Free Death in the Pines by Thom Hartmann Page B

have.”
    We were getting close to where I’d left the Jeep on Route 12. Jerry said, “I don’t want any of this to get in the papers.”
    â€œAll right.” When we reached the Jeep, no other cars were in sight. I pulled out my phone and hit the send button.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œTrust me.”
    The 911 operator answered on the second ring and asked, “What is your emergency?”
    â€œListen,” I said, putting a little of Vermont into my voice, “there’s a bad drunk driver out on Route Twelve. I was just off the highway, between Montpelier and Northfield, when he came past me. I didn’t see which way he turned onto Route Twelve, but he was swerving all over. Dark-colored Subaru station wagon, newer model, Vermont plate, but I couldn’t make out the numbers.”
    â€œAnd he’s on Route Twelve?”
    â€œHas to be, he came off this road. I think you should notify the Northfield police in case he’s headed south.”
    I gave her the other information she asked for and hung up. “Slick,” Jerry said.
    â€œIt probably won’t do any good, but if they get stopped we’ll have a record of who the car is registered to, who’s driving it. With the hit-and-run, they’ll probably make an effort.”
    It was one side or the other of midnight. I drove Jerry back to his apartment house. He invited me in, and we walked into what might have been a monk’s cell. I’d never seen a bachelor apartment as neat or as bare. I checked out Jerry’s left wrist. It was swollen and bruised, but he could make a fist, touchthumb tip to each finger in turn. “I don’t think anything’s broken,” I told him.
    He got us a couple of beers and we sat on the sofa. “God, what a day,” he said. He wanted to know about his grandfather. I told him what I knew.
    â€œWell,” Jerry said, finishing the last of his bottle of beer. “So. You’re supposed to protect me. Thanks but no thanks. They won’t catch me again.”
    â€œBut they might.”
    He flashed me a wild-eyed look.
    I asked him, “What are you afraid of?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t understand. I’m not afraid of anything.” He cradled his left wrist in his right hand, as though nursing a small, sick animal back to health.
    â€œI’d think you’d like to see the people who hurt you get punished.”
    He stared at the floor and didn’t reply.
    â€œI could help.”
    He laughed without mirth and looked at me with his nose wrinkled, as though he were judging an ugly-dog contest. “How much would I owe you?”
    I shook my head. “No charge. Jeremiah paid me already.”
    His gaze was wary, and I recognized the look of the righteous one. The monk’s-cell apartment fit him: a young man unseasoned by life, still believing the world is populated by good guys and bad, white and black hats, no room for gray. I could read it in his eyes. In his estimation, if you weren’t a crusader, you were for sale, you had a price, you had an ulterior motive. “You took money from my grandfather?” he asked in a harsh voice.
    â€œA little. But he bought me with his trust.”
    â€œYeah. Well. He’s dead.”
    â€œAnd I owe him.”
    â€œSo …” Jerry scratched his head. “You’d help me for free?”
    â€œAs much as I can. I’m not independently wealthy.”
    â€œBut you’re a PI. You charge for what you do.”
    â€œListen to me,” I said. “If I do this, I do it because Jeremiah trusted me. But if this gets big, if I face a lot of travel expenses, if I have to bring in other people, I won’t have the cash to continue it.”
    â€œSo I’d have to pay you.”
    I began to sympathize with the guy who’d hit him with the stun gun. “This isn’t about payment. Mostly, it’s about my wanting to know who killed