Linwood Barclay - Lone Wolf

I said, “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

Alice Holland smiled. “You’re very astute.”

“How long have you lived in Braynor?”

“George and I moved up here from the city almost fifteen years ago. He was a set designer, and I practiced law, and then we came into a shitload of money when his mother died, and we figured, let’s get out. We moved up here, didn’t have to work right away, but then we got interested in the area, about attempts to overdevelop it, and I ran for a seat on council and won, and then a couple of elections later, ran for mayor, and won. Who’d have thunk it?”

“Don’t suppose you ever thought of opening a law office up here?”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“Think about it,” I said. “Some of the local talent leaves something to be desired.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do? You should meet our chief of police.”

It was my turn to smile. “I’ve had the pleasure. Speaking of overdevelopment, which way’s council leaning on that big fishing-resort proposal south of town? The one Leonard Colebert’s pitching?”

“Oh, that,” Mayor Holland said. “I was looking at the plans for that again only yesterday. Every time he submits new ones, there’s something new added. Another floor on the hotel, or a new outbuilding, or a casino. The day that goes in is the day I let them run over me with an Evinrude.”

“So council’s unlikely to approve it?”

“Well, there are a few members, they’re tempted by the extra jobs, the increased tax base. But they’d bring in a fucking nuclear waste dump if it brought in enough taxes to buy a new snowplow.”

I really liked this woman.

She leaned back on her couch. “So, what the hell are you actually doing here, anyway? I mean, I’m having a lovely chat and all, but are you doing a story, or what?”

I paused. “I have a bad feeling,” I said with some hesitation.

Mayor Holland’s eyebrows went up a notch. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you have this bad feeling?”

I sensed that part of her was humoring me, that she was starting to find me amusing.

“I have to tell you, first of all, that I’m something of a worrier. I’m a worst-case-scenario kind of guy. I’m not some kind of conspiracy nut. I just think that if there’s a chance that things might go really bad, they will.”

Alice Holland said, “Some people would call that being a realist.”

“Yes, well, I can appreciate that. It’s just that, the things I’ve seen happening in Braynor, and out at my dad’s place, I have a sense that these events are linked and leading toward something very bad.”

Alice Holland said nothing.

“Are you familiar with the people who’ve rented the farmhouse out on my dad’s property?”

“Refresh my memory,” she said.

“Timmy Wickens. And his family. A wife, her two sons, his daughter and grandson.”

“Ah yes. Are they friends of yours?”

I was taken aback. “Not at all.”

“Then you won’t be offended if I categorize them as a bunch of whacko-nutcase-racist-survivalists.”

“So you’ve heard of them.”

“They have a bit of a reputation in the Fifty Lakes District. They’ve moved around a couple of times, they’re known to police. Some people think they burned down a lawyer’s house up in Red Lake, but nothing was ever proved. So what about them?”

“Do you know what was stolen at the co-op?” I asked.

“No.”

I told her. And I told her what it could be used for.

“You’re making quite a leap,” the mayor said.

“I appreciate that.”

“Have you discussed your suspicions with Chief Thorne?” she asked.

“I have. These, and others. He’s not been particularly receptive.”

Again, a small smile. “No, I don’t imagine he would be. One of the things I’ve learned, when I was in a law firm, and being mayor of a town as small as Braynor, your personnel problems are always your biggest headaches.”

“I don’t know what the protocol might be, but you might want to see whether you can get any help from other law enforcement agencies. And I don’t mean this as a slap at Orville. There may be things going on that are beyond the expertise of any small-town police chief.”

“Well, all I can say is-”

The phone rang. The look on Alice Holland’s face suggested that her heart had stopped. She looked at the phone mounted on the wall next to the door, let it ring once without getting up. Let it ring a second time.

It wasn’t any of my business whether she answered her phone or not, but I couldn’t help watching her while she let it ring.

Then the door burst open and George grabbed the receiver. “Hello?” He only listened a moment, then slammed the phone back down.

“Death to the dyke bitch again?” the mayor asked.

George nodded once.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“All this over a goddamn fucking parade,” Alice Holland said.

“Have you told him?” George Holland asked his wife. “About the other calls? This nonstop harassment?”

Braynor mayor Alice Holland sighed and settled back into the couch. “George is very worried about this,” she told me.

“There’s so many freaks living up here, it could be anybody,” George said. “But I tell you who I blame. I blame that crazy redneck son of a bitch Charles Henry for stirring things up with his petition, that’s who I blame. That motherfucking bastard, I’ll never buy so much as a carton of milk in his store again. I don’t care if we have to drive an hour to get our groceries, he won’t be getting a dime from us.”

“I don’t think I can go in there either,” I said, not bothering to explain.

“He has stirred things up,” Alice said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s him who’s been calling here.”

“Is it the same person every time, or different callers?” I asked.

George said, “I think there’s a couple of them, but I can’t be sure. Now, we just hang up soon as we know what kind of call it is. And I always answer the phone now.”

“What kind of threats?”

Alice Holland, very matter-of-factly, said, “Sometimes, they just say I should die. Other times they call me a lesbian, ask me the name of my girlfriend. One gentleman offered to use a lit stick of dynamite on me in a very personal manner.”

George, seething, looked ready to kill somebody.

“So, Mr. Walker,” Alice said, “I would have to say I share your sense of foreboding, that there’s something in the air, something not very good.”

“I think you should cancel the parade,” I said.

Alice Holland considered that for a moment. “I don’t like caving. Although it would be nice if Mr. Lethbridge would offer to back out. I wouldn’t ask him to, but it would be worth pointing out the risks.”

For a moment I’d forgotten the name. Then I remembered the story in The Braynor Times . Stuart Lethbridge, head of the Fifty Lakes Gay and Lesbian Coalition.

George said, “The more risk, the less likely he’d be to pull out. It’s like he wants something to happen, so he can be a martyr.”

Mayor Holland nodded. “I suspect there’s some truth to that. Any other suggestions, Mr. Walker?”

“I have a friend coming up tomorrow. He might have some ideas. And like I said earlier, you might want to make some calls to other agencies, see if you can get Orville some help.”

She nodded, then stood up. This, I quickly understood, was my invitation to leave.

“Keep in touch,” the mayor said. “But don’t be surprised if we don’t always answer the phone.”

The morning of my fourth day at Denny’s Cabins, I was up early, and when I emerged from my cabin to head over to Dad’s for breakfast, I spotted Bob Spooner and diaper magnate Leonard Colebert getting ready to go hiking. I was guessing Bob had run out of ways to say no to him.