Christine, Page 38

  Junkins turned and looked at him questioningly.

  "Never mind," Arnie said sullenly.

  Junkins went on looking. "You know," he said, "it's a hell of a strange thing, what happened to Buddy Repperton and those other two boys, isn't it?"

  Fuck it, Arnie thought. I'm not going to fool around with this shitter.

  "I was in Philadelphia. Chess tourney."

  "I know," Junkins said.

  "Jesus! You're really checking me out!"

  Junkins walked back to Arnie. There was no smile on his face now. "Yes, that's right," he said. "I'm checking you out. Three of the boys I believe were involved in vandalizing your car are now dead, along with a fourth boy who was apparently just along for the ride on Tuesday night. That's a pretty big coincidence. It's nine miles too big for me. You bet I'm checking you out."

  Arnie stared at him, surprised out of his anger, uncertain. "I thought it was an accident. . . that they were liquored up and speeding and--"

  "There was another car involved," Junkins said.

  "How do you know that?"

  "There were tracks in the snow, for one thing. Unfortunately, the wind had blurred them too much for us to be able to get a decent photo. But one of the barriers at the Squantic Hills State Park gate was broken, and we found traces of red paint on it. Buddy's Camaro wasn't red. It was blue."

  He measured Arnie with his eyes.

  "We also found traces of red paint embedded in Moochie Welch's skin, Arnie. Can you dig that? Embedded. Do you know how hard a car has to hit a guy to embed paint in his skin?"

  "You ought to go out there and start counting red cars," Arnie said coldly. "You'll be up to twenty before you get to Basin Drive, I guarantee it."

  "You bet," Junkins said. "But we sent our samples to the FBI lab in Washington, where they have samples of every shade of paint they ever used in Detroit. We got the results back today. Any idea what they were? Want to guess?"

  Arnie's heart was thudding dully in his chest; there was a corresponding beat at his temples. "Since you're here, I'd guess it was Autumn Red. Christine's color."

  "Give that man a Kewpie doll," Junkins said. He lit a cigarette and looked at Arnie through the smoke. He had abandoned any pretense of good humor; his gaze was stony.

  Arnie clapped his hands to his head in an exaggerated gesture of exasperation. "Autumn Red, great. Christine's a custom job, but there were Fords from 1959 to 1963 painted Autumn Red, and Thunder-birds, and Chevrolet offered that shade from 1962 to 1964, and for a while in the mid-fifties you could get a Rambler painted Autumn Red.

  I've been working on my '58 for half a year now, I get the car books; you can't do work on an old car without the books, or you're screwed before you start. Autumn Red was a popular choice. I know it"--he looked at Junkins fixedly--"and you know it, too. Don't you?"

  Junkins said nothing; he only went on looking at Arnie in that fixed, stony, unsettling way. Arnie had never been looked at in that way by anyone in his life, but he recognized the gaze. He supposed anyone would. It was a look of strong, frank suspicion. It scared him. A few months ago--even a few weeks ago--that was probably all it would have done. But now it made him furious as well.

  "You're really reaching. Just what the hell have you got against me anyway, Mr. Junkins? Why are you on my ass?"

  Junkins laughed and walked around in a large half-circle. The place was entirely empty except for the two of them out here and Will in his office, finishing his hoagie and licking olive oil off his hands and still watching them closely.

  "What have I got against you?" he said. "How does first-degree murder sound to you, Arnie? Does that grab you with any force?"

  Arnie grew very still.

  "Don't worry," Junkins said, still walking. "No big tough cop scene. No menacing threats about going downtown--except in this case downtown would be Harrisburg. No Miranda card. Everything is still fine for our hero, Arnold Cunningham."

  "I don't understand any of what you're--"

  "You . . . understand . . . PLENTY!" Junkins roared at him. He had stopped next to a giant yellow hulk of a truck--another of Johnny Pomberton's dumpsters-in-the-making. He stared at Arnie. "Three of the kids who beat on your car are dead. Autumn Red paint samples were taken at both crime scenes, leading us to believe that the vehicle the perpetrator used in both cases was at least in part Autumn Red. And gee whiz! It just turns out that the car those kids trashed is mostly Autumn Red. And you stand there and push your glasses up on your nose and tell me you don't understand what I'm talking about."

  "I was in Philadelphia when it happened," Arnie said quietly. "Don't you get that? Don't you get that at all?"

  "Kiddo," Junkins said flipping his cigarette away, "that's the worst part of it. That's the part that really stinks."

  "I wish you'd get out of here or put me under arrest or something. Because I'm supposed to punch in and do some work."

  "For now," Junkins said, "talk is all I've got. The first time--when Welch got killed--you were supposed to be home in bed."

  "Pretty thin, I know," Arnie said. "Believe me, if I'd known this shit was going to come down on my head, I would have hired a sick friend to sit up with me."

  "Oh, no--that was good," Junkins said. "Your mother and father had no cause to doubt your tale. I could tell that from speaking to them. And alibis--the true ones--usually have more holes than a Salvation Army suit. It's when they start to look like suits of armor that I get nervous."

  "Holy Jumping Jesus!" Arnie almost screamed. "It was a fucking chess meet! I've been in the chess club for four years now!"

  "Until today," Junkins said, and Arnie grew still again. Junkins nodded. "Oh yeah, I talked to the club advisor. Herbert Slawson. He says that the first three years you never missed a meeting, even came to a couple with a low-grade case of the flu. You were his star player. Then, this year, you were spotty right from the start--"

  "I had my car to work on . . . and I got a girl--"

  "He said you missed the first three tourneys, and he was pretty surprised when your name turned up on the trip sheet for the Northern States meet. He thought you'd lost all your interest in the club."

  "I told you--"

  "Yes, you did. Too busy. Cars and girls, just what makes most kids too busy. But you regained your interest long enough to go to Philly-- and then you dropped out. That strikes me as very odd."

  "I can't see anything funny about it," Arnie said, but his voice seemed distant, almost lost in the surf-roar of blood in his ears.

  "Bullshit. It looks as if you knew it was coming down and set yourself up with an airtight alibi."

  The roar in his head had even assumed the steady, wavelike beats of surf, each beat accompanied by a dull thrust of pain. He was getting a headache--why wouldn't this monstrous man with his prying brown eyes just go away? None of it was true, none of it. He hadn't set anything up, not an alibi, not anything. He had been as surprised as anyone else when he read in the paper what had happened. Of course he had been. There was nothing strange going on, unless it was this lunatic's paranoia, and

  (how did you hurt your back anyway, Arnie? and by the way, do you see anything green? do you see)

  he closed his eyes and for a moment the world seemed to lurch out of its orbit and he saw that green, grinning, rotting face floating before him, saying: Start her up. Get the heater going and let's motorvate. And while we're at it, let's get the shitters that wrecked our car. Let's grease the little cock-knockers, kid, what do you say? Let's hit them so fucking hard the corpse-cutter down at city hospital will have to pull the paint-chips out of their carcasses with pliers. What do you say? Find some doowop music on the radio and let's cruise. Let's--

  He groped back behind him, touched Christine--her hard, cool, reassuring surface--and things dropped back into place again. He opened his eyes.

  "There's only one other thing, really," Junkins said, "and it's very subjective. Nothing you could put on a report. You're different this time, Arnie. Hard
er, somehow. It's almost as if you've put on twenty years."

  Arnie laughed, and was relieved to hear it sounded quite natural. "Mr. Junkins, you've got a screw loose."

  Junkins didn't join him in his laughter. "Uh-huh. I know it. The whole thing is screwy--screwier than anything I've investigated in the ten years I've been a detective. Last time, I felt like I could reach you, Arnie. I felt you were . . . I don't know. Lost, unhappy, groping around, trying to get out. Now I don't feel that at all. I almost feel like I'm talking to a different person. Not a very nice one."

  "I'm done talking to you," Arnie said abruptly, and began walking toward the office.

  "I want to know what happened," Junkins called after him. "And I'm going to find out. Believe me."

  "Do me a favor and stay away from here," Arnie said. "You're crazy."

  He let himself into the office, closed the door behind him, and noticed his hands weren't shaking at all. The room was stuffy with the smells of cigar and olive oil and garlic. He crossed in front of Will without speaking, took his time-card out of the rack, and punched in: ka-thud. Then he looked through the glass window and saw Junkins standing there, looking at Christine. Will said nothing. Arnie could hear the noisy engine of the big man's respiration. A couple of minutes later Junkins left.

  "Cop," Will said, and ripped out a long belch. It sounded like a chainsaw.

  "Yeah."

  "Repperton?"

  "Yeah. He thinks I had something to do with it."

  "Even though you were in Philly?"

  Arnie shook his head. "He doesn't even seem to care about that."

  He's a smart cop then, Will thought. He knows the facts are wrong, and his intuition tells him there's something even wronger than that, so he's gotten further with it than most cops ever would, but he could spend a million years and not get all the way to the truth. He thought of the empty car driving itself into stall twenty like some weird wind-up toy. The empty ignition slot turning over to START. The engine revving once, like a warning snarl, and then falling off.

  And thinking of these things, Will did not trust himself to look Arnie in the face, even though his own experience in routine deceit was nearly lifelong.

  "I don't want to send you to Albany if the cops are watching you."

  "I don't care if you send me to Albany or not, but you don't have to worry about the heat. He's the only cop I've seen, and he's crazy. He's not interested in anything but two cases of hit-and-run."

  Now Will's eyes did meet Arnie's: Arnie's gray and distant, Will's a faded no-color, the corneas a dim yellow; they were the eyes of an ancient tomcat who has seen a thousand mice turned inside out.

  "He's interested in you," he said. "I'd better send Jimmy."

  "You like the way Jimmy drives, do you?"

  Will looked at Arnie for a moment and then sighed. "Okay," he said. "But if you see that cop, you back off. And if you get caught holding a bag, Cunningham, it's your bag. Do you understand that?"

  "Yes," Arnie said. "Do you want me to do some work tonight, or what?"

  "There's a '77 Buick in forty-nine. Pull the starter motor. Check the solenoid. If it seems okay, pull that too."

  Arnie nodded and left. Will's thoughtful eyes drifted from his retreating back to Christine. He had no business sending him to Albany this weekend and he knew it. The kid knew it too, but he was going to push ahead anyway. He had said he'd go, and he was now going to by-God do it. And if anything happened, the kid would stand up. Will was sure of it. There was a time when he surely wouldn't have done, but that time was past now.

  He had heard it all on the intercom.

  Junkins had been right.

  The kid was harder now.

  Will began to look at the kid's '58 again. Arnie would be taking Will's Chrysler to New York. While he was gone, Will would watch Christine. He would watch Christine and see what happened.

  40 / Arnie in Trouble

  With Naugahyde bucket seats in front and back,

  Everything's chrome, man, even my jack,

  Step on the gas, she goes Waaaaahhhh--

  I'll let you look,

  But don't touch my custom machine.

  --The Beach Boys

  Rudolph Junkins and Rick Mercer of the Pennsylvania State Police detective division sat drinking coffee the following afternoon in a glum little office with paint peeling from the walls. Outside, a depressing mixture of snow and sleet was falling.

  "I'm pretty sure this is going to be the weekend," Junkins said. "That Chrysler has rolled every four or five weeks for the last eight months."

  "Just understand that busting Darnell and whatever bee you've got in your bonnet about that kid are two different things."

  "They're both the same thing to me," Junkins replied. "The kid knows something. If I get him rattled, I may find out what it is."

  "You think he had an accomplice? Someone who used his car and killed those kids while he was at the chess tourney?"

  Junkins shook his head. "No, goddammit. The kid has got exactly one good friend, and he's in the hospital. I don't know what I think, except that the car was involved. . . and he was involved too."

  Junkins put his Styrofoam coffee cup down and pointed at the man on the other side of the desk.

  "Once we get that place closed down, I want a six-pack of lab technicians to go over it from stem to stern, inside and out. I want it up on a lift, I want it checked for dents, bumps, repaint . . . and for blood. That's what I really want, Rick. Just one drop of blood."

  "You don't like that kid much, do you?" Rick asked.

  Junkins uttered a bewildered little laugh. "You know, the first time I kind of did. I liked him and I felt sorry for him. I felt like maybe he was covering for somebody else who had something on him. But this time I didn't like him at all."

  He considered.

  "And I didn't like that car, either. The way he kept touching it every time I thought I had him on the ropes. It was spooky."

  Rick said, "As long as you remember that Darnell is the guy I've got to bust. No one in Harrisburg has the slightest interest in your kid."

  "I'll remember," Junkins said. He picked up his coffee again and looked at Rick grimly. "Because he's a means to the end. I'm going to nail the person who killed those kids if it's the last thing I ever do."

  "It may not even go down this weekend," Rick said.

  But it did.

  Two plainclothes cops from Pennsylvania's State Felony Squad sat in the cab of a four-year-old Datsun pickup on the morning of Saturday, December 16, watching as Will Darnell's black Chrysler rolled out of the big door and into the street. A light drizzle was falling; it was not quite cold enough to be sleet. It was one of those misty days when it is impossible to tell where the lowering clouds end and the actual mist begins. The Chrysler was quite properly showing its parking lights. Arnie Cunningham was a safe driver.

  One of the plainclothesmen lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke into it. "He just came out in Darnell's car. You guys stay on your toes."

  They followed the Chrysler to I-76. When they saw Arnie get on the eastbound ramp with its Harrisburg sign, they turned up the westbound ramp, toward Ohio, and reported. They would get off I-76 one exit down the line and return to their original position near Darnell's Garage.

  "Okay," Junkins's voice came back, "let's make an omelette."

  Twenty minutes later, as Arnie was cruising east at a sedate and legal 50, three cops with all the right paperwork in hand knocked on the door of William Upshaw, who lived in the very much upscale suburb of Sewickley. Upshaw answered the door in his bathrobe. From behind him came the cartoon squawks of Saturday-morning TV.

  "Who is it, honey?" his wife called from the kitchen.

  Upshaw looked at the papers, which were court orders, and felt that he might faint. One ordered that all of Upshaw's tax records relating to Will Darnell (an individual) and Will Darnell (a corporation) be impounded. These papers bore the signature of the Pennsylvania Attorney G
eneral and a Superior Court judge.

  "Who is it, hon?" his wife asked again, and one of his kids came to look, all big eyes.

  Upshaw tried to speak and could raise only a dusty croak. It had come. He had dreamed about it, and it had finally come. The house in Sewickley had not protected him from it; the woman he kept at a safe distance in King of Prussia had not protected him from it; it was here: he read it in the smooth faces of these cops in their off-the-rack Anderson-Little suits. Worst of all, one of them was Federal-Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He produced a second ID, proclaiming him an agent of something called the Federal Drug Control Task Force.

  "Our information is that you keep an office in your home," the Federal cop said. He looked--what? Twenty-six? Thirty? Had he ever had to worry about what you were going to do when you had three kids and a wife who liked nice things maybe a little too much? Bill Upshaw didn't think so. When you had those things to think about, your face didn't stay that smooth. Your face only stayed that smooth when you could indulge in the luxury of grand thoughts--law and order, right and wrong, good guys and bad guys.

  He opened his mouth to answer the Federal cop's question and produced only another dusty croak.

  "Is this information correct?" the Federal cop asked patiently.

  "Yes," Bill Upshaw croaked.

  "And another office at 100 Frankstown Road in Monroeville?"

  "Yes."

  "Hon, who is it?" Amber asked, and came into the hallway. She saw the three men standing on the stoop and pulled the neck of her housecoat closed. The cartoons blared.

  Upshaw thought suddenly, almost with relief, It's the end of everything.

  The kid who had come out to see who had come to visit so early on a Saturday morning suddenly burst into tears and fled for the safety of the SuperFriends on channel 4.

  When Rudy Junkins received the news that Upshaw had been served and that all the papers pertaining to Darnell, both at Upshaw's Sewickley home and his Monroeville office, had been impounded, he led half a dozen state cops in what he supposed would have been called a raid in the old days. Even during the holiday season the garage was moderately busy on Saturday (although it was by no means the bustling place it became on summer weekends), and when Junkins raised a battery-powered loudhailer to his lips and began to use it, perhaps two dozen heads whipped around. They would have conversation enough out of this to last them into the new year.