Smugglers Notch Read online

  Smugglers Notch

  Joseph Koenig

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  For Howard Smith

  The characters and events portrayed herein are imaginary, and have no life outside these pages.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  1

  THE SECOND TIME AROUND the block the girl was still there. He sped by as though he didn’t see her and then tromped down on the brakes, fishtailing into the curb lane, making a show of it. In the mirror he watched her studying the van, unable to make up her mind. He saw nibbled lips not too shy to assert themselves, dark eyes that were deep set and vulnerable, the prettiest thing about her. Hurting eyes. He wondered how they looked with tears in them.

  She came off the curb slowly and walked to the passenger’s door. With one foot already inside she hesitated, sizing him up, recoiling slightly when she saw the bed done in blue velveteen in back. She was a short girl in a pea coat a couple of sizes too large, with the collar raised against the first real snow of the season. The way she looked at him, she was the one doing the favor.

  He turned up the radio, flooding the space between them with digital sound. “Shitty day to be out,” he said. “Been waiting long?”

  “A half hour, maybe.” She cupped small red hands together and blew against her fingers. “Is there any chance you’re going all the way to Montpelier?”

  He showed her his best smile. “How’d you know?”

  She folded down her collar. Shaking the snow from straight black hair, she made herself comfortable on the seat, and he leaned across her lap and pulled the door closed, sensing her body tense until he retreated to his side of the engine hump. Without checking the mirror he left rubber all the way to the corner, nearly clipping a blue Toyota that hadn’t cleared the intersection.

  “Next time,” he told her, “just so you’ll know, don’t thumb so close to town. Most drivers won’t bother to stop when they can smell home.”

  They crossed over the Passumpsic River into St. Johnsbury. Listening to heavy chains torture the broken pavement, they trailed a salt spreader through a shopping area shrouded in Halloween’s black and orange. Up a slippery-steep hill and around the library, the countryside took over, and a two-lane highway brought them between frozen fields where dairy cows breathed billows of gray.

  He wound down his window and reached outside to swat away wet snow that the wipers had packed into a corner of the windshield. “You can expect six to eight inches,” he said. For no reason the girl could see, he laughed. “You live in Montpelier?”

  The vulnerable eyes bounced off his. Up close they were dark brown, as dark and delicious as chocolate chips. “Uh-huh.”

  So she wasn’t a talker. One of the rules he lived by, one of a few, was that hitchhikers didn’t owe you a thing—not gas money, or a smile, not even a word. It was all right by him if she found her tongue, but then again it didn’t matter. “Name’s Paul,” he said.

  The girl smiled faintly, as if she were hardly there. In her mind she wasn’t. Back at her boyfriend’s, she was replaying a squabble that had ended with a declaration that she would never see Ben again. And this time she meant it! … Well, maybe one more time, but only to return the pea coat she had grabbed in her hurry to get away, and to pick up her own ski parka, which she had left hanging on the door.

  “I said my name is Paul.” Snapping his fingers in front of her face.

  “Mine’s Becky.”

  “You don’t look like a Becky,” he said without taking his eyes off the road. “More like Rebecca.”

  She smiled absently. “Okay, have it your way. Rebecca.”

  “‘And they called Rebecca’”—he was looking right at her now—“‘and said unto her, Wilt thou go with this man? And she said, I will go.’”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Genesis,” he said. “Chapter twenty-four, verse fifty-eight. Very apropos, don’t you think?”

  “You’re weird.”

  “Not really.” He flashed the good smile again, but this time he took something off it, like a junk ball pitcher mixing his speeds.

  “No one’s called me Rebecca since I was a little kid.”

  “Rebecca’s a beautiful name,” he said. “And you’re a beautiful girl. How old are you, Rebecca?”

  “I’ll be eighteen tomorrow.”

  A crash fence bisected the road and then it divided into four lanes. Holding the van at an even seventy, he took a hand off the wheel and put it around one of hers and shook it. “Let me be the first to wish you a happy birthday,” he said solemnly.

  “You’re not the first. But thanks anyway.” She pulled back her hand and fumbled inside her pockets. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Becky opened her window a crack and removed a thin cloth sack from her coat. She emptied the bag into a square of gummed paper which she twirled into a loose cylinder. Then she depressed the lighter on the dash. While she waited for the element to heat up, she tuned the radio to a C & W station and began whistling.

  The boy dialed back to heavy metal. “Girls can’t whistle,” he said.

  Was that a law or just his dumb opinion? But before she could say anything the lighter was ready and she took a long, soothing drag and exhaled languorously through her nose.

  The boy had his hand in front of her face again. “I’d like a hit of that.”

  Becky placed the cigarette between his first two fingers and immediately he began to cough. “This is tobacco, for Chris’ sake.”

  “What’d you think it was?”

  “Oh, boy,” he said. “Have you got a lot to learn.”

  “About what? About dope? I don’t think there’s a whole lot you can teach me about dope.”

  The highway narrowed for the block-long Main Street of Joes Pond and he came off the gas and returned both hands to the wheel. “About life,” he said.

  The girl looked up sharply. He saw her glance at the window, open her mouth as if she were about to say, You can let me out here.

  “I could teach you plenty.” He tried the smile again, but this time was unable to make it fit. “… But only if you asked nice.”

  Becky squirmed against the door and sat catercorner with the back of her head resting on the glass. For the second time she took a good hard look at him. He was about twenty, twenty-two at the most, wearing the autumn uniform of a Green Mountain yankee—checked wool jacket, iridescent hunter’s cap with the earmuffs down, twill pants and oiled boots—a type she regarded as canny but trustworthy, though this one seemed like a real creep. He was a slender boy and, from what she could see, lightly muscled, the biggest thing about him the Adam’s apple it looked like he cut the two times a week that he had to shave. Hardly a threat—especially after everything Ben had taught her about kneeing a man where it hurt most. Whatever idea she was entertaining about jumping from the truck evaporated when a green-and-gold Vermont state police car turned after them at the only red light in the settlement and dropped back four car lengths.

  “Think you know about life?” she said. “To me it looks like this is maybe your second time ever out of the Northeast Kingdom.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I’ll bet I would. Tell me, from your vast experience—” She held back till he turned toward her and could see her laughing. “Tell me about life.”

  If she was ge
tting to him, he didn’t show it. “There are certain things I’ve learned,” he said in his stolid country twang, “things you only wished you knew.”

  “Oh …? Like what?”

  “For one,” he said, “I know better than to get into a van with a stranger.”

  She tried to laugh again, but felt her throat constrict. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  She looked at him closely once more, but his face told her nothing new. Then he pushed back his cap and she saw perspiration trickling out of the close-cropped hair over his temple, out of the two-dollar haircut, and suddenly the van was much too warm. But, then, why had she begun to shiver? She searched the mirror for the trooper’s car still glued to their bumper. “You don’t, you know,” she said, more for her own benefit than for his. “You don’t scare me one bit.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  The question was why he was doing such a good job of it. “Let’s change the subject. Are you from around St. Jay?”

  “Malletts Bay.” When he caught her looking at him as though she didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, he said, “It’s not in the Northeast Kingdom. It’s on Lake Champlain, above Burlington.”

  She was trying not to listen. She’d had her fill of this know-it-all hick tooling around in his fancy van. Still, she didn’t have to be told, they were a nice few miles from Montpelier, and it might not be such a bad idea to rein in her resentment, or at least to keep it from spilling over. Again she framed the police cruiser in the glass. What’s it like there? she wanted to ask. But what came out was, “I wondered where you got so smart. I’m sure Malletts Bay is a real swinging place.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  He said nothing more, and they rode in silence for another twenty minutes as the dairy spreads gave way to neat farms where Morgan horses grazed in wooded pastures losing definition in the snow, gentleman’s farms. Then the highway funneled into a village street lined with pillared mansions, one in three topped with glass-walled widow’s walks like those where whalers’ wives once had strained for a glimpse of home-bound sails—a hopeless affectation in northern Vermont, a hundred miles from the ocean. Without signaling, the boy turned onto US 89, the interstate skirting the capital.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Becky asked, the annoyance starting to show again. “I get off here.”

  “Jeez.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’m so used to taking 89 that my brain forgot to tell my hands what to do.”

  “The next exit’s Waterbury, and that’s another eleven miles from here.” She glanced out at the old road bending away behind them and felt her stomach knot as the police car followed it into the city. “Why don’t you just pull over and I’ll walk back down the ramp?”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why?” Cracks were showing in the upper register of her girlish soprano. “Why not?”

  “It’s too dangerous. And besides, it’s against the law and I could get a ticket. What we’ll do, I’ll drive to Waterbury and then I’ll get off and turn around and bring you back.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll just—”

  “It’s no big deal,” he said, gunning the engine to make further debate meaningless. “Anyway, missing Montpelier was my mistake. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Thanks. I … I appreciate your going so far out of your way.”

  West of Montpelier the interstate took dead aim at Burlington’s snubbed skyline and beyond the lakeshore the high peaks of the Adirondacks. He steered into the slow lane and kept the van on course with his little finger. “It’s funny how sometimes the left hand doesn’t know what the right’s doing. What I mean,” he said, “is I was planning on bringing you right to your door, and instead I went on by the city like it wasn’t there. Can you give me a clue why I did that?”

  The girl started to say something, but he cut her off. “Me neither. But it certainly doesn’t make me look very bright, does it? So why don’t we just blame it on Malletts Bay, if that’s okay by you.”

  She didn’t respond to that. She was thinking of Ben again, and only in part of where he had taught her to kick a man. What had they been fighting about in the first place? She remembered a silly disagreement that was mostly—no, entirely—her fault, and how she had used it to hurt him. As soon as she was home she would call and apologize for everything, let him know how much he meant to her.

  A tinny metronome distracted her, and she became aware of a flashing green arrow on the dashboard. In a wedge of clear glass carved out of the snow she saw the Waterbury exit. As the truck began to slow, her hands buried themselves in her pockets again, but the tobacco pouch was empty. She slouched in her seat. “Are we almost there?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  He came off the interstate cautiously, feeling his way along the ramp. Small flakes gusted around the van in dry swirls, overwhelming the windshield wipers. He touched a knob on the dash and the rubber blades beat to a faster tune, but still the girl scarcely could see ahead of her. By her watch it was nearly five o’clock, and if they didn’t step on it Ben would be leaving for work before she made her call.

  Where the ramp emptied into a four-lane highway he hit the brakes hard, and she was thrown forward so suddenly that it took all her strength to brace herself against the dash. “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Some retard cut us off,” he said. “You okay?”

  “I think so.” And another thing about Ben, he was a careful driver.

  They turned and then they turned twice more and crawled along at thirty-five. She rubbed the heel of her hand against the fogged glass and was rewarded with a better view of eddying snow. Through the side window she saw the occasional light of a sullen farm defying the storm. Then a tractor-trailer swung around their right, raising a curtain of brown slush across the windshield, and as the boy used his washer she realized they were on a mountain road above a town she didn’t recognize.

  “I thought you were taking me back to Montpelier,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “But this isn’t I-89. It isn’t even going the same way.”

  “Well, no,” he said. “Didn’t you see the sign back there? The eastbound lane’s closed on account of the storm. We have to take secondary roads.”

  “I didn’t see anything.” Her eyes followed twinned beams inside a white tunnel that seemed to close behind them. “There’s no need for you to drive all the way to Montpelier. I’ll get out and then you can find the interstate and be home in no time.”

  “Way out here in the woods? What’ll you do?”

  “Me? What about me?” The soprano fractured into a shrill falsetto. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  As though he had thought it out a long time before, he shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like such a hot idea.”

  “I can take care of myself, thank you,” she snapped. “You can drop … No, I’ll walk to town and wait out the storm there. Now I’m telling you to stop. I want to get out.”

  As the van skidded to a halt, she buttoned her coat, trying to store the warmth that she would need outside. What am I going to do all the way out here? she asked herself. But even a night in the blizzard was preferable to another moment with this weirdo. She looked out at a dark woodlot where sugar maples melted into the spruce forest of the high country, and tugged her collar around her throat.

  “Good-bye, and thanks again.” She felt for the door handle. Unable to find it, she flattened her palm against the panel and swept widening circles. Inches from the window crank her hand closed on a jagged stub of metal. “What is this?”

  “Let me explain.”

  “You damn well better.”

  “Behold,” he said, and cleared his throat theatrically. “Rebecca is before thee, take her and go, and let her be thy master’s son’s wife, as the Lord hath spoken.”

  Turning her back, she wound down the glass. Behind her she heard him asking, “You see what it means?
Don’t you see that?”

  She was groping for the outside handle when he grabbed her by the shoulders and jerked her against him. “No,” she lied, “I don’t know. What does it—”

  “What it means,” he said in that earnest voice of his, “is I’m gonna fuck your brains loose now.”

  Slender arms wrapped themselves around her and bundled her easily over the top of the seat. She landed on her hip, the fall cushioned by a scrap of Oriental carpeting that covered the ribbed floor of the truck. An adjustable wrench lay beside a toolbox just out of reach. But before she could crawl toward it the boy vaulted the backrest and wrestled her onto the bed. A soft bed, and so comfortable, the blue velveteen cool against her flaming cheek. If only he’d let her alone, it would be so easy to shut her eyes and sleep. …

  He was all over her then, pressing his mouth against hers, chewing on the nibbled lips, the touch of his skin enough to make her gag. She remembered hearing someplace that the best way to turn off a man was to puke in his face, but despite her revulsion she couldn’t do it. She hugged herself tightly and brought her knees up to her chest, curling herself into a ball. Maybe, just maybe, he’d give up and—

  “Take off your clothes, Rebecca.” When she didn’t respond, except to move her eyes away from his, he added, “I mean it.”

  “My father …” she said. “My father is a lawyer in the attorney general’s office. That’s why I live in Montpelier. You don’t want to get in the kind of trouble he can make for you. If you let me go, let me go now, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Is that right?”

  The girl nodded, and for an instant he might have been going for it. But then he shrugged his narrow shoulders and said, “You can tell,” and pried her arms away from her body and began unbuttoning Ben’s coat.

  She flailed at him with tiny fists. She aimed short kicks at his crotch the way Ben had taught her, feeling herself go numb as they bounced unnoticed off his thighs. He had the coat off by then, and she thought she was going to vomit in spite of herself as he slipped his hand under her red cashmere sweater and moved it over her belly, digging under her bra with icy fingertips.