“You’re not going to tell us where Maria is,” Randy said.
“I cannot,” she said.
“I understand,” he said. “Can you at least tell her that I was here?”
“I will tell her.”
“I don’t know what else to say,” Randy said.
“I believe that’s all there is,” she said.
And she was right. We left the place soon afterward. There was an uneasy peace between the men, Randy and I trying to forgive Leopold and Anthony for what they had done to us, or at least to understand their state of mind. And Leopold and Anthony trying to believe that we really weren’t connected to this demon named Harwood, that our motives were innocent, if not sensible. I got the feeling that neither of them was completely convinced. The light rain had started again, the same light rain from the morning, which now seemed like a year ago.
I drove us to the first bar I could find. We both had a couple quick shots, without saying a word to each other.
“That was interesting,” he finally said. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Interesting is one word for it.”
“God, Alex…”
“What now?” I said.
“You feel like taking me to the airport?”
It was another hour’s drive to Detroit Metro, avoiding the freeway. Randy looked out the window the whole time. I kept turning the wipers on and off as the rain stopped and then began again.
When we were at the terminal, I pulled into the loading zone and stopped the truck. “Do you know the schedule?” I said. “When’s the next flight?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll go see.”
“You want me to go in there with you?”
“No, that’s okay,” he said.
“It might be a long wait.”
“You should get home,” he said.
“I’m in no rush.”
“Alex, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“How bad did they hurt you? Are you gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ve been beat up worse before, believe me.”
“I’m gonna pay you,” he said. He pulled out his roll. “I’m gonna give you… let’s see…”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re not giving me anything.”
“Come on, for everything you did.”
“If you want to send Leon more money, send it to him. Me, I was just helping out my old pitcher.”
“Gas money,” he said. “Let me give you gas money. And meal money.”
“One hundred bucks,” I said. “That’s it.”
He flipped off five twenties. ‘Terry’s got a ball game today,” he said, the spark finally coming back to him. “They’re playing UCLA. Did I mention he’s a catcher?”
“You mentioned it.”
“He’s gonna be a good one.”
“Tell him hello for me,” I said. “Tell him to watch out for left-handers.”
“You think Maria’s family will really tell her I was there?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Nothing’s gonna come of it, I don’t think.”
“Probably not,” I said. “It sounds like she’s got a lot of other things to worry about. You never know. Maybe someday. Hell, you know where her family lives now. Maybe you’ll come back.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think this was my one shot at it. Just like my one shot at the big leagues. Another spectacular failure.”
I left him on that note. I said good-bye and watched him walk into the terminal. And then I started for home.
I settled in for the six-hour drive. I knew it would be well after dark by the time I got there, but I wanted to be in my own bed when I woke up the next morning. That would be the worst day, I knew. My knee would be swollen, my wrist would burn where the handcuff had been, every muscle in my neck would feel as tight as piano wire, and my head would hurt more than the rest of my body put together. But at least I’d be home with my aspirin and my hot-water bottle and my Canadian beer.
I stopped outside of Saginaw for dinner, my body already stiff after two hours of driving. It got colder and colder as I drove north, as if I were driving backward in time, from spring back to winter. When I hit the Mackinac Bridge, the temperature was below freezing. Another hour of driving in the Upper Peninsula, the snow still on the ground, and then finally I was home. I went inside my cabin, lighted the wood-stove, and fell into my bed.
After one bad day, just as bad as I thought it would be, although nothing I hadn’t lived through before, and then another night, I started to feel like myself again. I went to see Leon, still confined to his bed. I told him everything that had happened, the situation we had stumbled into. He wanted to jump right onto that one, call up Maria’s family and find out more about this man named Harwood. “Private eyes solve problems, Alex! Let’s help these people!”
I told him I wished we could. But I knew they wouldn’t accept our help.
Then I dropped in at the Glasgow, answered all Jackie’s questions. No, we didn’t find her. Yes, I did get beat up. Yes, you were right. You told me something like this would happen again. And so on into the afternoon and evening. Another April day in Paradise, sitting in front of the fire. And yet it felt different somehow, without Randy’s running commentary in my ears. A couple days with him and then everything was suddenly too quiet.
Then the phone call. In the middle of the night. A cold, raw night, with me stumbling for the phone and standing on the rough wooden floor, listening to a voice from far away.
“Alex McKnight?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I called your partner first. He told me to call you.”
“Who is this?”
“You know a Randall Wilkins?”
“Yes, I do. Who is this?”
“My name is Howard Rudiger. I’m the chief of police in Orcus Beach.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
“Well, right now, I’m at the Butterworth Hospital in Grand Rapids. You know where Grand Rapids is?”
“Yes. Wait. You’re at a hospital?”
“Butterworth Hospital,” he said. “Or that’s the old name, I guess. It’s called Spectrum Health or some damned thing now. It’s right on Michigan Street downtown. Your friend Mr. Wilkins is here.”
“In Michigan? Randy’s in Michigan? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain it when you get here, sir. It’ll take you what-about four, five hours to get here? I’ll see you here at ten.”
“Just tell me what happened,” I said. “How bad is it?”
“It’s bad,” he said. “Mr. Wilkins was found about six hours ago. He was shot, and he’s lost a lot of blood. We brought him here because it’s the main trauma center for western Michigan. The doctor says he’s in some kind of hemorrhage shock right now.”
“He was shot,” I said. “Randy was… Who did this? What happened?”
“We don’t know at this point,” he said. “We have no witnesses, and of course Mr. Wilkins can’t tell us anything. I should probably tell you there’s a good chance he’s not going to live.”
“My God. I can’t believe it.”
“I’ll see you at ten, Mr. McKnight. I’ll have some questions.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of questions?”
