'See you in an hour,' Lucas said.
Terry promised to have every bar in Hibbing checked by morning. Lucas gave him a cell-phone number, and he and Nadya headed for Duluth.
'What they're doing is, they're taking testimony on the shooting to make sure nothing illegal happened, and that all proper procedures were being followed,' Lucas told her on the way, explaining the board. 'If Reasons was assigned to guard you, then your, mmm, emotional involvement becomes irrelevant. He was killed in the line of duty.'
'He wasn't exactly…'
'Shhh…' Lucas said.
Chapter 24
Grandpa fussed around the rest of the day-shuffled out to put a bill in the mailbox, raised the red flag for the mailman, saw that the van was still there. Went out to the garage, threw a shovel in the back of the car, unscrewed the automatic light in the garage-door opener, shuffled back to the house, and didn't look at the van, still there halfway up the block. Would it ever leave? And if it did, would it be replaced by another? He saw nothing at all on the backside of the block…
He couldn't help watching, but he was afraid he'd be spotted if he did. Eventually, he spent a few minutes vacuuming, pushing back and forth in front of the picture window. When he was done, he propped open one of Melodie's old compact cases in the corner of the window, among a group of plants, adjusted the mirror so he could see the van, then sat on a couch opposite the television and watched the mirror.
An hour or so after the cops left, Jan Walther called, panicked about being interviewed by the police. 'They think Roger is a spy. They think he was spying with the Spivaks and the Svobodas and some people named Witold. They're crazy,' she said.
'They are crazy,' Grandpa agreed. 'There's nothing we can do but cooperate. Maybe we should get a lawyer.'
'Not yet; I can't afford a lawyer.'
She gave him everything the cops had asked her about, but in the context of a protest to a relative. Excellent. Janet had been told a little bit, back when she was still in love with Roger, had been told that the spying was a heritage thing that the families were trying to work out of… but that was it. If the phones were bugged, her protests would sound normal and innocent. If the tapes ever got into court, they might help influence a jury.
He watched the van the rest of the afternoon; watched as a mostly cloudy day turned gloomy and dark, and little spits of rain began trickling down the window. At a little after five o'clock, the van pulled away. The movement was so quick, and unexpected, that Grandpa almost missed it-and he knew for certain, from watching all afternoon, that nobody had gotten into it. Whoever was driving had been inside all morning and afternoon.
This was not paranoia; he was being watched.
At seven o'clock, with a steady drizzle darkening the streets, he drove slowly down to the supermarket, and then back to the house, going out one way, coming back on the other side of the block. He saw no one following, and he knew all the cars still on the street. So the watch was sporadic-the state cop and the Russian must have wanted to see if he'd panic after they talked to him. Grandpa smiled as he pulled back into the garage, just thinking about it. He'd sold them, all right.
There was, he thought as he went into the house, just the slightest possibility that they were watching from a neighbor's house… but then, why would they watch from the van at all? Still…
Inside, thinking of bugs and phone taps, he said to Grandma, 'Let's eat.' He banged around the kitchen, heating up some spaghetti, fed her and then himself. When she was done, he cleaned her up for the fourth time that day, and parked her in front of the TV again. The History Channel had a show about World War II, the landings at Normandy. They watched it together, and he talked to his wife, and then they watched a show about ice dancing, then the local news, and finally he said, 'Let's get you off to bed, sweetheart. Let's get you off to bed, okay?'
At ten thirty, he flushed the toilet and said into the walkie-talkie as the water rushed around the bowl, 'Exactly at eight.'
Three words. He got back two burps of static. Good. He got the silenced pistol and put it in the pocket of a black jacket, and pulled on the jacket.
At ten fifty-five, he slipped out the back door, stood in the shadows under the eaves. The rain wasn't as heavy as it had been, but the night was misty, with fog coming up from the street. He walked straight back to the garage, through the back door, pushed the button on the garage-door opener. If they were watching from the back of the house, then he was done. If they were on the other side of the street, he'd be okay. He didn't think they were there at all, but…
There was a figure coming up the alley, tall and thin, in a rain jacket. Carl. He gestured at the car, and Carl edged between the car and the garage wall, careful in the dark, and got in the driver's seat. 'Where to? What's going on?'
'We need to talk to your father,' Grandpa said. 'He's up in Virginia.'
'Dad? Do I have to talk to that asshole? What are we talking to him for?'
'Because he knows. And he's a drunk. The police have ways to put pressure on people, and he has to be warned. I can't call him-they may already be watching him… They asked about him this morning.'
'What if they're watching him now?'
'They might be. But I think this whole investigation is small. They had a van watching me for two days, different vans, and now there's nobody. The police who came today seemed confused about what was going on…' He told Carl about the interview with Nadya and Lucas.
'So they know everybody,' Carl said, when Grandpa finished.
'They know everybody, but not everything,' Grandpa said.
'What are we going to do?'
'I'm working on that,' Grandpa said. 'I'm working on a story. A story they can believe.'
'Dad's part of it? He's a drunk, he might say anything.'
'I think he'll be able to handle it. I've figured out a role for him,' Grandpa said.
Carl watched their back trail. Every time a car turned a corner behind them, he reported it. They took back roads, miles through the dark, rarely had anything in the rearview mirror.
'What did you tell your mom?' Grandpa asked.
'I told her I was going to stay over with you, that Grandma had been trying to get up at night.'
'Good. As long as she doesn't call.'
'She was already going to bed when I left.'
Grandpa turned in his seat, looked at the long dark road behind them and said, 'Enough. Let's go.'
'I don't know where he is. Dad.'
'I do,' Grandpa said. 'I had Bob Spivak find him.'
Roger Walther was living in a shack off Old 169 between Hibbing and Parkville; a shack in every sense of the word-old weathered-board siding showing streaks of moss and rot in their headlights, a tumbledown plank stoop, junk in the front and side yards-old washing machines, a junked car, a battered fourteen-foot Lund fishing boat with a thirty-year-old outboard on the back, sitting on a trailer with no wheels.
A small porch had holes where the screens should have been; there were lights in the windows behind the porch, and when Carl got out of the car, he could smell the smoke from a wood fire, the smoke being pushed down to the yard by the thin drizzle. Grandpa got out of the car and said, 'Come on.'
'You sure he lives here?'
'That's what Bob said.'
'I don't want to talk to the sonofabitch,' Carl said. 'I would've kicked his ass the last time we met up, except Mom stopped me.'
