The Guardians(50)

I call Bruce Gilmer’s office number and get voice mail. I’ll pester him today and tomorrow, then leave town. I can’t see making this journey again. Future conversations will be by phone, if they happen at all.

I find a library in Ketchum and make myself at home. I have a stack of materials to read, including Guardian’s assessment of a potential new client in North Carolina. Joey Barr has spent seven years in prison for a rape he claims he didn’t do. His victim agrees. Both have sworn that their relations were completely consensual. Joey is black, the girl white, and when they were seventeen they were caught in bed by her father, a rough character. He pressured her to file charges, point the finger and keep doing so until Joey was convicted by an all-white jury. The girl’s mother, who had divorced the girl’s father and despised the man, took up Joey’s cause after he was sent away. Mother and daughter have spent the past five years trying to convince the appellate courts and anyone else who might listen that Joey is innocent.

Such is the nature of my daily reading. I haven’t had the luxury of finishing a novel in years.

The brain trust at Guardian believes that we are about to walk Duke Russell out of prison, so it’s time to think about reloading our docket.

I’m in a quiet reading room on the main floor of the Ketchum public library, with papers strewn about a small table, as if I own the place, when my phone vibrates. Bruce is getting off work and wants to talk.

He drives a golf cart along an asphalt path and we wind around the course. It’s busy, with golfers hacking away on a perfect cloudless day. He stops on a ridge overlooking a gorgeous fairway and puts on the brake.

“Just beautiful,” I say, absorbing the mountains in the distance.

“You play?” he asks.

“No. Never have. I assume you have a low handicap.”

“At one time, yes, but not so much now. Not enough time. A round takes four hours and it’s hard to squeeze it in. I talked to my lawyer this morning. He’s down there on the tenth green.”

“What did he have to say?” I ask.

“Not much. Here’s the deal, Post. I’m not going to say anything that might get me involved, not that I know anything to begin with. I’m not signing an affidavit and I’ll ignore any subpoena. No court in Florida can touch me anyway.”

“I’m not asking for any of that.”

“Good. You said you wanted to talk about the night we were ambushed. How much do you know?”

“We have a copy of the file from the Florida state police. Freedom of Information stuff. So we know the basics, know what you said to the investigators.”

“Good. I didn’t tell them everything, as you might guess. I got nicked in the shoulder and was in the hospital for a couple of days before I talked to anyone. Had time to think. You see, Post, I’m sure Pfitzner set up the ambush and sent us in. I’m sure Kenny was the target, but they also tried to kill me too, and they would have but I got lucky.”

“Lucky?”

He holds up a hand as if to say, “Hang on.”

“It was a narrow gravel road with thick woods on both sides. Very dark, three a.m. We got hit from both sides and the rear, so there were several bad boys with guns. Man, it was awful. We were riding along having a laugh, not too worried about anything, and in a flash the rear window got blown out, bullets were popping through the side windows, all hell broke loose. I don’t remember stopping the car but I did, slammed it in park, then slid out the door and into a ditch, bullets smacking my door and ricocheting everywhere. I heard Kenny when he got hit. Back of the head. I had my service revolver loaded and cocked, but it was pitch black. As suddenly as it started, it stopped. I could hear men moving in the woods. The thugs were not leaving. They were getting closer. I peeked through some weeds, saw a silhouette, and fired. Nailed him. I was a good shot, Post, back in the day. He screamed and yelled something, and, Post, it was not in Spanish. No sir. I know a cracker when I hear one, and that poor bastard grew up within fifty miles of Seabrook. They suddenly had a problem—a badly wounded comrade, maybe even a dead one. He needed help but where could they go? Wasn’t my problem, really. But they backed off, retreated, vanished in the woods. I waited and waited and noticed blood on my left arm. After a few minutes, could’ve been five, could’ve been thirty, I crawled around the car and found Kenny. What a mess. Bullet entered from the rear, exit wound took half of his face. Killed instantly. He was also hit in the torso several times. I got his gun, crawled along the ditch for twenty or so feet, made a little nest, and dug in. I listened for a long time and heard nothing but the sounds of the night. No moon, nothing but blackness. According to the dispatcher’s log, I called in at 4:02, said we’d been ambushed. Kenny was dead. Pfitzner was the first one there, which seemed really odd. Just like he was the first one at Russo’s office.”

“He was probably in the woods directing things,” I say.

“Probably so. They took me to the hospital and treated my wound, nothing bad. Just got grazed. But I asked for some meds and they knocked me out. I told the doctors I didn’t want to talk to anyone for a day or two and they protected me. When Pfitzner finally came in, along with the State boys, I didn’t tell the part about nailing one of the thugs, a dude whose mother tongue was definitely not Spanish.”

“Why not?”

“Pfitzner wanted both of us dead, Post. He wanted to eliminate Kenny because Kenny knew something, and since I was along for the ride it was necessary to rub me out too. Couldn’t run the risk of leaving behind a witness. Think about that, Post. A sheriff elected by the people and trusted by the entire community sends two of his men into an ambush with the plan to get both of them killed. That’s Bradley Pfitzner.”