convince him to radio the trooper stationed inside the house, who had to check with Hangtown before Mitch could pass on through.
Hangtown was at work in the barn with Jim. A radio was blasting old Johnny Cash, and the woodstove was lit against the morning chill. Sam, the German shepherd, was curled up right next to it with one eye closed and the other on Jim’s baby-sitter, who was parked on an old car seat with a copy of Hemmings Motor News.
The old artist had on a pair of glasses with magnifying lenses that made him look like Dr. Cyclops. He was drawing intently at his workbench, a foam-wrapped pencil clutched in his arthritic hand, an open bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey within arm’s length. He barely seemed to notice Mitch’s arrival.
Jim was on his knees assembling an ungainly eight-foot-high stand made of one-inch copper tubing. It had four legs and looked something like a hat rack with elbow joints. Lengths of tubing and rolls of copper flashing were heaped around him everywhere on the dirt floor. Most of the flashing was aged and paint-splattered.
“What is this thing?” asked Mitch, crouching next to Jim.
“The inner workings, son,” Jim replied, flipping on a pair of safety goggles. “Hold her steady for a sec, will you…?” Jim reached for a portable oxyacetylene torch and ignited it. “We use a copper-compound braising rod. She melts at about two thousand degrees. You don’t want your copper to get much hotter than that or it will burn.” Almost immediately Mitch began to smell the smoldering phosphorous and copper compound as Jim started to weld the pieces of the four-legged creature together. “She may look a little unstable right now, but you got to remember that she’ll be standing in a twenty-gallon tank of water. You won’t see these here feet at all. Or the submersible pump, which’ll push the water through that center pipe all the way to the top. It dribbles back down, then gets recirculated.”
“Okay, so this will be a fountain, right?”
“You’re looking inside the beast, son.”
“And what will the beast look like?”
“You’ll have to ask the mad doctor there. Me, I’m just Igor.”
Hangtown was still at his workbench, padded pencil in hand. What he was drawing resembled an elongated ziggurat of cubes and rectangles heaped one atop the other. “Made one of these back when I had to quit smoking, Big Mitch,” he mentioned to him, pausing to light a Lucky. He did not say hello. He acted as if Mitch had been around the house all morning. “Helped keep my mind off of things.”
“But you didn’t quit smoking.”
“That part didn’t work out,” Hangtown admitted freely. “But the fountain was a major success. Really quite hypnotic, if I do say so myself.”
Sam sat up suddenly now, a low growl coming from his throat. A moment later Mitch heard what the dog had heard-cars making their way up the gravel drive toward them. They pulled up right outside the barn with a splatter of gravel. Mitch heard voices and car doors slamming. Jim’s baby-sitter got up and tromped over toward the barn door to see what was going on.
In barged Soave and his sergeant, Tommy Salcineto, followed by Des. She looked very ill at ease. She would not make eye contact with Mitch.
“Good morning, trooper,” Hangtown called to her, pointedly snubbing Soave. The muscle-bound little lieutenant instantly bristled. “When may I have my girl back? When may I bury her?”
“I don’t have a date yet, Mr. Frye,” Des answered, pawing at the ground with her brogan. “They can’t release her until they’ve run all of the tests they need to run. I’m sorry.”
Hangtown reached for his bottle of rye whiskey and took a swig, swiping at his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. “Then why have you come?”
“Because the DNA on the cigarette butt we found up on the rocks matches Jim Bolan’s blood sample,” Soave said, turning a cold-eyed gaze on Jim. “Same goes for the shooter’s shoe print. It’s a dead-on match for your work boots, Bolan.”
Jim sat back on his heels, a sick expression on his face. “I’ve hiked around up there a million times with Sam,” he said dejectedly. “Sometimes, I have me a smoke. That’s all there is to it. I didn’t do it, man. You’re making a mistake.”
“What does all of this mean?” Hangtown asked.
“It means they need a bad guy and I’m it,” Jim growled, flinging his safety goggles away in disgust.
“It means,” Soave said forcefully, “that we’ll have to bring him in for formal questioning.”
“For how long? When will he be back?”
“I can’t answer that, Mr. Frye,” Soave said. “That’s entirely up to him.”
“Well, does he need a lawyer?” Hangtown demanded, his frustration mounting. “Are you arresting him?”
“We’re taking him in for questioning, Mr. Frye. He’ll be detained at the Major Crime Squad’s Central District headquarters in Meriden, okay?”
“No, it is not okay!” the old man thundered. “You can’t take Jim away from me! I need Jim!”
“Sir, I’m afraid I have no choice,” Soave insisted.
Another car pulled up outside now. Mitch heard high heels clacking hurriedly on gravel-it was Takai, wearing a gray flannel business suit and looking quite rattled. “I-I came just as soon as Trooper Mitry phoned me, Father,” she said, rushing across the barn toward him. “I am so sorry. Are you all right?”
“You get away from me!” Hangtown snarled at her. He was in no mood for her even in the best of times, and these were not the best of times.
Takai backed slowly away from him, stung, her eyes shining. The old man might just as well have cuffed her across the face with his hand. Mitch felt very bad for Takai Frye at that moment.
“Not to worry, Big Jim,” Hangtown said to his friend with forced good cheer. “We’ll have you home in no time.”
“C’mon, Bolan, let’s move out,” Tommy Salcineto ordered him gruffly.
Jim started out the door, head hung in defeat, his babysitter on his heels. Soave followed, with Des bringing up the rear.
Mitch stopped her and said, “Do you think he did it?”
“It’s possible,” she answered quietly.
“Then again, this could all be for the benefit of those news vans out there, right?”
“Please don’t ask me anything more, Mitch,” Des pleaded. “I’m strictly a community liaison officer.” She bit down on her lower lip, sighing. “Look, I’ll see you tonight, okay?” And then she left with the others.
“Takai, do something for me, will you?” Hangtown said to her as they drove off.
“Anything, Father,” she replied, brightening considerably. The woman was so starved for his love, so eager to be called upon that Mitch found it pathetic. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Call Greta. Have her line up a top criminal lawyer for Jim. Money’s no object.”
Takai’s eyes widened. “But he murdered Moose! How can you even think of helping him?”
“Because he didn’t do it. Jim’s my friend. He would never do anything to hurt me.”
“Father, the state police have evidence!”
“The state police have nothing,” he said with total certainty. “Now will you call her or won’t you?”
“Of course I will. Whatever you want.” Now Takai started for the door, motioning for Mitch to join her. He walked her out to the Land Rover, where she shook her head at him in weary resignation, “My God, he’s totally deluding himself.”
“It’s pretty hard to believe that a friend could do something like that.”
“Well, at least it’s over,” she said, yanking open a creaky door.
“Do you really think so?” Mitch asked her.
Takai raised an eyebrow at him curiously. “Don’t you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Here, I have something for you…” She reached across the seat, offering him a prized view of her behind, and pulled out the sweater he’d lent her, neatly folded. “I wore it to bed last night. I hope you don’t mind.”
It smelled strongly of her perfume, so strongly that he suddenly felt a bit dizzy. “Why… did you do that?”
“It made me feel all safe and snuggly,” she replied, her eyes glittering at him seductively. “I even dreamed about you. I can’t tell you what the dream was, though. I’ll have to know you a lot better before I do that.” And with that she climbed into her dead sister’s Land Rover, started it up and sped off, waving at him over her shoulder.
