“Is this it?” Roxanne said.
I looked at her.
“Is this the worst thing,” she said, “and now we can just live our lives—be happy?” she said.
“I am happy,” I said.
“You could have died, Jack. If she’d gotten you in the heart or cut an artery. I mean, she almost got your wrist. The artery there—”
“The ulna,” I said. “But she didn’t.”
“And all because you were there in the store when that woman was killed.”
“Yes.”
“And decided that you had to write that story,” Roxanne said.
“It’s a good story.”
“But how can you write it now? With everything that’s happened?”
“With one hand tied behind my back,” I said.
40
k
Teak had his day in court. I was there, along with his dad. And Barrett’s husband Travis. The reporter from Riverport, Trevor-something, and a couple of talking heads from TV. And Rod Blaine, sitting in the row behind Travis. I walked by him and he nodded. I stopped and said, “How you doing?”
He looked back at me and said, “Sorry. I was an ass.”
And then the room filled up, and the odd bits of family were interspersed with cops and lawyers and docs and a few members of the public who were sick of watching television.
Compared to his last appearance, Teak was subdued and looked smaller, like a superhero who had lost his powers. He was wearing shackles and a white collared shirt and khaki trousers. He sat beside his lawyer, a young guy who did defense work, including cases that were high-profile but total losers. Get your name in the paper, brings in the drunk drivers and divorces.
After Harriet’s arrest and murder charges, this one was hopeless through and through. We all listened as Penelope Bainer was questioned by the state prosecutor She said she’d examined lots of supposedly crazy people who had killed people. A few of them had Teak’s illness, schizoaffective disorder, as she’d explained it to me earlier. Symptoms generally include hallucinations, delusions, disorganized thinking, depression, and manic behavior, she told the court.
Teak Barney? Check, check, check, check, and check.
But Bainer said she didn’t find Teak particularly threatening in their one interaction.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “he can be quite engaging.”
She walked through the hours after Teak’s arrest. When Teak first went to the hospital ER, they shot him full of Haldol to subdue him. Then he was given Zyprexa, his antipsychotic, and the regular dosage knocked him for a loop. He slept for two days and was groggy for another after he came to.
“But this was his regular medication,” Gaddis said. “Why did it affect him this way now? He’d functioned quite well on Zyprexa in the past.”
“It was too much,” Bainer said. “It was essentially a double dose.”
“How could that be?”
“Because Mr. Barney hadn’t gone off his meds,” Bainer said. “He’d ingested crystal methamphetamine.”
The courtroom perked up.
“It’s not a given that the murder was committed while Mr. Barney was truly psychotic,” Bainer said.
“Then what was he?” she was asked.
“Very wired,” Bainer said. “Intense. Probably paranoid and delusional. But still able to focus. To carry out the plan.”
For Teak, it went downhill from there. Bainer said it was clear to her that Teak was trying to mimic his delusional symptoms when he was speaking to her. The problem was that in real life, Teak was by most definitions crazy. But he wasn’t that crazy. There was also the matter of the ten-grand down payment.
Teak went back to jail. His lawyers had their work cut out.
I wrote in my notebook: 35 years.
The story ran on page one, below the fold. We had a photo of Teak being led from the courtroom, holding his head up in some attempt at dignity, like a captured king. Matched it with a shot of Harriet at the shelter, ladling out beef stew. The headline said, from a hardscrabble homeless shelter, a lethal plot emerged.
I reread the story online at breakfast: Harriet held without bail, the woman they called Cowgirl stepping up to keep the shelter going. Teak’s dad saying his boy always wanted to do good, and even in killing “that lady,” his son thought he was doing the right thing.
It was 6:10. Dark and cold. I was on my second cup of tea and there was a knock on the door. I got up and opened it. Clair stepped in.
“What?” I said.
“Marta. Ruiz said they spotted her.”
“Where?”
“Toronto.”
“Alive?”
“Partly,” Clair said. “They think she’s been trafficked.”
A sinking feeling came over me, like black mud.
“Jesus.”
“Yes.”
“They talk to Louis?”
“Ruiz was looking for him.”
“You?”
“Tried calling. Not answering.”
“Let’s go.”
“Follow the money,” Clair said.
“Always,” I said.
We walked down the path to the barn, walked through the shop, and climbed the stairs to the loft. I used my phone to light my way. Clair knew each tread by heart.
We approached the grain bin side by side, peered over the edge and down. Where there had been a mound of grain, there was a duffel-sized hole.
We rolled up to the driveway. This time the cable was up.
“Didn’t we just do this?” I said.
“Time flies.”
“When the world is going all to hell,” I said.
I parked the Ford in the snowbank and we got out and zipped our jackets and started walking. There were fresh tire tracks, in and out. We trudged on, down the road between the trees, boots scuffing the hard snow. The closer we got to the house, the heavier the sense of foreboding grew.
And then we saw lights, smelled smoke from the woodstove. Louis was alive. Recently.
We climbed the porch, and Clair knocked on the big front door. Then he tried the latch and the door swung open. The dog was waiting, standing in front of us, not wagging but not growling either.
Clair said, “Where’s Louis?” and the dog turned, paws clicking, and started in the direction of the bedroom. We followed and walked through the door. Stopped. Stared.
“Hey,” Clair said.
“Hey,” Louis said back. “You too, Jack.”
He was leaning over the bed. It was covered in guns, arranged on an old sheet. Shotguns, handguns, a short-barreled rifle with a metal stock. Boxes and clips of ammo. A couple of scopes. Gun cases on the floor.
“Taking inventory?” Clair said.
Louis didn’t answer. Picked up a long magazine and snapped it into the short-barreled rifle.
“Didn’t know you had an H and K,” Clair said.
“A lot of things about me you don’t know,” Louis said.
“You going looking for her?” Clair said.
“Yeah. She sent me a text. Must’ve gotten hold of a john’s phone.”
“Where?” Clair said.
“Toronto,” Louis said.
He picked a case up off the floor and laid it on the bed. Flipped it open and put the rifle inside, snapped the lid shut.
“How you going to get this stuff through the border?” I said.
“Hire a fisherman to take me in. Coastline is a sieve. Buy a car and I’m off. Like Marta said, you have cash, you can go anywhere.”
“You have hers?” I said. “From the barn?”
“What do they call it? Poetic justice?” Louis said.
He started putting ammo into a plastic box.
“You might not win this one,” Clair said.
/>
“Doesn’t matter.”
Louis snapped the ammo box shut and laid two handguns in a single case. Turned back to us.
“Face it, guys. We’re the warrior class. You too, Jack. Your stories, the two of us stepping in—that’s not about news. Don’t kid yourself. It’s about beating back the bad guys, you know? Keeping them at bay. Giving good people a fighting chance. There have to be consequences.”
It was the most I’d ever heard Louis say in one chunk. I thought of Harriet and Teak, sitting in jail. Barrett and his mom, dead and gone. Marta suffering a worse fate.
Bad guys were up by one. Maybe Louis would make it even. In this not nearly perfect world, it was the most we could hope for.
“Good luck,” I said.
“Take care, Marine,” Clair said.
We walked out of the room. The dog watched us go.
Acknowledgments
Several people were remarkably generous in helping me as I wrote this story. Heartfelt thanks goes to Leo Pando, for insightfully leading me into the universe of comics and comic-book heroes; Dr. Debra Baeder, for guiding me as I ventured into the fascinating world of forensic psychology; Dr. Louisa Barnhart, for her insight into the mind and medication; and Dr. Michael Klein, who shared his experience dealing with emergencies like the one that begins this novel. I only regret that I could implement a tiny fraction of their vast knowledge, and that for this story I did frequently break out my poetic license.
Also, I greatly appreciate the counsel of my editor, Genevieve Morgan, and the vote of confidence of Islandport Press publisher Dean Lunt, who has rounded up all the McMorrow novels and presented them handsomely. And a shout-out goes to copy editor Melissa Hayes for reading Random Act so very carefully.
Lastly, for my family, who patiently listened as I used them as sounding boards yet again. Now I will leave you alone. But not for long.
—Gerry Boyle, June 2019
Reader’s Guide
We hope you’ve enjoyed Random Act, the twelfth novel in the Jack McMorrow mystery series. Many readers race through the pages of a McMorrow novel, so we are including these discussion questions in the hope that you take time to reflect on the story and characters and talk about your reactions with other Boyle fans.
Early on in the novel, Jack is at the scene of a brutal crime. The murder of Lindy Hines drives Jack to report on the crime and understand Teak’s motivation. Why do you think Jack can’t let go? Do you think this obsessive characteristic is good for Jack? Is it a characteristic necessary in a journalist?
McMorrow novels are populated by authentic Maine characters. In Random Act, Boyle introduces Marta to the mix. She is from a very different world from Sanctuary or Prosperity, Maine, or even Bangor. What did you think of Marta? Intriguing? Unsettling?
Speaking of Marta, this story reveals more of Louis’s past, and clues to his present life. How do you relate to Louis? How does the introduction of his love interest change the dynamic between Jack, Clair, and Louis?
The friendship between Jack and Clair is one of the most enduring relationships Jack has. How does this friendship impact Jack’s success? Would Jack be able to do what he does without Clair?
While many readers enjoy spending time with Jack, others love Clair. If you could meet either character for coffee in real life, which one would it be?
In Random Act, Boyle and McMorrow explore the world of mental illness and homelessness. Did that strike you as a realistic portrayal?
Lindy Hines is clearly the victim in Random Act. But are there others? Who?
Boyle’s mysteries are about serious stuff but they also have elements of humor. Were there moments in Random Act that made you laugh?
Boyle has said that there have been times when he thought he might have written novels with McMorrow’s friend Clair as the protagonist. And for one movie project, he wrote a screenplay that featured Roxanne as the heroine and McMorrow was barely in the story. Who would you like to see in the spotlight in the next McMorrow novel?
McMorrow has been chasing down stories for many years now. What kind of challenges do you think an author faces writing a long series? How has the world changed? How has the role of newspapers changed?
RandomActNEWpub Page 30
