The Ghost of Blackwood Lane Page 22

  Mike put the cards away, turned off Letterman in the middle of his interview with some Hollywood director, and went to sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

  Chapter 35

  Shotgun got the word early on Saturday morning, and he knew immediately what it meant.

  His three top men had died on Friday: two in car wrecks and another gunned down in his own living room. Two other men had gone missing—he could only assume they were dead or dying.

  The Lucianos were making their move. It was only a matter of time before someone came for him.

  Shotgun didn’t even take the time to pack—he grabbed a few important things from one of his houses and threw them into a bag along with several dozen thick stacks of cash, all hundreds banded together with rubber bands. The money would get him pretty far.

  The Lucianos were serious. The best course of action would be to take as much of the profit he had gained over the past few years as he could and start again somewhere else. He hated to give up like that, but people he trusted and liked were getting killed, and there was no way he could mount an offensive quickly.

  Shotgun looked up to see Willie B, his number two man, come into the room, carrying his own suitcase and pulling on a jacket.

  “How much you got there?” Shotgun asked him.

  Willie B. hefted a big suitcase with one hand, and Shotgun saw the muscle stand out on the man’s arm. “About $320,000—mostly cash, but some diamonds from that deal last year. I have more in the car, but that’s all I had stashed at my house and the club. There’s more at some of my men’s places, but I don’t think we have time.”

  “Nah, we gotta go now,” Shotgun said, shaking his head. “I’ve got about a million four, I think. Between the two of us, we’ll be fine. LA, you think?”

  “Yeah, I like that.” Willie B. agreed. “I’ve got friends out there, and with this kind of money we could get set up fast. Or regroup, and come back at the Lucianos. But...well, I heard something, boss. Something you should hear.”

  Shotgun stopped packing wads of cash into the second duffel bag and looked at him. “What?”

  Willie B. set his bag down on the bed. “One of my guys said he heard about a huge Luciano buy tonight. Supposedly they’re buying from D.W. at the dock, by the riverboats.”

  “Here?”

  Willie nodded. “Yeah, right under our noses. I guess they figure we’ll all be gone or dead by tonight, so they’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  Shotgun sat down. This could be an opportunity, or it could be a trap. “How well do we know him—whoever you heard this from? Is he one of ours, or a new guy?”

  Willie shook his head. “No, I’ve known Jackie a while—he helped out with that Collinsville stuff last year.” When some local kids in Collinsville had decided to get into the pot growing and selling business, some of Shotgun’s men had had to talk with them. Two broken legs had convinced them. “Jackie said he heard it from a good source—all of the Lucianos’ money is riding on the deal. They’re making one big buy that’s supposed to last them three or four months.”

  Shotgun did the calculations in his head. “At least a hundred pounds. More like a hundred and twenty.”

  “More like one fifty—they’re still undercutting our prices, so they need more product. Of course they’ll raise the prices after we’re gone, but until then, they’ll need more from their source.”

  “Yup, you’re right,” Shotgun said, wondering how to exploit this. The Lucianos were either going to hit him soon or assume he left town—either way, if he dropped out of sight they would assume he was gone. If he could get a few good people together and plan something….

  “Well, boss,” Willie B. said, smiling. “It’s good to see you planning instead of packing. Makes me feel better about things.”

  Shotgun stood and walked over, slapping his friend of more than ten years on the back. “No problem, man. We just might come out of this thing looking good.”

  Chapter 36

  Gary and Mike were sitting at a booth next to the windows, enjoying breakfast on Saturday morning. They were in the small restaurant that was attached to their motel by a glassed-in walkway, and Gary was staring out the window, wondering what to do next.

  He distracted himself by studying the walkway that connected the two buildings. Gary had always been fascinated with architecture, and he loved to see surprising buildings or interesting features in otherwise-normal structures. Whoever planned this motel/restaurant/bar had put some thought into it, the first sign of good architecture—they had tried to consider the wants and needs of the people who would be staying in the motel or eating at the restaurant. Careful planning showed through into good design—the connecting corridor made it easier for motel guests to grab a meal during a snowstorm or rainstorm.

  And he remembered the weather here—it was always changing. In Los Angeles, it was always 72 and hazy—he’d heard that being a meteorologist in LA was something of a running joke. Did they ever even change the map on the nightly weather report?

  Here it was different—the weather was a changeable entity with a mind of its own. People actually checked the weather before heading out on a cold winter’s day, or glanced at the dark sky to determine if they could reach their destination before a rainstorm hit. The winters were mild, but occasionally brutal—he vaguely remembered getting snowed in on one occasion. He and his father had climbed out of a second-story window, sliding down a snowdrift to dig out the front door of his parents’ home.

  Gary wished he could relax in this restaurant and enjoy a meal with snow coming down outside in winter, knowing that you could enjoy the weather and still take the connecting glass hallway back to the motel.

  But he felt exposed—his father had said over and over not to return to St. Louis, though he’d never clued Gary in on the true reasons for the warnings. “There are people back there that will remember you, Gary,” his stepmother had said only a few nights ago on the phone, after he’d seen the picture for the first time. “They’ll remember you and your father and the trial. It’s dangerous—very dangerous—for you to go back there. But if you do, keep a low profile.”

  Gary remembered that she was quiet for a long moment, and then she’d added, “Your father would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

  “Seriously!” Mike exclaimed, pulling Gary from his thoughts. Mike was pointing his fork at the half-eaten stack of huge pancakes in front of him. “What do they put in these to make them so good?”

  “Butter,” Gary answered, smiling. “Lots of it.”

  Mike nodded and went back to eating. Gary had to admit that the pancakes and eggs were excellent. Mike had commented several times on how much better the food was “back here,” and how nice everyone was. Somehow, it all made Gary strangely happy—this was where he was from, where he had learned his moral code, learned how to treat people. He felt a strange pride to be back in his element, even if he’d forgotten most of it.

  And Mike had probably never really enjoyed home-cooked meals—he and his family were all from LA. Dinnertime was for being seen at a fancy restaurant or waiting for the personal chef to finish braising his rabbit, not for meals with friends and family around a rowdy table covered with homemade dishes and mismatched silverware.

  After the meal, Gary headed back to the room to get ready—he didn’t really need to do anything else to prep, but he was simply delaying the inevitable. Mike went to the motel’s front counter to book the room for another night—they were using his credit cards to pay for everything, just to be safe.

  As Gary brushed his teeth, he wondered at what they should do first—he’d really only thought things out to this point. He had no plan going forward. He needed to look into his past, but in a way that didn’t alert any of the wrong people or send his mind off into a pain coma.

  And Gary had to find her.

  Was she okay? Was she even living in the area, or had she moved on long ago, forgetting all about him? His mind slid away fro
m remembering her too intently—every thought of her was accompanied by the beginnings of a headache. But he’d been working around the memory, trying to picture them together or thinking about the prom or trying to remember the birthday party depicted in the photograph.

  But Gary was here now, in O’Fallon, and he needed to get out there—he just wasn’t sure where to go first. He felt like Frodo at the Council of Elrond. “I will take the ring to Mordor. But I do not know the way.”

  When Mike returned, keys in hand, Gary asked if they could start out slow by driving around O’Fallon. He wanted to remember more about the town and his years here before he started talking to people.

  They climbed into the rental and headed up U.S. Highway 50, away from the Interstate and into O’Fallon.

  Everything looked familiar—the intervening years had not changed the complexion of the town much, but there were new things along with the old. Near the highway and the motel was a smattering of new stores and restaurants, including a Sam’s Club, a Jack in the Box, and a giant Wal-Mart. He had worked for several years at a Western Sizzlin’ Steak House that had been located near the highway, but now it was a Chinese buffet. There was a new Quality Inn located behind the restaurant in what had been a field where his coworkers had taken their smoke breaks. The large open field next door had been suddenly replaced by a new strip mall and a Taco Bell.

  He felt like Marty McFly from Back to the Future—it seemed as though had somehow traveled into the future of his long-forgotten hometown, and all the familiar landmarks, although still there, had been joined by flying car dealerships and new stores and new everything. It was a little dizzying.

  As Mike drove away from the congestion of the highway overpass and closer to O’Fallon, things began to look more familiar. There were differences, surely, that he was not recognizing, but the overall look and feel of the small town was the same as what he saw in his emerging memories. He saw a new Sonic Drive-in, and another new strip mall with a CVS.

  As they approached the intersection of State Street and Lincoln Avenue, he saw the Bank of O’Fallon and remembered getting a savings account there—he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, but he remembered how his father had stressed the importance of keeping track of his money. Gary smiled at the memory of his father, ever the accountant, trying to explain the concept of interest to an eight-year-old.

  Across the street from the bank were a BP gas station, another large strip mall that he easily remembered, and other shops and buildings that flanked the busiest intersection in town.

  “Where to?” Mike asked as they stopped at the red light.

  Gary had a sudden thought. “Turn right.”

  The main portions of O’Fallon were to the north and east, but Gary had asked Mike to turn south, into a residential area.

  As Mike drove the car and Gary directed him, Gary started to grow more and more nervous. Soon, they reached their destination on Dartmouth Street.

  The house was still there.

  “Just stop here for a minute,” Gary said, pointing at the curb in front of a squat suburban house. Gary stared at another house, two doors down and on the opposite side of the street.

  “What are we looking at?” Mike asked after a long couple of minutes.

  Gary pointed at the two-story home on Dartmouth Drive.

  “That’s where I grew up,” he said quietly. “My father told me it had burned down.”

  Mike nodded, not saying anything.

  Gary looked at the home—it had seemed so large when he was growing up, one of the few two-story homes on the southern side of the street. On the outside, it looked exactly as it had the day his mother had died, the last day he’d seen it.

  Gary pointed at the street in front of the house.

  “That’s where my mother died. She was parked at the curb and I walked down the driveway and dropped my hat. I remember stopping and picking it up, and then I looked at her and was shrugging—I thought she might be mad because I was delaying her. And then the car just exploded.”

  Gary looked for burn or scorch marks on the road—there was nothing. Even if they had ever been there, they had been paved over a long time ago.

  Mike didn’t say anything, and Gary was glad for that, glad for the long moments of silence that his good friend was giving him—time to process, time to grieve.

  Gary glanced back at the house—there was a new family living there, and he had a sudden urge to knock on their door and ask for a tour.

  “You okay?” Mike asked.

  Gary glanced at him, nodding.

  “Yeah, it’s just weird. I’ve thought about that day a lot lately, and about my mom. It’s strange—thinking about her doesn’t cause any headaches. So it seems that my memories have been selectively altered. But I wonder why those were left in there and other stuff was taken out. I mean, if you could prevent a teenager from having to relive watching his mother die, wouldn’t you?”

  Mike shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s strange to hypnotize you to change your name—to make you think you have a new name, to be more precise—and then leave such a painful memory.”

  After a few more minutes, Gary was ready to go, and he gave Mike directions back to the main intersection where they had turned.

  When they got to the Bank of O’Fallon, he had Mike turn right. “Straight up Main to the high school, then left. I’ll tell you where.”

  He tried to put the memories of his mother out of his mind and concentrate on the drive. This was the part of O’Fallon he remembered—Southview Plaza, with the Dollar General and the Ace Hardware. There was Ice Cream Haven, an outdoor ice cream stand where he remembered getting treats and ice cream with his mother.

  Gary saw that the McDonalds, which had been on the corner behind the BP, had moved down and across the street. He saw the squat Hardees restaurant and suddenly remembered that he’d worked there and been fired from there—that had not been pleasant. There was a strange smattering of old and new—old shops he remembered, and new names on old places, and completely new buildings—he smiled when he saw that O’Fallon had even managed to get its own Starbucks.

  As they continued east on U.S. 50, there was an a large open area up on the left—O’Fallon Community Park, where he’d spent many summer days at Little League games or playing on the equipment.

  “Something going on?” Mike asked.

  Gary followed his eyes and saw that a good portion of the park was taken up with some type of carnival—inflatable rides and cotton candy booths were set up in the center of the park, along with a Ferris wheel and other rides.

  “Oh, it must be Mayfest weekend—it’s the big fair they have here, once a year. Rides and greasy food and 4-H displays. That’s cool that it’s this weekend—I could use a funnel cake and some fun.”

  “What’s 4-H? Is that like a car show?” Mike asked.

  Gary just looked at him and laughed.

  They continued on to the east and turned on Smiley Drive, the road that ran in front of the high school.

  The high school sat on the east side of town, almost on the edge of the township’s city limits, and as Mike drove the car slowly past, the faces of old friends and teachers drifted back into his mind like specters from his past. Their names came more slowly, but seeing the outside of the school, the parking lot, the baseball and football fields that separated the school itself from the main road, all reminded him of events long past. There was a line of Bradford pear trees that grew along the road in front of the school, and he noticed how much they had grown in the years since he had been here.

  He remembered once wearing a silly apron and walking down the streets near the school, throwing candy to people lining the streets on both sides. It was a parade of some type, probably homecoming, and he had been walking with other students, keeping pace with a float in front of them. It wasn’t really a float, but more like a small town’s impression of a float—a big, vaguely clam-shaped lump of wood and chicken wire that had been covered wit
h bright blue and gold crepe paper and bunting. On the back of the trailer had been a large banner that read “Crush the Clams,” the mascot of the team they’d be playing in the homecoming game. The memories edged the borders of his mind like forgotten friends. He gave directions quietly, guiding Mike on a tour through the town, but in his mind he was experiencing a tour of a long-hazy past.

  Mike drove the car up Smiley and through the old section of O’Fallon, and Gary remembered the shops and the restaurants and the smaller branch of the city library. It occupied a small corner site that looked onto the narrow central intersection of the old town, and he remembered that the clock, mounted on the corner of the building and sticking out two feet from the bricks, was often the victim of damage from turning trucks as they tried to negotiate the tight corner.

  It was funny to see the clock still there, although it looked like it needed repairs, but it was still keeping time, still ticking along as if the idea of replacing it or taking it down had never even occurred to anyone. As they approached the library, he saw that it had become the O’Fallon Historical Society—he might have to come back here if he couldn’t track down anything about his past. Maybe going back through the old newspapers would help. But what had happened to the library? They probably had built a new location somewhere in the intervening ten years.

  Gary had a sudden inspiration.

  “Turn left here, then go over the train tracks and make a right on First Street,” he told Mike.

  Mike followed his directions and turned into a strip of shops that faced the train tracks and the back of the Historical Society. On one side of the parking lot was a large red train caboose—Gary had never really understood what the point of it was, other than to perhaps celebrate the town’s rail heritage. But they weren’t coming to look at the train—he was crossing his fingers, hoping that one of his childhood memories would somehow remain intact.

  Wood Bakery, a small shop located in the strip mall, was still there, the red sign and the brick exterior and the big, inviting windows. The memories of warm cookies, pastries, and amazing chocolate-iced brownies flooded his mind. The smells came to him the moment he saw the sign. He directed Mike to park in front and sat back and looked at the place, remembering.