reached for my iPod and inched my way along in the gathering darkness to the original Broadway cast recording of South Pacific with Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza. Took the Hutch to 684, which led me into the northern exurbs of Armonk, Mount Kisco and Croton Falls. By the time I was closing in on Brewster, I was getting bleary-eyed. I needed to stretch my legs, too. Pulled off at a big highway rest station there and went inside for a cup of what they alleged to be fresh-brewed gourmet blend coffee. I milled around the fast food court and sipped it, eyes wide open. I’d had a bad feeling ever since I’d left Manhattan. The same feeling I’d had last night in Willoughby. I sensed I was being tailed. Not that I’d spotted anyone. But I still felt a tickle on the back of my neck. And I’ve learned to respect that tickle.
I got back on the road. At Brewster I picked up Interstate 84, which took me over the state line into Connecticut—where I understand the age of consent is sixteen. I got off the highway at Danbury and relied on Rita’s coordinates to navigate me through the narrow, twisting back roads to Candlewood Lake. The roadsides were banked high with plowed snow. It was desolate and pitch black out. I put my high beams on and kept them on. Absolutely no one else was out on the road. For sure not on my tail.
I couldn’t see the lake as I made my way around it. All I saw out there was blackness. Almost all of the lake houses were dark. City folk used them as summer places mostly. During the winter hardly anyone was around, particularly in the middle of the week. Just an occasional light revealed the million-dollar waterfront homes that were nestled there.
A quaint wooden sign at the edge of the driveway marked the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake Road. It was a circular driveway that was plowed regularly. The snow banks were piled at least three feet high. But it hadn’t been plowed since yesterday. Two or three inches of fresh snow blanketed the driveway. A black Honda CR-V with New York plates was parked there under that same blanket of snow. It was Bruce’s black Honda CR-V, according to the plate numbers. Apparently, he hadn’t gone out today. I pulled in behind his car and got out.
Lights were blazing inside of the Warfield house, which was a nice old shingled cottage that looked as if it had been added on to about six times. A glass-walled great room looked out over the frozen lake. Floodlights gleamed off of the pure white snow cover that sloped down to their dock. The snug guest cottage that Chris had lent Bruce was next to the dock. Footsteps in the snow led down to it. Lights were on inside. Wood smoke came from its stone chimney. It smelled good in the frigid country still of night.
I tromped my way down there. The cottage’s front door was half open. I could hear the television blaring inside. Bruce was watching the Canterbury-Syracuse game. Syracuse was ahead 42-38 with less than a minute to go in the first half.
“Bruce, my name’s Benji Golden!” I called out. “Sara asked me to stop by!”
He didn’t answer me. I heard no response. Just the ball game on the TV.
I glanced around, wondering if he’d gone up to the main house for firewood or whatever. I called out his name again. Again I heard nothing. I pushed the cottage door farther open—or tried to. It wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder. Stuck my head through the open doorway to find out why.
I found out why.
Bruce lay on the floor just inside the doorway in the fetal position with his eyes wide open. He’d been shot three times—twice in the chest, once in the forehead. The entry wounds were just like the ones I’d found once in a fifteen-year-old runaway from Raleigh named Jennie Faries. The weapon that made those wounds had been her pimp’s Glock 9-mm semi-automatic handgun.
He was still warm. Still bleeding out onto the hooked rug. It had just happened. Within the past ten minutes someone had pulled in, shot Bruce Weiner
I got back on the road. At Brewster I picked up Interstate 84, which took me over the state line into Connecticut—where I understand the age of consent is sixteen. I got off the highway at Danbury and relied on Rita’s coordinates to navigate me through the narrow, twisting back roads to Candlewood Lake. The roadsides were banked high with plowed snow. It was desolate and pitch black out. I put my high beams on and kept them on. Absolutely no one else was out on the road. For sure not on my tail.
I couldn’t see the lake as I made my way around it. All I saw out there was blackness. Almost all of the lake houses were dark. City folk used them as summer places mostly. During the winter hardly anyone was around, particularly in the middle of the week. Just an occasional light revealed the million-dollar waterfront homes that were nestled there.
A quaint wooden sign at the edge of the driveway marked the Warfield place on Candlewood Lake Road. It was a circular driveway that was plowed regularly. The snow banks were piled at least three feet high. But it hadn’t been plowed since yesterday. Two or three inches of fresh snow blanketed the driveway. A black Honda CR-V with New York plates was parked there under that same blanket of snow. It was Bruce’s black Honda CR-V, according to the plate numbers. Apparently, he hadn’t gone out today. I pulled in behind his car and got out.
Lights were blazing inside of the Warfield house, which was a nice old shingled cottage that looked as if it had been added on to about six times. A glass-walled great room looked out over the frozen lake. Floodlights gleamed off of the pure white snow cover that sloped down to their dock. The snug guest cottage that Chris had lent Bruce was next to the dock. Footsteps in the snow led down to it. Lights were on inside. Wood smoke came from its stone chimney. It smelled good in the frigid country still of night.
I tromped my way down there. The cottage’s front door was half open. I could hear the television blaring inside. Bruce was watching the Canterbury-Syracuse game. Syracuse was ahead 42-38 with less than a minute to go in the first half.
“Bruce, my name’s Benji Golden!” I called out. “Sara asked me to stop by!”
He didn’t answer me. I heard no response. Just the ball game on the TV.
I glanced around, wondering if he’d gone up to the main house for firewood or whatever. I called out his name again. Again I heard nothing. I pushed the cottage door farther open—or tried to. It wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder. Stuck my head through the open doorway to find out why.
I found out why.
Bruce lay on the floor just inside the doorway in the fetal position with his eyes wide open. He’d been shot three times—twice in the chest, once in the forehead. The entry wounds were just like the ones I’d found once in a fifteen-year-old runaway from Raleigh named Jennie Faries. The weapon that made those wounds had been her pimp’s Glock 9-mm semi-automatic handgun.
He was still warm. Still bleeding out onto the hooked rug. It had just happened. Within the past ten minutes someone had pulled in, shot Bruce Weiner
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