Keller in Shining Armor

When the phone rang, Keller was just finishing up the Times crossword puzzle. It looked as though this was going to be one of those days when he was able to fill in all the squares. That happened more often than not, but once or twice a week he'd come a cropper. A Brazilian tree in four letters would intersect with a down under marsupial in five, and he would be stumped.

He put down his pencil and picked up the phone, and Dot said, ''Keller, I haven't seen you in ages.''

''I'll be right over,'' he said and broke the connection. She was right, he thought, she hadn't seen him in ages, and it was about time he paid a visit to White Plains. The old man hadn't given him work in months, and you could get rusty just sitting around with nothing better to do than crossword puzzles.

There was still plenty of money. Keller lived well--a good apartment on First Avenue with a view of the Queensboro Bridge, nice clothes, decent restaurants. But no one had ever taken him for a drunken sailor, and in fact he tended to squirrel away money, stuffing it in safe-deposit boxes, opening savings accounts under other names. If a rainy day came along, he had an umbrella at hand.

Still, just because you had Blue Cross didn't mean you couldn't wait to get sick.

''Good boy,'' he told Nelson, reaching to scratch the dog behind the ears. ''You wait right here. Guard the house, huh?''

He had the door open when the phone rang. Let it ring? No, better answer it.

Dot again. ''Keller,'' she said, ''did you hang up on me?''

''I thought you were done.''

''Why would you think that? I said hello, not goodbye.''

''You didn't say hello. You said you hadn't seen me in ages.''

''That's closer to hello than goodbye. Well, let it go. The important thing is I caught you before you left the house.''

''Just,'' he said. ''I had one foot out the door.''

''I'd have called back right away,'' she said, ''but I had a hell of a time getting quarters. You ask for change of a dollar around here, people look at you like you've got a hidden agenda.''

Quarters? What did she need with quarters?

''I'll tell you what,'' she said. ''There's this little Italian place about four blocks from you called Giusèppe Joe's. Don't ask me what street it's on.''

''I know where it is.''

''They've got tables set up outside under the awning. It's a beautiful spring day. Why don't you take your dog for a walk, swing by Giusèppe Joe's. See if there's anybody there you recognize.''

•

''So this is the famous Nelson,'' Dot said. ''He's a handsome devil, isn't he? I think he likes me.''

''The only person he doesn't like,'' Keller said, ''is the delivery boy for the Chinese restaurant.''

''It's probably the MSG.''

''He barks at him, and Nelson almost never barks. The breed is part dingo, and that makes him the silent type.''

''Nelson the Wonder Dog. What's the matter, Nelson? Don't you like moo shoo pork?'' She gave the dog a pat. ''I thought he'd be bigger. An Australian cattle dog, and you think how big sheepdogs are, and cows are bigger than sheep, etc., etc. But he's just the right size.''

If he hadn't come looking for her, Keller might not have recognized Dot. He'd never seen her away from the old man's house on Taunton Place, where she'd always lounged around in a Mother Hubbard or a housedress. This afternoon she wore a tailored suit and she'd done something to her hair. She looked like a suburban matron, Keller thought, in town on a shopping spree.

''He thinks I'm shopping for summer clothes,'' she said, as if reading his mind. ''I shouldn't be here at all, Keller.''

''Oh?''

''I've been doing things that I shouldn't do,'' she said. ''Idle hands and all that. What about you, Keller? Been a long dry spell. What have your idle hands been up to?''

Keller looked at his hands. ''Nothing much,'' he said.

''How are you fixed for dough?''

''I'll get by.''

''You wouldn't mind work, though.''

''No, of course not.''

''That's why you couldn't wait to hang up on me and hop on a train.'' She drank some iced tea and wrinkled her nose. ''Two bucks a glass for this crap and they make it from a mix. You wonder why I don't come to the city often? It's nice, though, sitting at an outside table like this.''

''Pleasant.''

''You probably do this all the time. Walk the dog, pick up a newspaper, stop and have a cup of coffee. While away the hours. Right?''

''Sometimes.''

''You're patient, Keller, I'll give you that. I take all day to come to the point and you sit there like you've got nothing better to do. But in a way that's the whole point, isn't it? You don't have anything better to do, and neither do I.''

''Sometimes there's no work,'' he said. ''If nothing comes in----''

''Things have been coming in.''

''Oh?''

''I'm not here, you never saw me and we never had this conversation. Do you understand?''

''Understood.''

''I don't know what's the matter with him, Keller. He's going through something, and I don't know what it is. It's like he's lost his taste for it. There have been calls, people with work that would have been right up your alley. He tells them no. He tells them that he hasn't got anybody available at the moment. He tells them to call somebody else.''

''Does he say why?''

''Sure, there's always a reason. This one he doesn't want to deal with, that one won't pay enough, the other one, something doesn't sound kosher about it. I know of three jobs he's turned down since the first of the year.''

''No kidding.''

''And who knows what came in that I don't know about?''

''I wonder what's wrong.''

''I figure it'll pass,'' she said. ''But who knows when? So I did something crazy.''

''Oh?''

''Don't laugh, all right?''

''I won't.''

''You familiar with a magazine called Mercenary Times?''

''Like Soldier of Fortune,'' he said.

''Like it, but more homemade and reckless.'' She drew a copy from her handbag, handed it to him. ''Page 47. It's circled, you can't miss it.''

It was in the classifieds, under Situations Wanted, circled in red Magic Marker. Odd Jobs Wanted, he read. Removals a specially. Write to Toxic Waste, P.O. Box 1149, Yonkers, NY.

He said, ''Toxic Waste?''

''That may have been a mistake,'' she acknowledged. ''I thought it sounded good, cold, lethal and up to here with attitude. I got a couple of letters from people with chemicals to dump and swamps to drain, who wanted someone to help them do an end run around the environmentalists. Plus I managed to get myself on some damn mailing list where I get invitations to subscribe to waste management newsletters.''

''But that's not all you got.''

''It's not, because I also got half a dozen letters from people who knew what kind of removals I had in mind. I was wondering what kind of idiot would answer a blind ad like that, and they were about what you would expect. I burned five of them.''

''And the sixth?''

''Was neatly typed,'' she said, ''on printed letterhead, if you please. And written in English, God help us. But here, read it yourself.''

'''Cressida Wallace, 411 Fairview Avenue, Muscatine, Iowa 52761. Dear Sir or----'''

''Not out loud, Keller.''

Dear Sir or Madam, he read. I can only hope the removal service you provide is of the sort I require. If so, I am in urgent need of your services. My name is Cressida Wallace and I am a 41-year-old author and illustrator of books for children. I have been divorced for 15 years and have no children.

While my life was never dramatically exciting, I have always found fulfillment in my work and quiet satisfaction in my personal life. Then, four years ago, a stranger began to transform my life into a living hell.

I will simply state that I have become the innocent target of a stalker. Why this man singled me out is quite unfathomable to me. I am neither a talk show host nor a teenage tennis champion. While presentable, I am by no means a raving beauty. I had never met him, nor had I done anything to arouse his interest or his ill will. Yet he will not leave me alone.

He parks his car across the street and watches my house through binoculars. He follows me when I leave the house. He calls me at all hours. I have long since stopped answering the phone, but this does not stop him from leaving horribly obscene and threatening messages on my answering machine.

I was living in Missouri when this began, in a suburb of St. Louis. I have moved four times, and each time he has managed to find me. I cannot tell you how many times I have changed my telephone number. He always manages to find out my new unlisted number: I don't know how. Perhaps he has a confederate at the telephone company. . . .

He read the letter on through to the end. There had been a perceptible escalation in the harassment, she reported. The stalker had begun telling her he would kill her and had taken to describing the manner in which he intended to do so. He had on several occasions broken into her house in her absence. He had stolen undergarments from the clothes hamper, slashed a painting and used her lipstick to write an obscene message on the wall. He had performed various acts of minor vandalism on her car. After one invasion of her home, she'd bought a dog; a week later she'd returned home to find the dog missing. Not long afterward there was a message on her answering machine. No human speech, just a lot of barking and yipping and whimpering, ending with what she took to be a gunshot.

''Jesus,'' Keller said.

''The dog, right? I figured that would get to you.''

The police inform me there is nothing they (continued on page 90) Keller (continued from page 84) can do, she continued. In two different states I obtained orders of protection, but what good does that do? He violates then at will and with apparent impunity. The police are powerless to act until he commits a crime. He has committed several but has never left sufficient evidence for them to proceed. The messages on my answering machine do not constitute evidence because he has some way of distorting his voice. Sometimes he changes his voice to that of a woman. The first time he did this I picked up the phone and said hello when I heard a female voice, sure that it was not him. The next thing I knew his awful voice was sounding in my ear, accusing me of horrible acts and promising me torture and death.

At a policeman's off-the-record suggestion, I bought a gun. Given the chance, I would shoot this man without a moment's hesitation. But when the attack comes, will I have the gun at hand? I doubt it. I feel certain he will choose his opportunity carefully and come upon me when I am helpless.

No doubt you could use this letter as an instrument of extortion. I can say only that you would be wasting your time. I won't pay blackmail. And if you are some sort of policeman and this ad is some sort of ''sting''--well, sting away! I don't care.

If you are what you imply yourself to be, please call me at the following number. It is unlisted, but it is already well known to my adversary. Identify yourself with the phrase ''toxic waste.'' I'll pick up if I'm at home. If I don't, simply ring off and call back later.

I am not wealthy, but I have had some success in my profession. I have saved my money and invested wisely. I will pay anything within my means to whomever will rid me forever of this diabolical man.

He folded the letter, returned it to its envelope and handed it across the table.

''Well, Keller?''

''You call her?''

''First I went to the library,'' Dot said. ''She's real. Has a whole lot of books for young readers. Writes them, draws the pictures herself. How the Bunny Lost His Ears, that kind of thing.''

''How did he lose his ears?''

''I didn't read the books, Keller, I just made sure they existed. Then I looked her up in a kind of Who's Who for authors. It had her old address in St. Louis. Then I went home and watched the old man work on a jigsaw puzzle. That's his favorite thing these days, jigsaw puzzles. When he's done with them, he glues cardboard to the back and mounts them on the wall like trophies.''

''How long has he been doing that?''

''Long enough,'' she said. ''I went downstairs and put on the TV, and the next day I went out to a pay phone and called Muscatine. I looked that up, too, while I was at the library. It's on the Mississippi.''

''Everything has to be someplace.''

''Well, what do you think so far, Keller? Tell me.''

He reached down and scratched the dog. ''I think it's asking for trouble,'' he said. ''Guy goes down, they pick her up before the body's cold. She's got to sing like a songbird. I mean, she told us everything and we didn't even ask.''

''Agreed. She'll fold the minute they knock on her door.''

''So?''

''So she can't know anything,'' Dot said. ''Can't tell what she doesn't know, right? That's the first thing I said to her, after I said 'toxic waste' and she picked up the phone. I laid it out for her. No names, no pack drill, I said. I told her a number, said half in advance, half on completion. Cash, fifties and hundreds, wrap 'em up good and Fed Ex the package to John Smith at Mail Boxes Etc. in Scarsdale.''

''John Smith?''

''First name that came to me. Soon as I got off the phone I went over and rented a box under that name. The owner's Afghan, he doesn't know Smith from Shinola. It's better than the post office because you can call and find out if they've got anything for you. I called yesterday, and guess what?''

''She sent the money?''

Dot nodded. '''Send half the money,' I said, 'and our field operative will call when he's on the scene. He'll introduce himself and get the information he requires. You'll never meet him face-to-face, but he'll coordinate with you and take care of everything. And afterward you'll get a final call telling you where to send the balance.'''

Keller thought about it. ''There's stuff they could trace,'' he said. ''The mailbox. Records of phone calls.''

''There's always something.''

''Uh-huh. What kind of a price did you set?''

''Just on the high side of standard.''

''And you got half in front, and she hasn't a clue who she sent it to.''

''Meaning I could just keep it. I thought of that, obviously. If you turn it down, that's probably what I'll do.''

''You're not going to send it back?''

''No, but I could call around, try to find another shooter.''

''I didn't turn it down yet,'' he said.

''Take your time.''

''The old man would have a fit. You know that, don't you?''

''Gee, I'm glad you told me that, Keller. It never would have occurred to me.''

''What does that mean, anyway, 'No names, no pack drill'? I'm familiar with the expression, I get the sense of it, but what's a pack drill?''

''It's just an expression, for God's sake.''

''Give me the letter again,'' he said and read it through rapidly. ''Most of the time, the people who contract these jobs, there's other things they could do. They may think otherwise, but there's usually another way out.''

''So?''

''So what choice has she got?''

''Nelson,'' Dot said, ''you know what I just did? I watched your master talk himself into something.''

''Muscatine,'' he said. ''Do planes go there?''

''Not if they can help it.''

''What do I do, go there and call her? 'Toxic waste,' and then I wait for her to pick up?''

''It's 'toxic shock' now,'' she said. ''I changed the password for security reasons.''

''Thank God for that,'' he said. ''You can't be too careful.''

•

Back at his apartment, Keller made arrangements for the dog-sitter to care for Nelson. Then he found Muscatine on the map. You could probably fly there, or at least to Davenport, but Chicago wasn't that far. American had hourly nonstop flights to Chicago, and O'Hare was a nice anonymous place to rent a car.

He flew out in the morning, had a Hertz car waiting and was in Muscatine and settled in a chain motel on the edge of the city by dinnertime. He ate at a Pizza Hut down the road, came back and sat on the edge of his bed. He had used false identification to rent the car at O'Hare and had registered at the motel under a different name and paid cash in advance for a week's stay. Even so, he didn't want to call the client from the motel. He was dealing with an amateur, and there were two principles to observe in dealing with amateurs. The first was to be ultraprofessional. The second, alas, was never to deal with an amateur.

There was a pay phone next door; he'd noticed it coming back from the (continued on page 137) Keller (continued from page 90) Pizza Hut. He spent a quarter and dialed the number, and after two rings the machine answered and a computer-generated voice repeated the last four digits of the number and invited him to leave his message at the tone.

''Toxic shock,'' he said.

Nothing happened. He stayed on the line for 15 seconds and hung up.

But was that long enough? Suppose she was washing her hands, or in the kitchen making coffee. He dug out another quarter, tried again. Same story. ''Toxic shock,'' he said again and waited for 30 seconds before hanging up.

''Great system,'' he said aloud and went back to the motel.

•

He turned on the television set and watched the last half of a movie about a woman who gets her lover to kill her husband. You didn't have to have watched the first half to know what was going on, nor did you need to be a genius to know that everything was going to go wrong for them. Amateurs, he thought.

He went out and tried the number again. ''Toxic shock.'' Nothing.

Hell.

On the desk in his room, along with carryout menus from half a dozen nearby fast-food outlets and a local Board of Realtors handout on the joys of settling in Muscatine, there was a flier inviting him to try his luck gambling on a Mississippi riverboat. It looked appealing at first. You pictured an old paddle wheeler chugging along, heading down the river to New Orleans, with women in hoopskirts and men in frock coats and string ties. But he knew it wouldn't be anything like that. The boat wouldn't move, for one thing. It would stand at anchor, and boarding it would be like crossing the threshold of a hotel in Atlantic City.

No thanks.

Unpacking, he found the morning paper he'd read on the flight to Chicago. He hadn't finished it, and did so now, saving the crossword puzzle for last. There was a step-quote, a saying of some sort running like a flight of stairs from the upper-left to lower-right corner. He liked these, because you had the sense that solving the crossword led to a greater solution.

Often, though, the puzzles with step-quotes proved difficult, and this particular puzzle was of that sort. There were a couple of areas he had trouble with, and they formed important parts of the step-quote, and in the end he couldn't work it out.

There was a 900 number you could call. They printed it with the puzzle every morning, and for 75 cents they'd give you any three answers.

But did people really call? Obviously they did, or the service wouldn't exist. Keller found this baffling. He could see doing a crossword puzzle--it gave your mind a light workout and passed the time--but when he'd gone as far as he could, he tossed the paper aside and got on with his life.

Anyway, if you were dying of curiosity, all you had to do was wait a day. They printed a filled-in version of the previous day's crossword in every paper. Why spend 75 cents for three answers when you could wait a few hours and get the whole thing for 60?

They were immature, he decided. He'd read that the true measure of human maturity was the ability to postpone gratification.

Keller, ready to go out and try the number again, decided to postpone gratification. He took a hot shower and went to bed.

•

In the morning he drove into downtown Muscatine and had breakfast at a diner. The crowd was almost exclusively male and most of the men wore suits. Keller, in a suit himself, read the local paper while he ate his breakfast. There was a crossword puzzle, but he took one look at it and gave it a pass. The longest word was six letters: Our Northern Neighbor. The way Keller figured it, when it came to crossword puzzles, it was the Times or nothing.

There was a pay phone at the diner, but he didn't want his conversation overheard by the movers and shakers of Greater Muscatine. Even if no one answered, he didn't want anyone to hear him say ''toxic shock.'' He left the diner and found an outdoor pay phone at a gas station. He placed the call, said his two words, and in no time at all a woman cut in to say, ''Hello? Hello?''

Tinny phone, he thought. Rinky-dink local phone company, what could you expect? But it was better than a computer-generated phone message. At least you knew you were talking to a person.

''It's all right,'' he said. ''I'm here.''

''I'm sorry I missed your call last night. I was out, I had to----''

''Let's not get into that,'' he said. ''Let's not spend any more time on the phone than we have to.''

''I'm sorry. Of course you're right.''

''I need to know some things. The name of the person I'm supposed to meet with, first of all.''

There was a pause. Then, tentatively, she said, ''My understanding was that there wasn't to be a meeting.''

''The other person,'' he said, ''that I'm supposed to meet with, so to speak.''

''Oh. I didn't. . . . I'm sorry. I'm not used to this.''

No kidding, he thought.

''His name is Stephen Lauderheim,'' she said.

''How do I find him? I don't suppose you know his address.''

''No, I'm afraid not. I know the license number of his car.''

He copied it down, along with the information that the car was a two-year-old white Honda Civic squareback. That was useful, he told her, but he couldn't cruise around town looking for a white Honda. Where does he park this car?

''Across the street from my house,'' she said, ''more often than I'd like.''

''I don't suppose he's there now.''

''No, I don't think so. Let me look. . . . No, he's not. There was a message from him last night. In between your messages. Nasty, vile.''

''I wish I had a photo of him,'' he said. ''That would help. I don't suppose----''

No photo, but she could certainly describe him. Tall, slender, light brown hair, late 30s, long face, square jaw, big white horse teeth. Oh, and he had a Kirk Douglas dimple in his chin. Oh, and she knew where he worked. At least he was working there the last time the police were involved. Would that help?

Keller rolled his eyes. ''It might,'' he said.

''The name of the firm is Loud & Clear Software,'' she said. ''On Tyler Boulevard just beyond Five Mile Road. He's a computer programmer or technician, something like that.''

''That's how he keeps getting your phone number,'' Keller said.

''I beg your pardon?''

''He doesn't need a confederate at the phone company. If he knows his way around computers, he can hack into the phone company system and get unlisted numbers that way.''

''It's possible to do that?''

''So they tell me.''

''Well, I'm hopelessly old-fashioned,'' she said. ''I still do all my writing on a typewriter. But it's an electric typewriter, at least.''

He had the name, the address, the car and a precise description. Was there anything else he needed? He couldn't think of anything.

''This probably won't take very long,'' he said.

•

He found Five Mile Road, found Tyler Boulevard, found Loud & Clear Software. The company occupied a squat concrete-block building with its own little parking lot. There were ten or a dozen cars in the lot, many of them Japanese, two of them white. No white Honda squareback, no plate number to match the one he'd been given.

If Stephen Lauderheim wasn't working today, maybe he was stalking. Keller drove back into town and got directions to Fairview Avenue. He found it in a pleasant neighborhood of prewar houses and big shade trees. Driving slowly past number 411, he looked around unsuccessfully for a white Honda, then circled the block and parked just down the street from Cressida Wallace's house. It was a sprawling structure, three stories tall, with overgrown shrubbery obscuring the lower half of the first-floor windows. A light burned in a window on the third floor, and Keller decided that that was where Cressida was, typing up happy and instructive tales of woodland creatures on her electric typewriter.

He had lunch and drove back to Loud & Clear. No white Honda. He hung around for a while, found his way to Fairview Avenue again. No white Honda, and no light on the third floor. He returned to his motel.

•

That night there was a movie he wanted to see on HBO, but the channel wasn't available on his TV. He was irritated and thought about moving to another motel a few hundred yards down the road, where the signboard promised HBO, as well as water beds in selected units. He decided that was ridiculous, that he was mature enough to postpone gratification in this area, even as he had to postpone the gratification of dispatching Stephen Lauderheim and getting the hell out of Muscatine.

He leafed through the phone book, looking for Lauderheim. There was no listing, which didn't surprise him. He tried Cressida Wallace, knowing she wouldn't be listed. There were several Wallaces, but none on Fairview and none named Cressida.

There were Kellers, one of them with the initial J, another with the initials JD. Either one could be John.

He did that sometimes. Looked up his name in the phone books of strange cities, as if he might actually find himself there. Not another person with the same name--that happened often enough since his was not an uncommon name. But find himself, his actual self, living an altogether different life in some other city.

•

The next morning Keller had breakfast at the diner, swung past the house on Fairview, then drove out to the software company. This time the white Honda was parked in the lot, and the license plate had the right letters and numbers on it. Keller parked where he could keep an eye on it and waited.

At noon, several men and women left the building, walked to their cars and drove off. None fit Stephen Lauder-heim's description, and none got into the white Honda.

At 12:30, two men emerged from the building and walked along together, deep in conversation. Both wore khaki trousers and faded denim shirts and running shoes, but in other respects they looked completely different. One was short and pudgy, with dark hair combed flat across his skull. The other, well, the other just had to be Lauderheim. He fit Cressida Wallace's description to a T.

They walked together to Lauder-heim's Honda. Keller followed them to an Italian restaurant, one of a national chain. Then he drove back to Loud & Clear and parked in his old spot.

At a quarter to two, the Honda returned and both men went back into the building. Keller drove off and found a supermarket, where he purchased a box of granulated sugar and a funnel. At a hardware store in the same small shopping plaza he bought a large screwdriver, a hammer and a six-foot extension cord. He drove back to Loud & Clear and went to work.

The Honda had a hatch over the gas cap. You needed a key to unlock it. He braced the screwdriver against the lock and gave it one sharp blow with the hammer, and the hatch popped. He removed the gas cap, inserted the funnel, poured in the sugar, replaced the cap, closed the hatch and wedged it shut. Then he went back to his own car and got behind the wheel.

Employees began trickling out of Loud & Clear shortly after five. By six o'clock only three cars remained in the lot. At 6:20, Lauderheim's lunch companion came out, got into a brown Buick Century and drove off. That left two cars, one of them the white Honda, and they were both still there at seven.

Keller sat behind the wheel, deferring gratification. His breakfast had been light, two doughnuts and a cup of coffee, and he'd missed lunch. He had planned to grab something to eat while he was in the supermarket, but it had slipped his mind. Now he was missing dinner.

Hunger made him irritable. Two cars in the lot, probably two people inside, three at the most. They'd already stayed two hours past quitting time and for all he knew might stay until morning. Maybe Lauderheim was waiting until the office was empty so he could make an undisturbed phone call to Cressida.

Suppose he just went in there and did them both? Element of surprise, they'd never know what hit them. Two for the price of one, do it and let's get the hell out of here. Cops would just figure a disgruntled employee went berserk. That sort of thing happened everywhere these days, not just at post offices.

Maturity, he told himself. Maturity and deferred gratification. Above all, professionalism.

•

By 7:30 he was ready to rethink his commitment to professionalism. He no longer felt hungry but was seething with anger, all of it focused on Stephen Lauderheim.

The son of a bitch.

Why in the hell would he stalk some poor woman who spent her life in an attic writing about kitty cats and bunny rabbits? Kidnapping her dog, for God's sake, and then torturing it and killing it, and playing her a tape of the animal's death throes. Murder, Keller thought, was almost too good for the son of a bitch. Ought to stick that funnel in his mouth and pour oven cleaner down his throat.

Speak of the devil.

There he was, Stephen Fucking Lauderheim, holding the door open for a nerdy fellow wearing a lab coat and a wispy mustache. Not heading for the same car, please God. No, separate cars, with Lauderheim pausing after unlocking the Honda to exchange a final pleasantry with the nerd in the lab coat.

Good thing he hadn't counted on waylaying him in the parking lot.

The nerd drove off first. Keller sat, glaring at the Honda, until Lauderheim started it up, pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward town.

Keller gave him a two-block lead, then took off after him.

•

Just the other side of Four Mile Road, Keller pulled up right behind the disabled Honda. Lauderheim already had the hood up and was frowning at the engine.

Keller got out of the car and trotted over to him.

''Heard the sound it was making,'' he said. ''I think I know what's wrong.''

''It's got to be the engine,'' Lauderheim said. ''But I don't understand it. It never did anything like this before.''

''I can fix it.''

''Seriously? You mean it?''

''You got a tire iron?''

''Yeah, I suppose so,'' Lauderheim said and went around to open the rear of the squareback. He found the tire iron, extended it to Keller, then drew it back. ''There's nothing wrong with the tires,'' he said.

''No kidding,'' Keller said. ''Give me the tire iron, will you?''

''Sure, but---''

''Say, don't I know you? You're Steve Lauderheim, aren't you?''

''That's right. Have we met?''

Keller looked at him, at the cute little chin dimple, at the big white teeth. Of course he was Lauderheim. Who else could he be? But a professional made sure. Besides, it wasn't too long ago that he'd failed to make sure, and he wasn't eager to let that happen again.

''Cressida says hello,'' Keller said.

''Huh?''

Keller buried the tire iron in his solar plexus.

The results were encouraging. Lauderheim let out an awful sound, clapped his hands to his middle and fell to his knees. Keller grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragged him along the gravel until the Honda screened the two of them from view. Then he raised the tire iron high and brought it down on Lauderheim's head.

The man sprawled on the ground, still conscious, moaning softly. A few more blows to finish it?

No. Stick to the script. Keller drew the extension cord from his pocket, unwound a two-foot length of it and looped it around Lauderheim's throat. He straddled the man, pinning him to the ground with a knee in the middle of his back, and choked the life out of him.

•

The Mississippi, legendary Father of Waters, swallowed the tire iron, the hammer, the screwdriver, the funnel, the cord. The empty box of sugar floated off on the current.

From a pay phone, Keller called his client. ''Toxic shock,'' he said, feeling like an idiot. No answer. He hung up.

He went back to his motel room, packed, carried his bag to the car. He didn't have to check out. He'd paid a week in advance, and when his week was up they'd take the room back.

He had to force himself to drive over to the Pizza Hut and get something to eat. All he wanted to do was drive straight to O'Hare and grab the first plane back to New York, but he knew he had to get some food into his system. Otherwise he'd start seeing things on the road north, swing the wheel to dodge something that wasn't there and wind up putting the car in a ditch. Professionalism, he told himself, and he ate an individual pan pizza and drank a medium Pepsi.

And placed the call again. ''Toxic shock''--and this time she was there and picked up.

''It's all taken care of,'' he said.

''You mean----''

''I mean it's all taken care of.''

''I can't believe it. My God, I can't believe it.''

You're safe now, he wanted to say. You've got your life back.

Instead, cool and professional, he told her how to make the final payment. Cash, same as before, sent by Federal Express to Mary Jones, at another Mail Boxes Etc. location, this one in Peekskill. ''I can't thank you enough,'' the woman said. Keller said nothing, just smiled and rang off.

•

Driving north and east through Illinois, Keller went over it in his mind. He thought, Cressida says hello. Jesus, he couldn't believe he'd said that. What did he think he was, an avenging angel? A knight in shining armor? Jesus.

Well, nothing all day but two doughnuts and a cup of coffee. That was as far as you had to look for an explanation. Got him irritable and angry, made him take it personally.

Still, he thought after he'd turned in the car and bought his ticket, Lauderheim was unquestionably one thoroughgoing son of a bitch. No loss to anyone.

And he could still hear her saying she couldn't thank him enough, and what was so wrong with enjoying that?

•

Eight, nine days later, Dot called. Coincidentally, he was doing the crossword puzzle at the time.

''Keller,'' she said, ''guess what Mary Jones didn't find in her mailbox?''

''That's strange,'' he said. ''It's still not here? Maybe you ought to call her. Maybe Fed Ex lost it and it's in a back office somewhere.''

''I'm way ahead of you. I called her.'' ''And?''

''Line's been disconnected. . . . You still there, Keller?''

''I'm trying to think. You're sure that--''

''I called back, got the same recording. 'The number you have reached, blah-blah-blah, has been disconnected.' Leaves no room for doubt.''

''No.''

''The money doesn't show up, and now the line's been disconnected. Does it begin to make you wonder?''

''Maybe they arrested her,'' he said, ''before she could send the money.''

''And stuck her in a cell and left her there? A quiet lady who writes about deaf rabbits?''

''Well--''

''Let me pull out and pass a few slow-moving vehicles,'' she said. ''What I did was, I called Information in St. Louis.''

''St. Louis?''

''Webster Groves is a suburb of St. Louis.''

''Webster Groves.''

''Where Cressida Wallace lives, according to that reference book in the library.''

''But she moved,'' Keller said.

''You'd think so, wouldn't you? But the Information operator had a listing for her. So I called the number. Guess what?''

''Come on, Dot.''

''A woman answered. No answering machine, no computer-generated horseshit. 'Hello?' 'Cressida Wallace, please.' 'This is she.' Well, it wasn't the voice I remembered. 'Is this Cressida Wallace, the author?' 'Yes.' 'The author of How the Bunny Lost His Ears?'''

''And she said it was?''

''Well, how many Cressida Wallaces do you figure there are? I didn't know what the hell to say next. I told her I was from the Muscacatine paper and that I wanted to know her impression of the town. Keller, she didn't know what I was talking about. I had to tell her what state Muscatine is in.''

''You'd think she'd at least have heard of it,'' he said. ''It's not that far from St. Louis.''

''I don't think she gets out much. I think she sits in her house and writes her stories. I found out this much. She's lived in the same house in Webster Groves for 30 years.''

He took a deep breath, then said, ''Where are you, Dot?''

''Where am I? I'm at an outdoor pay phone half a mile from the house. I'm getting rained on.''

''Go on home,'' he said. ''Give me an hour or so and I'll call you back.''

•

''All right,'' he said, closer to two hours later. ''Here's how it shapes up. Stephen Lauderheim wasn't some creep, stalking some innocent woman.''

''We figured that.''

''He was a partner in Loud & Clear Software. He and a fellow named Randall Cleary started the firm. Lauderheim and Cleary, Loud & Clear.''

''Cute.''

''Lauderheim was married, father of two, bowled in a league, belonged to the Rotary and the Jaycees.''

''Hardly the type to kidnap a dog and torture it to death.''

''You wouldn't think so.''

''Who set him up? The wife?

''I figure the partner. Company was doing great and one of the big Silicon Valley firms was looking to buy them out. My guess is one of them wanted to sell and the other didn't. Or there was some kind of partnership insurance in place. One partner dies, the other buys him out at a prearranged price, pays off the widow with the proceeds of the insurance policy. Of course, the company's now worth about 20 times what they agreed to.''

''How'd you get all this, Keller?''

''Called the city room at the Muscatine paper, said I was covering the death for a computer magazine and could they fax me the obit and anything they had run on the killing.''

''You've got a fax?''

''The candy store around the corner's got one. All the guy in Muscatine could tell from the number I gave him was it was in New York.''

''Nice.''

''After the fax came in, the stuff he sent gave me some ideas for other calls to make. I could sit on the phone for another hour and find out more, but I figure that's enough.''

''More than enough,'' she said. ''Keller, the little shit foxed us. Then he stiffed us in the bargain.''

''That's what I don't get,'' he said. ''Why stiff us? All he had to do was send the money and I'd never have thought of Iowa again unless I was flying over it. He was home free. All he had to do was pay what he owed.''

''Cheap son of a bitch,'' Dot said.

''But where's the sense? He paid out half the money without even knowing who he was sending it to. If he could afford to do that on the come, you can imagine what kind of money was at stake here.''

''It paid off.''

''It paid off, but he didn't. Stupid.''

''Very stupid.''

''I'll tell you what I think,'' he said. ''I think the money was the least of it. I think he wanted to feel superior to us. I mean, why go through all this Cressida Wallace crap in the first place? Does he figure I'm a Boy Scout, doing my good deed for the day?''

''He figured we were amateurs, Keller. And needed to be motivated.''

''Yeah, well, he figured wrong,'' he said. ''I have to pack. I've got a flight in an hour and a half and I have to call the dog-sitter. We're getting paid, Dot. Don't worry.''

''I wasn't worried,'' she said.

•

Which one, he wondered, was Cleary? The plump one who'd gone to lunch with Lauderheim? Or the nerd in the lab coat who'd walked out to the parking lot with him?

Or someone else, someone he hadn't even seen? Cleary might well have been out of town that day, providing himself with an alibi.

Didn't matter. You didn't need to know what a man looked like to get him on the phone.

Cleary, like his late partner, had an unlisted home phone number. But the firm, Loud & Clear, had a listing. Keller called from his motel room--he was staying this time at the one with HBO. He used the electronic novelty item he'd picked up at Abercrombie & Fitch, and when a woman answered he said he wanted to speak to Randall Cleary.

''Whom shall I say is calling?''

Whom, he noted. Not bad for Muscatine, Iowa.

''Cressida Wallace,'' he said.

She put him on hold, but he did not languish there for long. Moments later he heard a male voice, one he could not recognize. ''Cleary,'' the man said. ''Who is this?''

''Ah, Mr. Cleary,'' he said. ''This is Miss Cressida Wallace.''

''No it's not.''

''It is,'' Keller said. ''I understand you've been using my name, and I'm frightfully upset.''

Silence from Cleary. Keller unhooked the device that had altered the pitch of his voice. ''Toxic shock,'' he said in his own voice. ''You stupid son of a bitch.''

''There was a problem,'' Cleary said. ''I'm going to send you the money.''

''Why didn't you get in touch?''

''I was going to. You can't believe how busy we've been around here.''

''So why did you disconnect your phone?''

''I thought, you know, for security reasons.''

''Right,'' Keller said.

''I'm going to pay.''

''No question about it,'' Keller said. ''Today. You're going to Fed Ex the money today. Overnight delivery, Mary Jones gets it tomorrow. Are we clear on that?''

''Absolutely.''

''And the price went up. Remember what you were supposed to send?''

''Yes.''

''Well, double it.''

There was a silence. ''That's impossible. It's extortion, for God's sake.''

''Look,'' Keller said, ''do yourself a favor. Think it through.''

Another silence, but shorter. ''All right,'' Cleary said.

''In cash, and it gets there tomorrow. Agreed?''

''Agreed.''

•

He called Dot from a pay phone, had dinner and went back to his room. This motel had HBO, so of course there was nothing on that he wanted to watch. It figured.

In the morning he skipped the diner and had a big breakfast at a Denny's on the highway. He drove up to Davenport and made two stops, at a sporting goods store and a hardware store. He went back to his motel, and around two in the afternoon he called White Plains.

''This is Cressida Wallace,'' he said.

''Have there been any calls for me?''

''Damned if it doesn't work,'' Dot said.

''You sound just like a woman.''

''But I break just like a little girl,'' Keller said.

''Very funny. Quit using that thing, will you? It sounds like a woman, but it's your way of talking, your inflections underneath it all. Let me hear the Keller I know so well.''

He unhooked the gadget. ''Better?''

''Yes, much better. Your pal came through.''

''He got the numbers right and everything?''

''Indeed he did.''

''I think the voice-change gizmo helped,'' he said. ''It made him see we know everything.''

''Oh, he'd have paid anyway,'' she said. ''All you had to do was yank his chain a little. You just liked using your new toy, that's all. When are you coming home, Keller?''

''Not right away.''

''Well, I know that.''

''No, I think I'll wait a few days,'' he said. ''Right now he's edgy, looking over his shoulder. Beginning of next week he'll have his guard down.''

''Makes sense.''

''Besides,'' he said, ''it's not really a bad town.''

''God, Keller.''

''What's the matter?''

'''It's not a bad town.' I bet you're the first person to say that, including the head of the chamber of commerce.''

''It's not,'' he insisted. ''The motel set gets HBO. There's a Pizza Hut down the street.''

''Keep it to yourself, Keller, or everybody's going to want to move there.''

''And I've got things to do.''

''Like what?''

''A little metalwork project, for starters.''

He hung up and used the carbidebladed hacksaw from the hardware store to remove most of both barrels of the shotgun from the sporting goods store, then switched blades and cut away most of the stock as well. He loaded both chambers and left the gun tucked under the mattress. Then he drove along the river road until he found a good spot, and he tossed the sawed-off gun barrels, the hacksaw and the shotgun-shell box into the Mississippi. Toxic waste, he thought, and shook his head, imagining all the junk that wound up in the river

He drove around for a while, just enjoying the day, and returned to the motel. Right now Randall Cleary was telling himself he was safe, he was in the clear, he had nothing to worry about. But he wasn't sure yet.

In a few days he'd be sure. He'd even think to himself that maybe he should have called Keller's bluff, or at least not agreed to pay double. But, what the hell, it was only money, and money was something he had a ton of.

Stupid amateur.

Which one was he, anyway? The nerd with the wispy mustache? The plump one, the dumpling? Or someone yet unseen?

Well, he'd find out.

Keller, feeling professional, feeling mature, sat back and put his feet up. It was fun, postponing gratification like this.

''Guy goes down, they pick her up before the body's cold. She's got to sing like a songbird.''