Chapter 77
THE LIBRARY IN the farmhouse was empty except for Potter and me. He was handcuffed, totally cool and unafraid, glaring menacingly.
“I want my lawyer,” he said again.
“I’ll bet you do. I would if I were you. I’d be making a real scene in here.”
Taylor finally smiled. His teeth were badly stained. “How about a cigarette? Give me something.”
I gave him one. I even lit it for him. “Where did you bury Benjamin Coffey?” I asked again.
“So, you’re really the one in charge?” he asked. “Interesting. The world turns, doesn’t it? The worm too.”
I ignored his question. “Where is Benjamin Coffey?” I repeated. “Is he buried out here? I’m sure he is.”
“Then why ask? If you already know the answer.”
“Because I don’t want to waste time digging up these fields or dredging the pond over there.”
“I really can’t help you. I don’t know a Benjamin Coffey. Of course, Francis was here of his own free will. He hated it at Holy Cross. The Jesuits don’t like us. Well, some of the priests don’t.”
“The Jesuits don’t like who? Who else is involved with you?”
“You’re actually funny, for a police drone. I like a bit of dry humor now and then.”
I stretched my leg out, struck his chest, and knocked his bench over. He hit the floor hard. Banged his head. I could see that it shook him, surprised him, anyway. Must have hurt at least a little bit.
“That supposed to scare me?” he asked, once he’d gotten his breath. He was angry now, red faced, the veins in his neck pulsing. That was a start. “I want my lawyer! . . . I’m explicitly asking you for a lawyer!” He began to yell over and over again: “Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer! Can anyone hear me?”
Taylor kept yelling at me for over an hour—like some sociopathic kid who wasn’t getting his way. I let him scream and curse until he started to get hoarse. I even went outside and stretched my legs, drank some coffee, chatted with Charlie Powiesnik, who was a pretty good guy.
When I came back inside, Potter looked changed. He’d had time to think about everything that had happened at the farm. He knew that we were talking to Francis Deegan and that we’d find Benjamin Coffey too. Maybe a few others.
He sighed out loud. “I assume we can make some sort of arrangement to my liking. Mutually beneficial.”
I nodded. “I’m sure we can make an arrangement. But I need something concrete in return. How did you get the boys? How did it work? That’s what I need to hear from you.”
I waited for him to answer. Several minutes passed.
“I’ll tell you where Benjamin is,” he finally said.
“You’ll tell me that too.”
I waited some more. Took another turn outside with Charlie. Came back to the study.
“I bought the boys from the Wolf,” Potter finally said. “But you’ll be sorry you asked. So will I, probably. He’ll make both of us pay. In my humble opinion, and remember, this is just a college professor talking, the Wolf is the most dangerous man alive. He’s Russian. Red Mafiya.”
“Where do we find the Wolf?” I asked. “How do you contact him?”
“I don’t know where he is. Nobody does. He’s a mystery man. That’s his thing, his trademark. I think it turns him on.”
It took several more hours of talking, bargaining, and negotiating, but Potter finally told me some of what I wanted to know about the Wolf, this Russian mystery man who impressed him so. Late in the day, I wrote in my notes, This makes no sense yet. None of it does, really. The Wolf’s scheme seems insane. Is it?
Then I wrote my final thought, at least for the moment:
The brilliance of it may be that it makes no sense.
To us.