The Straw Men Read online

  By then Chip had our own vehicle started. He reversed carefully out, headed up the drive, and we left The Halls behind.

  •••

  Chip was quiet for most of the journey back into town. I got the feeling that he might have been grilled by No-Name after I'd left, and was berating himself for not being able to adequately answer her questions. Like who I was, and where I was from. Even I knew that these were the first things a realtor should find out from a potential customer, the amino acids of the transaction genome. My father used to say, in his rare expansive moments, that the way into a man's pocket is with his own hand: by which he meant ensuring that you know enough about him to approach him in the way to which he's most accustomed.

  Chip did ask me what I thought of what I'd seen. I told him the Big Sky property was of no interest, especially after seeing what The Halls had to offer. He didn't seem surprised. I asked how many other people he'd shown up there. The answer was eight, in the past three years. All had gone through the procedures required by the management. None had been offered the opportunity to buy.

  I stared at him. 'These people put fifteen, twenty million in an account, opened up their affairs, and still they didn't get in? They actually want to sell these houses, or what?'

  'Exclusivity, Mr Lautner. That's the name of the game.' He glanced at me, to check he had my full attention. 'We're living in a strange world, and that's a fact. We've got the most beautiful country on the planet, the most hard-working folks, and yet we live cheek by jowl with people you wouldn't want in the same hemisphere. There's a historical dimension. We opened the doors too wide, and we shut them too late. We said 'Come on, everybody, join us—we need warm bodies. Got us plenty of land to fill'—but we didn't spend enough time making sure we got the right kind of bodies. Didn't think clearly enough about the future. That's the reason why people like yourself come out West. To get away from the cities, from the hordes, to get in amongst their own folk. To get back to real ways of living. I'm not talking about race, though that does play a part. I'm talking about attitude. About quality. About people who are meant to be with each other, and people who aren't. That's why folks come to a place like Dyersburg. It's a kind of filter, and most of the time it works pretty good—but still you wind up with some people who just don't meet the grade. Students. Ski bums. White trash out by the freeway. People who don't understand. What are you going to do? Can't stop folks moving out here—it's a free country. Nothing you can do but look after your own.'

  'And how do you do that?'

  'You make the mesh of your filter a whole lot finer. You find some like-minded people, and you build yourself a king-sized wall.'

  'That's what The Halls is?'

  'One way of looking at it. But mainly, of course, a unique homemaking opportunity.'

  'You had the money, would you move in up there?'

  He laughed, a short bitter sound. 'Yes, sir, I surely would. Meantime, I'll just work for my commission.'

  We drove down out of the hills and onto the small high plain. By the time we got back to Dyersburg it was full dark, and the rain had begun to slacken a little. Chip parked up outside his office, and turned to me.

  'So.' He grinned. 'What's your next move? Want to think about what you've seen, or can I bring you in to the office, maybe show you a few more options for tomorrow?'

  'Wanted to ask you a question,' I said, looking through the windshield. The pavement was deserted.

  'Shoot.' He looked tired but game. My mother always used to say that real estate wasn't a business for people who wanted to keep predictable hours.

  'You said you just got the exclusive on The Halls. So there used to be another firm looking after it?'

  'That's right.' He looked confused. 'What of it?'

  'They ever get any sales that you know of?'

  'No, sir. They didn't even have the account very long.'

  'So how come they're not still representing it?'

  'Guy died, business got wound up. Can't sell homes if you're dead.'

  I nodded, feeling very quiet inside. 'How much would your commission be on one of those places? A fair sum, I'd imagine?'

  'Quite a piece,' he allowed, carefully.

  I let a pause settle. 'Enough to kill someone for?'

  'What?'

  'You heard me.' I wasn't smiling any more.

  'I don't know what you're talking about. You think… what? What the hell are you saying?'

  There was something about his denial I didn't like, and you'd be amazed, and saddened, if you knew how good people are at lying, in even the most difficult circumstances. I'd waited. I'd been good. Now I was fed up with playing games. I grabbed the back of Chip's head and yanked it forward, smacking his forehead hard into the steering wheel. I angled this so that the hard plastic caught him dead on the bridge of the nose. Then I wrenched his head back.

  'I'm going to ask you a question,' I said, pulling his head forward to smack it into the steering column again. He made a quiet moaning sound as I held it there. 'This time, I need to believe your answer. I need to know you're telling me the truth, and you have just this one opportunity to convince me. Otherwise I'll kill you. Understand?'

  I could feel his fevered nod. I pulled him back up by the hair once more. His nose was bleeding, and there was a livid welt across his forehead. His eyes were very wide.

  'Did you kill Don Hopkins?'

  He shook his head. Shook it, and kept shaking it, with the frantic and jerky movements of a child. I watched this for a while. I've dealt with many liars in my time, have been one myself for long periods. I have a good eye for it.

  Chip hadn't killed my father. At least, not personally.

  'Okay,' I said, before he broke his own neck. 'But I think you know something about what happened to him. Here's the deal. I want you to take a message. You going to do that for me?'

  He nodded. Blinked.

  'Tell the Nazis up in the mountains that someone is taking an interest in them. Tell them that I don't believe my parents died by accident, and that I will exact payment for what happened. Got that?'

  He nodded again. I let go of his head, opened the door, and climbed out into the rain.

  When I was standing outside I leaned down and looked at him. His mouth was downturned with fear and shock, blood running down his chin.

  I turned away with my hands shaking, and went to find someone human.

  Chapter 15

  Bobby was leaning against the counter in my parents' house, sipping a glass of mineral water. He glanced up when I walked in, watched me stand and drip on the floor. It had rained virtually the entire time I had been walking.

  'What have you done?' he asked mildly.

  'Nothing.'

  'Right,' he said, eventually. I took the glass and drank the remainder of the water in one swallow. Only when it was gone did I remember it had come from my parents' last shopping list.

  'Is there any more of that?'

  'A little,' he said.

  'Don't drink it.' I put the glass on the counter and sat down at the table. As an afterthought I took my coat off, almost as if I'd heard a voice warning me that I'd catch my death. Through the window I could see that Mary's sitting-room light was on. I hoped she didn't find out I was still in town. It would have looked rude that I hadn't dropped by. Then I realized that I was sitting in a house with several lights on and a car outside, and so she probably knew already. I wasn't thinking very clearly.

  Bobby waited, arms folded.

  'So,' I asked. 'How was your day?'

  'Come on, Ward,' he said irritably.

  I shook my head. He shrugged and let it go. 'I checked out the scene of the accident. Given the position of the car they ran into, it's entirely conceivable your mother could have simply screwed up the turn. It's kind of sharp, it was dark, and it was pretty misty by all accounts.'

  'Right,' I said, wearily. 'And she had only been driving for, like, forty years. Probably never come across a sharp turn before, never cro
ssed that junction in all the time they'd been living here. I guess the cranberry juice and the mist was just all too much for her. I see it all now. It's a miracle the car didn't flip clean over the first row of buildings and bounce all the way to the sea.'

  Bobby ignored me. 'There was a small gas station kitty-corner to the crash site, and a video rental a little further along the way. It goes without saying that neither of the guys I talked to were there the night of the accident. The video store is an independent run by two brothers. The one I talked to was certain that his brother hadn't known anything about it until he saw a police car arriving.'

  'He didn't hear the sound of one heavy metal object running into another, think maybe something might be afoot?'

  'You know what these places are like. Big old TV hung from the ceiling, John Woo movie playing ear-bleeding loud, guy behind the counter getting through the evening with beer and a joint the size of a burrito. Chances are you could have cracked him over the head with a hammer and he'd've barely blinked. So I went over to the gas station, and the guy gave me his manager's number. I called him and got the address of the guy on duty at the time.'

  'Telling him what?'

  'That I was assisting the police with their inquiries.'

  'Great,' I said. 'That's going to get the local PD right up my ass.'

  'Ward, who fucking cares?'

  'I'm not Agency any more, Bobby. Out here in the real world, the cops can do things to you.'

  Bobby flipped a hand, indicating this was a negligible concern. 'So I visited him. I confirmed that he saw nothing either. He heard a noise, but thought it was maybe someone dicking around at the back of the station. Dithered about calling the cops, and by the time he realized there'd been an accident outside and the station was safe, the police were already on the scene.'

  'Okay,' I said. I hadn't expected anything to come of Bobby looking into the crash, but he'd been insistent. 'So what else?'

  'So then, as agreed, I came here and looked around.'

  'Find anything?'

  He shook his head. 'Nope. Absolutely nothing.'

  'I told you.'

  'You did,' he snapped. 'You're not only handsome, Ward, you're always right. Man, I wish I was gay. I'd look no further. You're the best. So now you tell me something.'

  'The place in the first scene of the video is called The Halls, and it's up a gully off the Gallatin Valley. You have to be really very rich to join, and they won't even let you see the houses until you've proved you're good enough.'

  'The Halls? What kind of a name is that?'

  I breathed out heavily. 'I don't know. Maybe they're thinking of Valhalla. Maybe they believe they're gods. That much money, maybe they are.'

  'You're sure it's the one?'

  'There's no question. The lobby was exactly the same as the one from the video, right down to the artwork. It's the place. And they are very, very tight about letting people join.'

  'So how come you didn't put a call through?'

  'I did. Must be there's no signal out there. I did it with the phone in my pocket, so I couldn't tell.'

  'What was it like?'

  'Just swell. I didn't see any of the residents, except one guy briefly at the end and I didn't get a good look at him either. Basically if you've got the money and don't want to be bothered by standard-issue earthlings, then this is the place for you. I got a peek at the house plans, though, and these are not your average trophy homes. They got someone pretty good on the case, someone who had something specific in mind.'

  'Like what?'

  I took a pen from my pocket and sketched. 'Exploded layout. Main living spaces elevated over the terrain. Central fireplaces withdrawn to internal room edges. Stained glass on the windows opposite the fires, and in skylights over corridors. Hanging eaves, horizontal banding of windows, conspicuous terraces.'

  Bobby peered at the drawing. 'So? I tell you, my friend, that just sounds like a regular house to me.'

  'Lot of this has been incorporated into standard design now,' I agreed. 'But the way it was put together in these drawings was textbook Frank Lloyd Wright.'

  'So maybe they hired him.'

  'Unlikely. Unless they hired a medium, too.'

  'So they got someone who designs like him. There must be hundreds. Big deal.'

  'Probably. But this kind of stuff isn't fashionable these days, never has been for this kind of development. Usually it's oil baron staircases, master bedroom suites, and look-at-me aren't-I-rich.'

  'Sounds great.'

  'But artificial. In the beginning, the places where we lived were sculpted from natural environments, not constructed from scratch. That's why so much modern architecture feels barren: it makes no organic use of the site. Wright's houses were different. The entrance route is made complicated to symbolize a retreat to a known safe haven, and the fireplace is withdrawn into the centre of the structure to take the place of a fire in a deep cave. Spaces within the house flow to allow internal prospect as an ultimate defence, additionally suggesting the adaptation of a naturally created space. External windows are banded so the sight lines reveal the outside without compromising the inside. Stained glass evokes a wall of vegetation that the inhabitants can see through, but which presents a wall from without. Humans feel most comfortable when they've got both prospect and refuge—when they've got a good view of the terrain they inhabit, but also feel protected and hidden. That's what his patterns provide.'

  Bobby stared at me. 'You're an unusual man.'

  I shrugged, embarrassed. 'I listened in class. My point is, you find me another development in the world looks like this, I'll kiss your ass.'

  'Tempting, but I'm just going to take your word for it.'

  'It's probably one of the reasons they don't let people see the houses beforehand. It's not what they'd usually lay out their millions for. Which means they have to have some other reason for making them that way.'

  'So the developer's a Wright nut. Or they hired an architect who listened in class, too. I don't see how this leads anywhere, and I'd really like you to tell me what happened at the end.'

  'I lost it with the realtor.'

  'On site?'

  I shook my head. 'Give me some credit. Back in town. There was no one around.'

  'Is he dead?' The question was businesslike.

  'Christ, no.'

  'Why did you do this?'

  'I didn't like him. Plus there used to be two firms looking after The Halls. Now there's only one.'

  Bobby nodded, slowly. 'Your dad's firm being the one no longer on the case.'

  'You're a bright guy.'

  'I also take it, from the fact we're not discussing a homicide, that you don't think this realtor killed your folks. Despite the financial incentive.'

  I shook my head. 'Not personally. But he's in bed with people who did. Why else is there footage of this place on the tape?'

  Suddenly I was on my feet, walking quickly out of the kitchen. As I passed through the hall something tugged at me, but I couldn't work out what, so kept on going. Bobby followed me into the sitting room, where I went over to the coffee table.

  I picked up the book lying there, and waved it at him.

  'A book about the aforementioned great architect,' he said. 'So what? Your dad was a realtor. They're into houses. And an old guy. Old dudes really dig biographies. It's that and the Discovery Channel that keeps them going.'

  'Bobby…'

  'Okay,' he conceded. 'It's an interesting coincidence. Sort of.'

  I wandered back out into the hallway and then came to a halt again. I felt like I had an engine of activity inside me, turning over, ready to run—but having no idea what direction to go in. 'You tossed this place hard?'

  'I took carpet up, I went under floorboards, I went in the roof and shone a flashlight in the tank. I looked inside the phones. There's nothing else here. Of course—I can't tell what might be missing.'

  'Me neither,' I said. 'I didn't come here enough. The only thing I notice
d was the videos.' I frowned. 'Wait a second. When I was here the other day I put the mail here. Now it's gone.' I looked up at him, suddenly sure I was onto something.

  'Relax, detective. A couple hours ago an old guy picked it up. Beaky, said he used to be your folks' lawyer. I let him in, explained I was a friend of yours. He was cool about it, though he did look like he wanted to check how many spoons I'd stolen.'

  'Harold Davids,' I said. 'He said he'd keep coming by.'

  Bobby smiled. 'Ward, you got enough weirdness going on without looking for it. Stop being so paranoid.'

  We heard a loud shattering sound from the sitting room. We started moving, but not quickly enough.

  •••

  It's not so much a sound as a feeling of immense pressure, and as shocking as being a child smashed across the face by someone who's never hit you before. If you're close enough to an explosion, what you're mainly aware of is the thud of your head and chest, an impact that turns any noise into a deep sensation, a feeling that the world itself has been knocked out of its path. The sound itself seems secondary, as if you're hearing it days afterward.

  It seemed like I hit the wall immediately, hard, and smacked face-first into a row of pictures. As I hit the ground, my head full of white light and surrounded by falling glass, there was another, quieter explosion, and then I was hauling Bobby off the floor and toward the remains of the front door.

  We careered down the path together, slipping and falling on the wet flagstones. There was another detonation behind us, much louder than the first. This time I heard the whistle and fizz of things flying around me, the whupp-a of air compressed and released. Bobby kept scrabbling forward, using his hands to keep us moving. I screwed up his efforts by turning to look back at the house, and we tangled and ended up skidding flat on our backs on the wet grass. The whole of the outer wall of the sitting room was gone, and the interior was already beginning to burn. I couldn't take my eyes off it. When you see a house on fire it's like watching the burning effigy of someone's soul, like seeing the grave work of worms writ sixty feet tall.