The Last Innocent Man

If Gault’s activities during the daytime were dull, his nights were anything but. Gault spent almost every evening in a bar or nightclub. On one occasion Gault returned home with a woman, who left by cab shortly before Gault’s run. Toward the beginning of the second week, Gault’s evening routine changed. Instead of going directly home from the bar or nightclub, Gault drove to Portland’s industrial area. He always parked near a deserted warehouse that backed on the Columbia River. The warehouse had “Wexler Electronics” written on the side in peeling red paint. Conklin checked the corporate records. The company had gone under a year ago, and the property was tied up in litigation.

The first time Gault drove to the warehouse, Conklin waited in his car. A high chain-link fence separated the warehouse from a strip of sandy land that sloped down to the river. Conklin watched Gault take a large rug and a flashlight from the trunk of his car and disappear around the side of the warehouse that abutted the fence. Half an hour later Gault reappeared. He seemed winded. Conklin saw him wipe his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then drop the flashlight into his trunk and drive off.

The second night Gault took the flashlight and a large toolbox from the car, returning an hour later with both items.

On the third night Conklin did not follow Gault when he left the warehouse. As soon as Gault’s car was out of sight, Conklin took a flashlight out of his glove compartment and walked to the fence. The wind from the river chilled him. He hunched against it and played the light beam over the ground, then along the warehouse wall. Nothing.

Conklin heard a sharp tapping in front of him. He raised the beam. A door was snapping against the side of the building. Conklin approached it cautiously. He looked around, then entered the warehouse. The high roof shut out the moon and stars, leaving the flashlight beam as the only source of light. Conklin was overcome by a sense of dread. He felt enveloped by the darkness, as if he were fathoms deep in the ocean at the point where light is completely absorbed by the water.

The flashlight showed Conklin rusted girders, an abandoned wooden pallet on which an open and empty packing crate rested, and random stacks of two-by-fours covered by cobwebs and dust. He took a few steps forward and picked out a section of the floor that was covered by the rug Gault had taken from the car on the first evening. Conklin walked over to the rug. It was cheap and dull green. He shone the light around the area and saw nothing else that would help explain why Gault had left it in the warehouse or why Gault had returned to this place on three successive evenings.

“I hope you like the rug.”

Conklin jumped and almost dropped the light.

“I bought it for you.”

Conklin turned in a circle, but there was no one there.

“Before I give you your gift, you will have to answer some questions, Mr. Conklin.”

“Gault?”

“Who else have you been following for the past two weeks?”

“We can talk. Why don’t we go outside?” Conklin said, turning slowly so as to face the place where Gault’s voice had been.

“No, thank you. Here will be just fine. Sound won’t carry as far. Lowers the risk of someone hearing you scream.”

5

“Mr. Nash,” David’s secretary said, “it’s Mr. Gault again.”

David felt a flush of fear, then anger.

“Tell him I’m in conference.”

“He says he’ll come down and cause a scene if you try to put him off.”

“Jesus.” David looked out the window. “Okay. Put him through.”

“Hey, old buddy,” Gault said as soon as David picked up the phone, “I need your help.”

“Look, Tom, let me make this clear. I don’t want anything to do with you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Hey, no need to be so hostile.”

“Listen…”

“No, you listen,” Gault said. There was an unmistakable edge to his voice. “If you hang up this phone, I might have to call theOregonian with an interesting item about Mrs. Stafford. You remember her, don’t you?”

David sucked in a breath. “All right. What do you want?”

“Just some advice. What say we meet for lunch? My treat.”

GAULT HAD CHOSENa small French restaurant in northwest Portland. The lunch crowd was made up of a round table of older women, several businessmen on expense accounts, and a few young lovers. The maitre d’ showed David to Gault’s table, and the writer greeted him with a relaxed smile.

“Some Reisling?” Gault suggested, taking a tall bottle of wine from the ice bucket at the side of the table.

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Tom. I’m tired of games.”

“Oh? That wasn’t my impression. Nonetheless, I agree. Let’s get down to business. I’m working on a new book and I’m stuck for an ending. I hoped you could help me out. The book is about a writer. Someone like me, actually. Now, this writer is minding his own business when he gets the funny feeling that he’s being followed. Sure enough, he is.

“At first the writer thinks it’s just some literary groupie, but the fellow never approaches him. The writer begins to get nervous, so he lays a little trap.”