CHAPTER 43

“If a guy can’t write a story when he’s a little drunk, he don’t deserve to call himself a reporter.”

Hoppy was pacing behind me, occasionally looking over my left shoulder as I worked to string together an account of what happened at Puddy’s mother’s house and the subsequent events. He critiqued as I wrote. It was like old times, when I first started out and Hoppy led me through the construction of a good news article. Now, however, it was more than a little annoying, what with my years of experience. Also because his suggestions were actually making the piece stronger. I wasn’t that drunk, but I was rusty.

After we’d left the state police barracks, Hoppy drove Stacey, who had been waiting in the reception area, and me over to the Salvatore house to fetch up my car. It was eerily quiet. I kept expecting the gnomish Mrs. Salvatore to leap out at me from behind every tree and bush.

After Stacey left with my car, on account of the fact that I was still not in the best shape to get behind a wheel, Hoppy and I were alone on the property. We took the opportunity to do a little snooping, even though we knew the police must have done a pretty thorough search of their own after taking Puddy’s mother and Bones into custody.

As expected, there wasn’t much to find in the living and dining rooms, just old family keepsakes. It really did appear that the Salvatores had lived in Hastings County for a very long time, as Puddy’s mother had said, judging from the old, sepia-tinted photographs we came across. One in particular showed five men dressed in Union Civil War uniforms, a bit disheveled and worn, lounging outside a tent. I presumed the shortest, least attractive of the group was Puddy’s ancestor.

Another looked like it had been taken in the 1920s or so. It was black and white and showed a couple, maybe Puddy’s grandparents. They posed in front of an old Model T. Knowing what I did about the Salvatores, I couldn’t help wondering if the car had been stolen.

Hoppy took Mrs. Salvatore’s room, and I searched Puddy’s. There wasn’t much to his room, yet it was pretty obvious he’d slept in it his entire life. There were a few faded Phillies and Eagles pennants tacked to the walls, each with what might now be called vintage team logos that indicated how far back in time they went. There was a wall-mounted thirty-two-inch flat-screen television and an Xbox console on the floor below it. The game’s controller sat on a table beside Puddy’s bed.

Over by his bed, a half-filled olive-green duffel bag was laying on the floor beside a pair of Timberland boots I remembered all too well from the night at Tina’s. I picked up the bag and emptied the contents onto the bed. This must have been what he’d packed when he decided to make a run for it. In addition to some folded underwear, jeans, and shirts, a few cans of Bumblebee tuna fish, Underwood chicken spread, and a couple of Hershey chocolate bars, tumbled out. The police must have returned it after they’d found his body and Puddy’s mother hadn’t bothered to put his things away. After all, what was the purpose in doing that?

Digging through the clothes, I also found a picture of Tina which I recognized as the wedding photo I’d seen at her apartment and which Puddy had taken with him the night we had gotten acquainted. It had been torn in half, from top to bottom, so that her husband was no longer part of the scene. There was only Tina, at her most beautiful, dressed in her wedding gown, holding her bouquet of flowers, and smiling as if only wonderful things lay ahead for her. It was the only personal item Puddy had packed. Guess he really did love her.

Hoppy came to the bedroom door.

“Nothing in the mother’s room to speak of. Any luck in here?” he said.

“No, nothing,” I said, hiding Tina’s picture from him.

“People like these, they probably got a million places on their property to hide things. I did find a couple photos we can choose from to run with the story, so it wasn’t a total bust.”

He turned and walked away. I took one last look at the smiling Tina and dropped the picture on the bed with Puddy’s things, then followed Hoppy.

Next we went to the garage at Hoppy’s insistence. I had no desire to see the place again. It smelled of oil and stale whiskey. The chair remained where I last sat in it, the rope still knotted onto the posts. Hoppy walked around, appraising the place as if he was considering buying it.

“So this was where they chopped up the cars. Quite an operation they had going,” he said. He looked at me, and I swear I could detect a flash of admiration in his eyes. “You know, Wes, all-in-all you’ve done real good, better than I really imagined. I think this story will make the national news wires.” He walked over to the chair and pulled up one of the ropes by the end severed to cut me free and inspected it for a moment. “Of course, you put some people out of business and I don’t think they’ll be too happy about it. I mean, you already had one close brush with death and I’d hate to see you come to any harm on account of this story. I realize I’ve asked a lot of you.”

What do you know? I thought. Hoppy does care and we’re going to drop this whole thing before anyone gets hurt any worse. Of course, by anyone, I meant me. A wave of relief swept from my head to my toes. Hoppy looked up at me, he was nodding. I smiled at him.

“But now we really gotta turn up the pressure, bring these insects out from under their rocks. That’s what the Chronicle’s readers want. They’re looking to us to make some sense out of all this crime and murdering going on in their county.”

My jaw dropped. It wasn’t enough that I had stupidly stumbled into a trap and almost ended up dead, Hoppy wanted me to be a tethered goat to draw out even more killers, all in the name of increased circulation.

“But we’ve got Tina’s killer, and we’ve effectively shut down the car theft ring. Your readers should be plenty happy about that,” I replied, detecting the slightest bit of a whine in my voice.

“Sure, sure. People will eat this up. But I’m still convinced there’s more going on. I told you, I can feel it in my bones that Steve Darby’s murder is part of a bigger picture. Now that you’re no longer preoccupied with finding that girl’s murderer--and I don’t blame you for that, I know you felt somehow responsible, but you took your eye off the ball--we can really get somewhere. Now’s the time to make some people really sweat.”

That wasn’t going to be a problem. Perspiration was already beading up on the back of my neck and my armpits were growing damp.

“But--but--” I stammered, trying to come up with a good reason why the crazy man standing in front of me should reconsider and just let me write articles about garden shows and local sports teams and whatever other safe things were going on in East Hastings until my debt was paid. “There’s nothing there, your creaky bones to the contrary,” was all I could come up with.

Hoppy gave me a sly, rather condescending, smile. “Son, I’m not going to ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

I waited. I knew more was coming.

“But can you tell me you’ve really spent any time looking into that Darby fellow’s murder? Have you searched the house--given it a thorough going over? Have you asked the sister where he might’ve hidden something he could use to blackmail somebody or that would make someone want to kill him? Have you gone out to look over the joint where he was killed or talked to the bartender working that night or even sniffed around at that place where he worked nights with that Salvatore boy?” he continued. “You think I’m wrong, well okay then, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you prove that, convince me there’s nothing to what years of experience and, yes I’ll say it again, something deep in my bones tells me is out there? You do that and we are done. You can walk away, not owe me a thing. We’re finished.”

I cocked my head a bit and tried to size Hoppy up. Was he serious this time or was it just another ruse to string me along. He was right to point out that I really hadn’t worked on how Stevie spent his last days--who he might have talked to, where he went--and I did have the fact that Puddy had helped Stevie get a job on the night shift at TSN. That could be a coincidence, the place was one of the largest employers in East Hastings, but I couldn’t say for sure.

Then there was Sue Ellen. I had sort of promised her to ride this all out.

So against my better judgment--again--I gave in to Hoppy. I’d poke around about Stevie. But first, I had an article to file on Bones’s death and the arrest of Puddy’s mother.

***

Once we got over to the Chronicle, Hoppy worked the phones while I started the article. He called someone he knew at the hospital and found out that the state troopers were going to be fine, just some minor scrapes and bruises and tests for concussions, and got their names. He followed up on an earlier call to a photographer that he’d dispatched to both the scene of the ambush and where Bones’s body was found. The body had been removed by the time the photographer got there, but the state police van was still there, laying on its side. Pictures were on their way. Finally he was unsuccessful in his attempt to get crime scene photos or much information from anyone at the police station or from Doc Livingston at the morgue. We had enough, though, and I finished the story.

Then I called Terri to give her the news before she read about it in the paper. She asked me if I was sure. I pictured Bones’s nod and that evil smirk. It may not have been enough to convince a jury, but I knew he’d done it. I told her yes. Tina’s killer was dead. She thanked me and said she’d invite me for the laying of Tina’s gravestone. I said if I was still in town I would definitely be there.

When it was all done, all I wanted was a nice hot shower and a long, long sleep. It had been quite a day. The body count had gone up in East Hastings, but fortunately it didn’t include me--yet.