Tom Schreck: On the Ropes

In New York State, when someone lives on a street that has a road number instead of a name, it’s a pretty good bet that they live in a very remote spot. Dunston probably lived off a series of dirt roads in a cabin, a trailer, or some sort of prefab. Pulling down a dirt road in my Eldorado and not being noticed was not going to be easy. I guess if I’m going to pursue the life of a private eye, I’m going to have to consider a new set of wheels. Until I go full time, I am going to have to borrow Rudy’s rig.

The foolish SUV weighed about ten tons, and it was hard to get used to being twenty feet in the air, driving. Rudy had power everything, a CD and cassette player, but no eight-track. Through the years, I have made a handful of Elvis cassettes for just such circumstances so I would have something to listen to. Al was happy that there were power windows because it would give him something to do.

I figured I had a couple of choices. I could stake out Bowerman and Stephanie, but there was no guarantee that they would be associated with the webcast. Stephanie had been on the website in porn poses, but there was a chance that she wouldn’t have anything to do with this event. There was still a chance that Bowerman had taken her to her house for some quasi-legitimate social work reason. I doubted that, but there was a chance.

My other option was to track down the address that Jerry had got me for Dunston. So far, it seemed to me that he was always on the scene. If there was something that needed security or enforcement, I’m guessing he was their guy. There was a chance that the bald guy wasn’t Dunston or that the address was bogus, but I decided checking in on him would be the first thing I would do. If I could determine that he really did live at the address Jerry gave me earlier, then I could decide what to do from there.

The Rd. #2 address was another seven miles east of Eagle Heights. I hoisted Al into his copilot seat, which, with the height of the Navigator, was no easy trick. Al really liked Rudy’s SUV. He sat right up and looked out over the dashboard while hitting all the power switches, making the doors lock, the windows go up and down, and the moonroof slide back.

At ten, I made the turn off Route 44 and started to head down the dirt roads. I got to the end of County Road #2 and decided to walk in the rest of the way. The Navigator wasn’t as conspicuous as the orange Eldorado, but out in these boonies another breathing human being was noticed.

I left Al in the SUV and headed in. There were worn-looking houses with appliances on the front lawns, old rusted car chassis, and dogs tied on chains. There were houses about every five hundred yards. Most of them looked like two-bedroom deals laid on slabs. At least half of them had a motorcycle or snowmobile or both on the front lawn.

About a mile and a half in, I came upon Dunston’s house and sure enough, the white pickup truck was parked outside his dirty white house. He had a homemade carport with three motorcycles in various states of disrepair underneath it. His lawn was overgrown, and there was a rusted refrigerator that the grass had grown around.

I stayed back a couple hundred yards and tried to take in as much as I could. I wasn’t exactly sure what to look for, but I felt compelled to study his house, make a clear mental image, and store it in my brain. When I felt I had it, I went back to the Navigator.

Al was sleeping as the soundtrack to Blue Hawaii played on. Over the last three weeks, Al seemed to mellow out when Elvis went into “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I felt like it was time to check in on the Eagle Heights clinic. I figured Bowerman might have taken Stephanie back there. I hit the McDonald’s drive-through on the way there, and Al and I split two quarter-pounders with cheese and an order of fries that was big enough to feed a family of six.

I parked a block and a half away from the clinic. My new wheels made hanging out without being noticed easier. Sure enough, Bowerman’s blue BMW was parked outside. Staring at the front door of the clinic for the next four hours wasn’t easy, and I was going out of my mind with boredom. My lower back was starting to ache and I had to take a leak.

It was almost four o’clock, and just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, Bowerman left through the front door of the clinic. I watched her head to the parking lot, but instead of getting in the BMW, she went for the clinic van. She was alone.

She took off in the same direction that she did last night when she went home. I followed her from a safe distance and she took the exact same route.

I was a quarter mile behind her when she turned into her development. I didn’t follow her, I kept going straight. There was only one way out of the development and there was no point in risking getting spotted. I did a U-turn and parked off the side of the country road, a half-mile down from the entrance to the development.

I waited. I had already spent about eight hours in the car today, most of it doing absolutely nothing. I don’t know how guys make a career doing this sort of shit because it was making me crazy.

I killed time devising strategies for beating some of the all-time best fighters. I figured to beat Robinson I would crowd him and make him move to his left. That would make me vulnerable to his hook, but it was worth the chance. Against Joe Louis-easy, I would give him a lot of side-to-side movement. With Ali, I’d be all over him with elbows, forearms, and cuffs. He hated the rough stuff. I was just about to beat Marvelous Marvin Hagler when the phone rang.

“Duff-it’s going down tonight, at eight thirty,” Jerry said.

“Shit. What else can you tell me?”

“Duff,” Jerry was speaking fast. “They’re saying all sorts of sick shit about what’s going to happen to Shony. She’s the feature and there’s three other girls about the same age.”

“It’s a little after four. That gives me four hours.”

I hung up and watched Bowerman pull out of her development.

Bowerman headed back the same way she came. My mind was racing and my stomach flipped. I had a heart-pounding desire to do something, I just didn’t know what.

Bowerman went straight back to the clinic and went inside. She stayed in there for about forty-five minutes while I waited down the block for her. She came out alone, but with several duffel bags and headed back out. Al must’ve picked up on my nervous energy because he was sitting up, looking over the dashboard, rocking back and forth like he was trying to see what I was getting excited about.

It was now five thirty and Bowerman was headed out on another county route to God knows where. I had a horrible fear that I was following the wrong person and that I wasn’t even going to be near a place where I could help Shony. The phone rang again.

“Duff,” it was Jerry. “I found some shit out on Bowerman.”

“What is it?”

“First of all, Bowerman is her maiden name. Her married name is something else.”

“What?”

“Dunston. She’s married to the bald guy.”

“Holy shit-anything else?’

“I can’t find any record of her social worker certification. She’s listed as one in several employment references, but when you go to the Department of State website she’s not listed. I’m betting a lot of nonprofits never actually check certifications. There are also gaps on jobs and residences.”

“Jerry, the second you find anything else, call me.”

I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.

I followed Bowerman as she headed south for about fifteen minutes. She then turned off the main road on to another series of dirt roads. I laid back and gave her a good mile head start because I didn’t want to get caught following her. I made two left-hand turns and wound up at a fork. It was hard to see, but when I pulled up close enough to read the street sign everything started to come together. I was outside County Road #2, exactly where I was this morning. Bowerman had just gone a different way to get here. She had come to meet her husband.