Liars & Thieves: A Novel Read online

  I turned on the telephone and called information. The operator gave me a number for Johnson Dunlap. That number was one of the ones stored on the telephone memory. I dialed it.

  After ten rings I broke the connection.

  Perhaps Johnson Dunlap was a real man. I tapped his driver’s license on the steering wheel as I considered. If he was a cop or federal employee and lost his wallet containing his real driver’s license while committing a serious felony with three colleagues—now dead—whoever was running this show was going to be very unhappy with Mr. Dunlap. He would undoubtedly realize that. Would he share the bad news with them?

  I had another wallet in my pocket, the one I took off the driver who wrapped his SUV around a tree on Allegheny Mountain yesterday. I got it out and gave the driver’s license a close look. Jerry Von Essen, Burke, Virginia. I called information. They gave me a telephone number, so I dialed it.

  After four rings, I got a sleepy female. “Hullo.”

  “Is Jerry there?”

  Talk about a hot woman—she went thermonuclear in two seconds. “The son of a bitch hasn’t come home yet,” she snarled. “Think he’d take the time to call? You see the bastard, tell him I’m not taking any more of his shit! I’m moving out.”

  Before I could reply she slammed the telephone down.

  Johnson Dunlap. Should I go check on him, or should I hotfoot it back to Dorsey’s? Willie probably blabbed Dorsey’s name, so they would show up before too long.

  I glanced at my watch. My sense was that I had a little time, and God knew I needed information.

  I thought about calling Dorsey, warning her. Hell, she didn’t even own a weapon. The only thing she could do would be to load Kelly in a vehicle and run for it. Or call the police. Neither option seemed very attractive to me. I couldn’t protect the women if they were running around the country, and I wasn’t ready for the police.

  Yesterday’s clouds had dissipated. No rain today. Terrific.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Johnson Dunlap lived in an older tract home in what had once been a fashionable neighborhood, perhaps sixty years ago, immediately after World War II. The maples, oaks, and tulip poplars that blocked out the sky looked about that old.

  His house looked similar to every other house up and down the street—single story, brick facade, not much grass in the front lawn due to the deep shade cast by the huge trees. The driveway was empty.

  I checked my watch, then drove down to the main arterial and along it until I came to a convenience store. I bought a newspaper from the box near the door and got back behind the wheel to look it over. The paper contained nothing on the massacre yesterday in West Virginia, not an inch. No story on a massive manhunt; nothing at all on fires and murder and corpses in the forest.

  I started the engine and drove back to Dunlap’s. I parked in his drive in front of his single-car garage.

  As I walked around the house I checked for a security system, which would have been out of place in this neighborhood. Nope.

  I let myself into the backyard through a gate. There was dog poop scattered about, so I wasn’t surprised when the pooch began yapping inside the house as I picked the lock on the kitchen door. As I opened the door a small canine fluffball shot through. Apparently he, she, or it was more interested in relieving bladder pressure than taking a hunk out of my leg. Once in the kitchen, I firmly closed the door behind me.

  There were several stacks of mail on a small stand near the kitchen table, but I bypassed them and headed for the bedroom. Sure enough, there was Baldy and a woman in framed photos on the dresser and nightstand. So Baldy was indeed Johnson Dunlap, a real person. Somehow establishing that fact seemed important.

  I glanced around the bedroom and went back to the mail in the kitchen. If there was a pay stub or pay summary in one of those piles that gave the name of his employer, it would make my day. I was flipping through the envelopes when I heard another car pull into the driveway.

  The dog in the back yard began yapping. I sat down at the kitchen table, got out the automatic, and laid it in my lap.

  From where I sat I could see the front door. The key turning in the front door lock was plainly audible. The door opened and a woman in her early thirties dressed in a nurse’s white uniform entered the house. She had a bag in her arms and was so intent on getting in and not dropping the bag or her keys that she didn’t see me. She closed the door and turned to walk along the hallway to the kitchen. That’s when she saw me.

  She stopped, tried to recognize my face. The light wasn’t great, so she took several more steps toward me.

  “Johnson?” She raised her voice. “Johnson?” Then to me: “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I came alone.”

  “But the car?”

  “I borrowed it from your husband.”

  She entered the kitchen. She set the bag containing groceries on the kitchen counter and extracted a half gallon of milk, which she placed in the refrigerator. She had short dark hair, was a tad plump, and had had an accident with some food during her shift—there was a stain on her blouse. It looked like mustard.

  “Did you just get off work?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She named the hospital. She glanced around the room again, noted the dog in the back yard, made eye contact with me and asked in a worried voice, “Where is Johnson? Has he been hurt?”

  “He’ll be along shortly.”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “You left the back door unlocked.”

  She passed over that—she probably had forgotten to lock the door many times in the past—and said, “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I could use a cup,” I admitted.

  She was getting a little steamed, I could tell. “You have a name?” she asked as she went about putting a filter and coffee and water in the machine on the counter.

  “Tommy Carmellini. And you?”

  “Michelle.”

  When the coffeemaker was going, she turned to face me, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the counter. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Who does Johnson work for, Michelle?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “We met only once, earlier this morning.”

  She stood silently with her butt against the counter, staring at me as the coffeemaker gurgled.

  “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “A lot.”

  She visibly sagged. “What agency are you with?”

  “CIA.”

  She covered her face with both hands. After a bit she lowered her hands and tried to get her breathing under control.

  “I don’t know who he’s working with or for. He said he could make some serious money. For the last two weeks he’s been working odd hours.”

  I didn’t say a word. She waited for the question that didn’t come, examined my face carefully, then continued: “He’s been looking for a real job since he left the FBI. That was last August. He couldn’t find anything. Since they forced him out, he couldn’t use the bureau as a reference, couldn’t get any law enforcement agency to talk to him. He’s got a degree in law enforcement, worked for a police department for five years before he got accepted by the FBI. He’s never done anything else. I thought, this time …” She ran out of steam and had to use a hand to brace herself against the counter.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunlap.”

  She bobbed her head.

  “What’s he done?” she said, her voice a whisper.

  “I—”

  “Tell me the truth!”

  “They killed some people.”

  She tried to keep a straight face. She looked around, saw the coffeepot, got cups from the cupboard, and poured. She brought one over, handed it to me, then sat across from me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She bit her lower lip.

  “So you don’t know … ?”

  She
shook her head.

  I tasted the coffee and realized I didn’t want it. I got up, and put the pistol behind my belt in the small of my back. She watched me do it, didn’t say anything. I went out the front door, closed it behind me, got in her husband’s heap, and drove away.

  I guess I was pretty paranoid as I drove back to Dorsey’s shack in the forest. These guys had gotten to Sal Pulzelli and Willie Varner—it was only a matter of time before they got to Kelly Erlanger and Dorsey O’Shea. I had figured I had a few hours. Now I was hoping I hadn’t figured wrong.

  Amazing how the mind works. My pea brain, anyway. Johnson Dunlap had seemed important two hours ago—now he didn’t. I’d forgotten how time was rushing on. Now, as I drove toward Dorsey’s, I could think of nothing else. I must have looked at my watch fifty times. Of course, when you are in a hell of a hurry every old fart and white-haired lady in the state gets out on the street in his or her Lincoln or BMW or Cadillac and drives slowly and erratically. They had nowhere to go and all day to get there. Me, I knew my time was fast running out.

  I passed cars and vans and trucks on the right and left, ran a couple red lights and pushed the speed all I dared. If I had been stopped by a traffic cop, I don’t know what I would have done. Wrap him up and take him along would have been my only option. Actually, I could have used a cruiser with a siren and overhead lights right about then.

  So these dudes weren’t Russians, weren’t suicidal ragheads. They were plain old American scum who killed for money and the sheer fun of it.

  That fact relieved me somewhat. At least when I caught one of them and put the fear in him, he would know my language. If he died before he could get his conscience polished clean, at least we wouldn’t have had one of those tragic failures to communicate.

  I used Westland’s cell phone to call Dorsey. I had difficulty remembering her phone number. I never used to forget the number of a beautiful woman—so either the lack of sleep was getting to me or I was losing it as I aged.

  The telephone rang four times before she answered.

  “It’s me. Are you and Kelly still alone?”

  “Where are you, Tommy? I have never in my life had a man sneak out of bed after sex. What’s the matter—wasn’t I good enough for you?”

  “Hey, babe, I had a few problems I had to check on. I’m on my way back to your place. Are you two women alone?”

  “Very much so.”

  “For Christ’s sake, don’t call anybody. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Keep the doors locked and stay away from the windows!”

  I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

  “Get outta my way,” I shouted at one old lady who slowed a half block before she turned left. I was tempted to give her the finger, but reserved it for a van driver who looked as if he learned to drive yesterday.

  I whipped across traffic into Dorsey’s drive and stopped. No one was parked nearby. The traffic kept flowing past. I zipped back to the trunk and unobtrusively rescued the MP-5. Put it on my lap and checked the safety and tried to think logically.

  These guys might come through the woods like they did at the Greenbrier safe house, avoid the driveway altogether. I looked at my watch again. It was still there—right on my wrist.

  Ahhh shit! How did I get into this mess, anyway?

  I drove slowly up Dorsey’s drive, looking around like a naked shoplifter. Saw a lot of trees. In addition to money, Dorsey had a zillion trees, by God. Didn’t see a living soul.

  After consideration, I parked the car at the place where the driveway exited the trees, just before it widened out. There was no easy way for a vehicle to get around it, so if the villains came up the drive, they were going to have to park behind the heap and get out. If I was in the right place waiting …

  I charged for the house, knocked on the door.

  Dorsey opened it. She was wearing a robe and no makeup. I went in past her, pushed the door shut behind me.

  She was certainly angry, but when she saw my face the anger gave way to fear.

  “My God, Tommy, what is going on?”

  “These guys were cutting on Willie the Wire when I showed up at his place. I think I got him to the hospital in time, but I’ll bet they’re still sewing him up.”

  “They’re coming here?”

  “They might. That’s a fact. Have you called anyone, anyone at all?”

  “Yes. The maid and the cook. Told them not to come today.”

  “Anyone called here?”

  “You did. And the artist who was here last night.”

  “No one else?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s Erlanger?” I strode for the stairs, carrying the submachine gun in my right hand.

  “She’s in the kitchen.”

  I changed course, went past the staircase and made a beeline for the kitchen. Kelly was sitting on a stool sipping coffee with a pile of Goncharov’s notes in front of her.

  “Sleep okay?” I asked as I went by. The view of the back yard out the kitchen windows was excellent. There was about thirty yards of grass between the house and the forest. There was no way one man could cover every approach to this house. We could run, of course. But where?

  I turned to face Erlanger. Dorsey was standing beside her. “These people cut up my partner, Willie Varner, this morning. He told them about you, Dorsey. They might have telephoned someone before I showed up—Willie didn’t know.”

  “What do you think we should do?” Kelly asked.

  I took a deep breath. “We can’t stay here long term, but I need some time to think about our next move.”

  I opened the refrigerator and looked inside. I was hungry enough to eat a road-killed possum. Fortunately Dorsey had some gourmet cheese. I grabbed the whole package and a quart of milk.

  “I’ll go outside and sit under a tree while the brain percolates. Kelly, it would help if you would read as much of Goncharov’s notes as possible. Dorsey, you could throw something in a suitcase, get ready to go. You and Kelly are about the same size—maybe you have something that might fit her.”

  I took a swig of milk and a bite of cheese.

  “Your arm is bleeding,” Dorsey said.

  “Yeah.”

  Dorsey’s face was a study. “Tommy, we have to call the police.”

  “One of the guys who cut up Willie was ex-FBI. Willie thought the others were cops. If you call the cops, these are the dudes who will show up, just like they did last night at Kelly’s house.”

  “My God, Tommy!”

  “I need to do some thinking,” I insisted.

  Kelly lifted the notes and said, “Everything I’ve looked at concerns KGB shenanigans in Russia. All these papers seem to be about the dirty tricks the KGB pulled to control the party.”

  “Check everything in the suitcase,” I said to her, and headed for the door. Dorsey tagged along behind. At the front door I gave her the snub-nose .38 revolver I had liberated earlier that morning.

  “There’re five shots in this thing. No safety. Hold the pistol in both hands at arm’s length, aim right at the dude’s belly button, and squeeze the trigger slowly.”

  She took the pistol and held it against her breasts. “This isn’t supposed to happen in America.”

  “Don’t I know it!”

  I found a thick bush in the middle of a thicket at the corner of Dorsey’s garage and crawled under it. From there I could see the heap and the driveway and the east side of the house. I was completely blind behind me, and the garage blanked out everything on the west side of the house. This spot would have to do.

  I lay there munching on cheese and wondering what I should do next. Staying alive was looking more and more difficult. And there were the women. Should we split up or stay together?

  I stripped a few cartridges from the backup banana clip on the submachine gun and used them to fill up the magazine of the automatic. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think to do.

  Mikhail Goncharov spent the morning sitting beside the
cabin in the sun, with his back against the chopping block. The day became hotter and the shadows shrank. Finally the sun slipped behind a large oak that shaded the area where he sat. He watched birds and chipmunks and listened to the gurgle of the distant river.

  Sometime in late afternoon he was watching a chipmunk search the forest floor for nuts that had somehow escaped his attention this past winter when he heard a car. He sprang to his feet and hid behind the woodpile.

  The car pulled into the parking area for the cabin, fifty feet or so down the hill.

  A woman and a man got out of the car and began to load their arms with items to carry into the cabin.

  The fear leaked out of him, leaving only lethargy. As they came up the path with their arms full of boxes, he stepped out from behind the woodpile and resumed his seat. Startled, the two people spoke to him in a language he didn’t recognize.

  The Russian shook his head. After several attempts at conversation, the man went inside the cabin and looked around, then came back outside and spoke to the woman, who was still standing there with a box of groceries in her arms.

  Goncharov ignored the people and turned his attention to the chipmunk, who seemed oblivious to the company.

  After a while both the visitors went into the cabin. They eventually began making trips to and from their car, carrying bags and luggage. The archivist remained seated against the chopping block in the sun. He didn’t recognize these people, nor could he remember how he got to this place. Where was it? Why was he here?

  It was all confusing, like something in a dream, fragments of reality that he couldn’t put into a familiar pattern. Perhaps he should try harder to remember …

  He was getting tired.

  Finally he arose, relieved himself behind the nearest tree, and lay down in a sunny spot near the woodpile. In minutes he was asleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN