mean?”
“It’s what he said. He didn’t tell me what it meant.”
“What’s a tailgate got to do with anything?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“You don’t know much, do you?” said Olive. “Well, well. Look at this, Dom. Our man here was a Fed.” She turned and held out Sam’s wallet and ID card. Agganis took them. I feigned a peek at them, but he frowned and waved me back.
“Come on,” I said. “He died in my arms. Who was he? Who’d he work for?”
“I guess it won’t be a secret for long,” said Dom.
“His name was Samuel Arbuckle, and he worked for the DIA. You ever heard of the DIA?”
“It’s one of those alphabet agencies in Washington. I’ve read about it. What was a DIA agent doing on Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Better yet, who killed him and why did he choose your yard to die in?”
“Yeah,” said Olive, “how about that?”
“Maybe because he needed help and it was the first place he came to. Can I change out of these clothes now? I’m getting stickier by the minute.”
Agganis nodded. “Okay, but put them in an evidence bag, and let me get some pictures of you first. Hey, Wilber, bring that camera over here.”
Wilber took photos of me in my bloody clothes, and then more photos of my hands. He squinted at the hands.
“How come your hands aren’t as bloody as the rest of you?”
“Because I washed them off before I called nine-one-one. I didn’t want blood all over my phone.”
“Oh, yeah?” He glanced at Agganis, shrugged, and walked off.
“You know what, Dom?” said Olive, still kneeling beside the body. “I think our man, here, got himself killed with a shotgun. He didn’t know it was coming, either, because his own piece is still on his belt and his coat was zipped.” She scowled at me. “Say, you probably have a shotgun. I think we’d better take a look at it. Maybe you blasted this guy yourself.”
“You’re in a sweet mood, as usual,” I said to her. Then I turned to Dom. “Come on in with me and you can check out the gun cabinet while I clean up.”
“I’ll do that.” He nodded at Olive. “Keep people away from the corpse and take a look in the guy’s car.”
I took a big evidence bag with me when we went inside. I use the outdoor shower seven months of the year, but by November I’m back indoors. While Dom poked through the gun cabinet I emptied my pockets, went into the bathroom, stripped, and put my bloody clothes in the bag. On the floor of the shower the water was pink for a while but finally cleared. I got into clean clothes and carried the evidence bag back out to the living room.
“Those long guns of yours are getting dusty,” said Agganis. “How long has it been since you fired them?”
“Years. I keep them out of habit and in case the kids want to be hunters when they grow up.”
“I thought your wife had a small pistol along with this forty-five she shoots in competition. It’s not here.”
Dom had a long memory.
“She took it with her.”
He studied me. “Why? She doesn’t usually pack iron. You’re not telling me everything. Why is Zee carrying? Why were you carrying just now? What’s going on? You lied when you said you didn’t know that guy, didn’t you?”
I put up my swearing hand. “I never met him until he died in my arms. I’ll take an oath on it.”
“You ever talk to him? On the phone, maybe?”
“Not until he was dying. I told him I was going to call nine-one-one and he said those four words.”
He shut the gun cabinet doors and locked them. “Where do you keep the key?”
“Put it up there on top, so I’ll know where to find it.”
“You’re a burglar’s best friend.” He put his face close to mine. “Now stop this bullshit. You know more than you’re telling me and I want it all. A man’s been murdered. Worse yet, he’s a Fed. This place will be swarming with his buddies within hours and they aren’t going to be as nice to you as I am, so talk to me.”
I had been considering the certain arrival of federal agents once Sam’s death came to their attention. I figured that they’d be pressing me pretty hard to find out what I had to do with Sam, but I wasn’t willing yet to put Joe Begay’s name in the picture.
Instead, I said, “Okay, I’ll tell you everything I know about that guy. It’s not much.” And I told him about Green Coat being in the Bunch of Grapes while I was there, then about seeing him across the street from the store, then about noticing the car following me and my effort to prevent the driver, who was Green Coat, from getting my license plate number.
“I think he got it anyway,” I said in conclusion. “Anyway, the next time I saw him was here, today. When the car came into my yard I recognized it and got my pistol before I saw that I wouldn’t need it.”
“Why was he so interested in you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What made you think you might need a gun when you saw it was him? Cars have driven down here before and you never pulled a gun on any of their drivers.”
“People don’t usually follow me. I don’t like it. Yesterday I moved my wife and kids out of here and over to John Skye’s house till I can figure it out. That’s why Zee has her Beretta.”
“But you never knew who the guy was?”
“And you never talked to him?”
“Not until he was dying.”
“And you never shot him?”
“You sound like Olive Otero. No, I never shot him, and I don’t know who did. I don’t even know for sure that he was shot, although he sure looked that way.”
“You never heard a shot?”
I thought about that, then said, “I might have, but if I did I didn’t think about it. This is deer season and you can hear guns go off sometimes.”
“Yeah,” said Dom. “There are hunters all over the place. If I wanted to walk up to somebody with a shotgun and not have them give it much thought, I’d put on an orange camouflage jacket and do it during hunting season.”
I nodded. It has been said that the best time to murder somebody is on a battleground when bullets are flying everywhere. Hunting season is almost as good.
“You own an orange camouflage hunting jacket?” asked Dom.
“I have one in a closet somewhere. You want me to find it for you?”
He shook his head. “No. I have one, too, and so do about half the men on Martha’s Vineyard. You sure you don’t have any idea why Arbuckle came to die at your house?”
It was my turn to shake my head. “I think the chances are that my driveway was the first one he found and he knew he needed help. If it wasn’t that, I’d say it was because he’d traced my plates and knew who I am and where I live, and that he came here on purpose, knowing that he was badly hurt and might not have much time to say what he had to say, and thinking that I was the best available person to get the message.”
“Why would he think that?”
I didn’t have to feign ignorance. “I have no idea.
I don’t know why he did it and I don’t know the meaning of what he said. ‘Not the Bunny. Tailgate.’ Those are the words, but they mean nothing to me.”
Dom rubbed his big hand on his big chin. “You know any Bunnies?”
“A long time ago I knew a girl called Bunny Montoya. And there are Playboy Bunnies, but I don’t know any of them. And there’s the Easter Bunny.” I heard the pause in my voice before I went on. “And there is or was a terrorist overseas who is or was called the Easter Bunny because he blew things up on religious holidays. I read about him somewhere. But Arbuckle didn’t say it’s the Bunny, he said it’s not the Bunny.”
“If it’s not the Bunny,” said Dom, “what is it? And what’s a tailgate got to do with it?”
“Arbuckle was hurt badly. He may have been out of his mind.”
“Did he sound like he was out of his mind?”
“No. His voice was faint but it sounded pretty sane as long as it lasted.”
Agganis grunted. “Maybe the Feds can make something of it.” He turned and went outside with me in his wake. Olive Otero was at the car. He walked over to her. “Anything interesting?”
“Look here,” she said, pointing at the blood on the side of the car. “Looks like maybe it happened like this: Arbuckle gets out of the car and the perp blasts him immediately. He manages to get back into the car and drive away. He lived long enough to get here.” She looked at me. “Unless Mr. Jackson killed him right here, that is.”
“Maybe you know so much about what happened to Arbuckle because you did it yourself, Olive,” I said. “Why don’t you snap cuffs on yourself and run yourself in?”
“Why don’t both of you just shut up?” said Dom. “Okay, boys, I guess we’re about done here.” He looked at a medic. “You can take the body away. Make sure it gets to the ME.” Then he turned to me. “Now that you’re all fresh and shiny, I’ll need an official statement from you. You want to give it here or in my office?”
We did it in my living room with both of us talking into Olive Otero’s tape recorder as he asked questions and I answered them. I left Joe Begay and Kate MacLeod out of my story, which shortened it a lot, but otherwise told the truth. Before I filled in the gaps I wanted to talk with Joe.
When he was done with his questions, Agganis rubbed his chin. “Any bright ideas about why the shooter didn’t give Arbuckle a couple more rounds while he was at it? Finish him off right there?”