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They talked over breakfast. More accurately, Stickman talked. The strain of carrying out the interstate massacre and two long nights without sleep had left Maple’s mind fuzzy, struggling to engage. When Stickman said they should stay put for at least a few days, Maple agreed readily, welcoming the time to take a long run in hopes of a strenuous workout restoring clarity.
The day passed slowly. Stickman read and watched television, flipping the channels in search of information. TV and reading could not hold Maple’s attention. He could not sleep or even close his eyes without again being visited by troubling images. In the afternoon he took his much-needed run.
Noodling all that had happened with Cornell, Stickman felt uneasy, gnawed by a sense of something gone missing. He thought about Maple’s discovery of the explosives, their mad run to Cornell’s trailer, his futile resistance. Something doesn’t fit, Stickman told himself. Doesn’t fit or is missing. Cornell had said something ... something about “the rent.” What a strange thing to say as he faced death. Then it hit – Wilbur and Violet expect his rent to be paid. If it’s not, someone will come to collect. So what? Get rid of the van and say you don’t know where Cornell went. But maybe he meant something more, that something might happen if the rent was not paid. He had fingered us, of that we’re confident. What if he shared his suspicions, told the Banks? Maybe told them to call the cops if he didn’t show up with the rent? Maybe that’s what he started to say. Should have heard him out. If that’s where he was going, it must be dealt with. Ignoring that possibility is too risky. Stickman forced himself to slow down, to walk through things again. He desperately tried to remember when Cornell moved in. Had to be right after the trip to New Jersey because they were covering up Maple being shot by claiming he was too sick to meet Cornell. The New Jersey trip was early in the month, like now, so Cornell’s rent is due or shortly will be. It can’t just be put in the Banks’ mailbox. If Cornell wanted insurance, no doubt he promised to come by. No choice, Stickman thought with cold detachment, we have to get rid of the old farts. And they know too many people to not be missed soon. That means we have to run, too, and soon.
When Maple returned, Stickman had already loaded most of the remaining munitions into the pickup. Still in the trailer were a rocket launcher and the remaining rounds, attack rifles and handguns – a potent arsenal should it be needed before they got out.
After recounting Cornell’s last words, Stickman added his interpretation. “Could be,” agreed Maple. “Can’t think of a better way to look at it.”
“It’s going to take an hour, probably more to finish packing. We should park the pickup down by the creek as an escape hatch. That’s an easy run for us if something happens here.”
Maple nodded.
“There’s something else,” Stickman said. “We have to get rid of Wilbur and Violet.”
Maple inhaled sharply. “Why?”
“Why? So they can’t call the law, of course, and to buy us more time. We can leave them in Cornell’s van. Until he’s found, he’ll be blamed for the Banks.”
Reluctantly, Maple nodded again. Any value from his run was gone. Already he was fearful of being assaulted by yet another round of haunting images.
––––––––
Wilbur watched the pickup pull slowly out the driveway, followed by Cornell’s van. It looked like just one person in each vehicle, but he wasn’t sure. Never seen them leave together before, he thought.
Yet another TV story about the interstate attacks came on, complete with photos of the embassy and mall suspects. Wilbur peered at them intently, his mouth clamped shut. I’ve waited long enough, he told himself, turning down the volume and reaching for the phone. Violet was in the kitchen. This may be my only chance for a while. I really think she would grab the phone from me, or try.
“Hi, Wilbur,” he said when Sheriff Martin came on the line.
“Hello yourself, Wilbur.”
“How’s your vacuuming going?”
“It’s going fine,” the sheriff kindly told his friend of more than forty years.
Wilbur Martin had come to the county as a young man. He convinced the sheriff to make him a deputy and quickly moved up to detective sergeant. In fact, that made him the only detective on the small force. Over the years he came to know more intimate details about more people in the county than probably anyone. Every time tragedy visited or someone became a crime victim, the investigation fell to Wilbur Martin. He handled that knowledge with the discretion he would appreciate were roles reversed. Those involved came to trust him as they might a priest. They shared their opinion of Wilbur with friends. When his boss decided to retire, he ran for sheriff and won easily – as he had now for nearly three decades.
“Wilbur, I think we may have a situation out here,” said the older man, fighting to stay calm.
“Really? Tell me.”
Banks listened for Violet, heard her moving about in the kitchen, then hurried on. “There are two young guys, I’d say in their thirties, rentin’ one of our trailers, the one farthest from the house. They seem nice enough, I want to make that clear, but I think they look like the suspects from the attack on Russia’s embassy, the ones who are back on the TV all the time since all those people were killed up near St. Louis.” He heard Martin draw in his breath, his big feet drop from his desktop to the floor.
“My God. That’s a hell of a thing to say, Wilbur.”
“It’s what I think, Wilbur. So does Cornell, the renter who lives in the other trailer.”
“My God. What does Violet think?”
“She thinks I’m wrong, but that’s not unusual.”
There was a long pause and Wilbur knew what the sheriff was thinking – Violet is sharp as a tack and I’m, well, losing it a little. Maybe more than a little. He left the silence alone.
“Wilbur, is there anything else?”
“Yes, there is, Wilbur. As I said, the guy livin’ in the trailer nearest us thinks the same as me. He told us to call you if he didn’t pay his rent on time and it’s due today. I know the day’s not over, and I’m not worried about the money, but he hasn’t been by. There’s somethin’ else. I saw Alexander and Demetri come out of Cornell’s trailer last evening and a little bit ago their pickup and Cornell’s van left together. At least at the same time. Never seen either of those things happen before. As far as I know, Cornell’s not close with those boys.
“ ...Hey, Cornell’s van is pullin’ back in the drive. I don’t see the pickup. It looks like two people are in the van. When they left I thought I saw one in the van and one in the pickup. Cornell should be at work, far as I know. Something’s wrong here.”
Violet, your husband and this Cornell fellow have you outvoted, the sheriff muttered to himself. “Wilbur, do you know the last names of your renters, Alexander and Demetri, right?”
“Right. No, not off the top of my head. I could get them from the book, but it’s in the kitchen and Violet would catch me.”
“Okay, Wilbur. I want you to do two things. Put Violet on the phone, and lock your doors. Wait, a third thing – load your old 12-guage. If anyone breaks in before I get there, shoot ‘em. Got it?”
“Okay, Wilbur, but Violet is gonna be mad as hell ...Violet! Come in here, please. Wilbur’s on the phone for you.”
Wilbur watched the van drive to the trailers, then completely out of sight beyond the far one. Strange, haven’t seen that before, either. As he handed Violet the phone he wished he could get out of sight, too.
––––––––
Stickman and Maple went inside to quickly finish packing. They needed to take everything they didn’t mind leaving behind. That meant opening hiding spaces to retrieve IDs and their considerable cash. “Let’s grab the fishing tackle, Mr. Stick. That’s been a good cover.”
Ready to run, they locked the trailer and headed for the Banks’ house. Stickman felt the pick tucked into the back of his trousers as he quietly tried the door. It was locked. He knocked. No answer. Inside, Wilbur had seen the doorknob turn. He was on one knee behind a sofa, aiming the heavy 12-gauge double-barrell at the door. Violet was in the hallway, watching Wilbur with frightened pride from her perch on the edge of a straight-back chair. She, too, had seen the doorknob turn before someone knocked.
With growing alarm she saw her husband’s arms begin to shake from holding the firing position too long. “Call Wilbur,” he said quietly, voice trembling. “Tell him we have unwanted visitors.”
Violet was repeatedly dialing the sheriff’s number and had only to push the talk button. “He says he’s almost here, to start talkin’ to them if you can.”
Stickman pounded again, heard a voice inside say, “Who is it?”
“Demetri and Alexander. Your renters from the far trailer.”
“You’ll have to give us a few minutes. We aren’t ...ah ...presentable.”
“Neither of you?”
“Nope. Neither one,” Wilbur answered, concerned that he sounded too close to the front door. “I need to go back to get in my clothes.”
Stickman turned with a grin. “We must have interrupted a little geriatric amour. Who would have thought?”
Believing he had bought time, Wilbur rested the 12-guage on the back of the sofa and stood up, his gnarled finger still in the trigger guard. Lordy, that feels good. Minutes passed.
“Hey, Mr. Banks. Can you let us get ahead on the rent? We want to take care of you so we can take a little road trip.”
Really don’t want us taken care of, Wilbur thought, painfully lowering himself to a knee and again bringing the shotgun to bear. Then aloud, “’Preciate it, fellas. Be there in just a couple minutes.”
“Violet,” Wilbur said as his right knee suddenly began shaking, “where the fuck is Wilbur?”
“Don’t use such language, Wilbur,” she angrily whispered back. “How the fuck would ...how would I know?”
“Isn’t he on the line?”
“Well, he may be ...Wilbur, are you on the fu ...are you on the line?”
“Yes, Violet, we’re about to turn in at your place.”
“What think?” Stickman asked. “Want to kick it in?”
Before Maple could answer he heard an engine and tires on gravel and turned to see a black sedan pulling in the driveway. It stopped, waited, as if the driver was uncertain of the address. Seconds passed and the car didn’t move.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Stickman said, “but I’d feel better pulling back to let things settle down.”
“Okay.”
“Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Banks. We’ll catch you later.”
They were nearly back to the trailer when the sedan finally moved. The driver gave a friendly wave as he turned toward the Banks’ house. Maple waved back.
“More shit going on around here than we’ve had in months. I don’t like it.” They got out as the sedan pulled from sight.
When the sheriff and his long-time detective sergeant, Henry Lewis, both in plain clothes, climbed from the car, Wilbur threw open the front door.
“Hello Violet, Wilbur. You’re coming with us. And get shoes on, Wilbur,” the sheriff said with mock exasperation. “Were you going to shoot someone in your stocking feet?”
“Wilbur Martin, I just can’t believe you and Wilbur,” fumed Violet. “Callin’ in the cavalry on the say-so of my poor husband and a guy hungry for a reward.”
“Give it up, Mother. Did you see him try to open the door before he knocked? They were up to no good.”
“Hurry now, Violet. It’s done, and it’s not just me and my boys. I talked to the FBI field office in Pittsburgh and they’re on their way out here. I’m concerned about them sending helicopters that get too close, tip these guys off, if they are terrorists. That new special agent in charge is way too young. Come on now, I want to get you two out of here.”
The officers walked Wilbur and Violet to the unmarked sedan, the sheriff’s personal car. It eased into view for Stickman and Maple, standing near the water hydrant. “Can’t be positive but I think someone is in the back seat.”
“Me, too,” said Stickman. “Let’s give them a bit and then swing by the house on our way out just to make sure. And to take care of business if we’re wrong.”
The house was locked and this time no one answered Stickman’s knock. “That was no social call,” Stickman scowled. “Gone way too fast.”
Maple was relieved.
As they turned right onto the road, toward the creek, they saw a patrol car perhaps a quarter-mile away. Three officers stood outside. Maple stopped the van. In the rearview mirror he saw another patrol car and several more officers.
“Shit. This van couldn’t outrun Violet,” said Maple. “Let’s get back to the trailer.”
Driving slowly up the lane, Maple thought he heard the steady mechanical thumping of a helicopter. “Hear that?”
“What?”
“A helicopter, maybe. If it is, the sheriff has already called in the state police, or maybe the FBI.”
Stickman started to again say he didn’t hear anything when a helicopter cleared the forested horizon to the west, moving slowly toward them. “You’re right.”
They were nearly back to the trailer when the two patrol cars pulled into the driveway and stopped. Officers armed with assault rifles piled out, now wearing SWAT team helmets and protective vests. Covering for each other, they worked their way up the lane as far as the turnoff to the Banks’ house. There they spread out, taking defensive positions behind the mature oaks and maples. The helicopter began a slow circle of the Banks’ property, staying at what the pilot considered a safe distance.
“They don’t seem to be in any hurry,” said Stickman. “Haven’t even told us to surrender.”
“I imagine they’re waiting for reinforcements.”
“Likely. The helicopter’s probably out of Pittsburgh with backup half an hour or so behind. By then it may be dusk. Maybe we can slip out of here.”
They went to the trailer, Maple for the rocket launcher and four remaining rounds, Stickman for two assault rifles and ammunition. To his belt he added his beloved ice pick in a snap-on sheath. Maple angled the van back toward the trailer from one corner of the water hydrant, creating a good visual but porous defense. Far more substantial was the four-by-four-foot concrete base holding the water hydrant. The concrete stood more than a foot high – enough to give good cover to a prone man.
Stickman and Maple waited tensely as the sun inched down, all too slowly.