Coldwater Revenge

by James A Ross

  “Ones whose boyfriend won’t behave?”

  “I’m serious, Joe. Who would want to harm a nice kid like Billy Pearce?”

  “Kill,” said Joe quietly. He picked up a stick and used the crooked end to snag a soggy sneaker that had drifted beside a floating fish carcass. “He may have been a nice little kid, Tommy. But he hung with a different crowd after his cute little brother days.”

  “Like who?”

  “The Cashins, Frankie Heller, that bunch.”

  Tom couldn’t picture Billy Pearce having anything in common with local bad boys, and he said so.

  “Pickings get slim around here after the school crowd leaves for college,” Joe reminded him. “What’s left is all there is, unless you want to stay home and drink.”

  That Billy Pearce was a disappointment to his over-achieving family was something the family never hid. But Tom couldn’t imagine the aristocratic Dr. Pearce sitting idle while his offspring dragged the family name to the trailer park. He kicked a spray of stones toward the water and, as if in response, the Blackberry in his pocket began to bleat. A swift, smothering hug pinned Tom’s arm to his side, preventing him from answering it.

  “Fair warning, Tommy. You had that thing glued to your ear the whole time you were here last year. Mom says that if she sees it there again, she’s going to shove it in with her cane.”

  Tom tried to free his arm, but it was pancaked to his ribcage.

  “Unless it’s a girl calling.”

  The phone continued to vibrate. “Look, I got a cryptic phone call as I was getting off the plane. I may have to go back to New York.”

  “Sweet Jesus, brother!” The squeeze tightened. “Mom will kill you. Bonnie will help her. The girls will truss you up with their jump ropes, and Luke will gnaw off your feet at the ankle.”

  “Norman Rockwell meets the Far Side,” The words escaped with the last of Tom’s breath.

  “We love you too, brother. But if you don’t stay off that god damned phone… or if you try to leave early because some fat cat snaps his fingers… be afraid for what your loving family will do to you.”

  Tom struggled to free his arm. “Let me answer the phone, Joe.”

  “Not a chance. If you need an action fix while you’re here, put that Ivy League brain of yours to work on something important for a change. Help me find out who killed Billy Pearce.”

  * * *

  Joe drove the patrol car into the hills east of town, where the pavement gave way to gravel and then dirt. Minutes later, he turned onto a one-lane track that came to an end in front of a three thousand square foot log cabin on ten acres of cleared land overlooking Coldwater Lake.

  Tom whistled. “You win the lotto or something? This is your new place?”

  “It’s private,” Joe growled. “And secure.” He punched a code into the keypad next to the front door. “I’ll leave you here to visit with Mom, if she isn’t napping. I need to get over to the morgue. But if she’s up, try not to push each other’s buttons, okay? It’d be nice to have a quiet, peaceful visit for a change.”

  Easier said… Tom loved his mother, and knew that all of his best qualities came from her. But a wall had risen between them that had not been there when he was growing up, bricked and layered by his choice of career and lifestyle, and mortared by her displeasure with both.

  He set his bags in the hall, catching his jet-lagged reflection in the polished copper pans that dangled above the island kitchen. A timbered room filled the greater part of the ground floor, bordered by a ceiling-high stone fireplace on one side and bedrooms on the other. Sliding glass doors led to a wraparound porch that overlooked the lake.

  A thin, raspy voice rose from a couch at the center of the room. “You’re letting your hair grow.”

  Tom crossed the room and gave his mother a kiss. A policeman’s widow for a dozen years, Mary Morgan had long since decided that life doesn’t get much better than a quiet afternoon on the magic carpet of a moderate alcohol buzz. She was thinner than when he had visited a year ago, and the thigh-high cast made her seem frail.

  “I’m on vacation, Beautiful.”

  “You didn’t grow that in a week.”

  He laughed. “A client talked me into it.”

  “Does she have a name?” Mary didn’t hide the hope in her voice. She exaggerated it.

  “Ed,” he said firmly, moving a pile of magazines from the end of the couch to clear a spot beside her.

  “Pshaw!”

  Suppressing a smile, he watched his mother’s graceful fingers comb a crop of silver curls that had been black and straight when he and Joe were growing up, with an off-center streak of white as if her habit of running her hand through her hair had worn away its colors.

  “You know I worry about you flitting around all those foreign cities. So does your brother—though he’d never say so to your face. It isn’t safe. Americans aren’t as popular as they used to be.”

  Tom reminded himself to be patient and let her work her beads. Afterwards they could relax and enjoy each other’s company. But as his brother had cautioned, if Tom tried to stop or shorten what had become an annual ritual, there would be no peace for any of them. “I’m in London more than any place other than New York,” he said. “It’s pretty safe these days… as long as our people don’t start blowing up pubs again.”

  Don’t bait her, Tommy.

  Mary’s face puckered, and she gave him the look. Her maiden name had been Flynn, but she refused to admit the Irish were her people. “Ne’er-do-well cousins” was as close as she’d come. “And you stayed, I suppose.” It was a statement, not a question, and an unveiled reference to the congenital recklessness she believed infected the Morgan lineage.

  “We were working on a three billion pound tender offer. You leave the room with chips like that on the table, and they don’t ever ask you to come back.” Can’t you be home more than one minute without showing off?

  She dismissed the preening. “Your father risked his life for strangers. I never understood that. I was always after him to stop.”

  “He should have listened to you.”

  “Your brother, too. There’s too much testosterone in this family.”

  She’d skipped a few questions. ‘You look tired. You should rest. Maybe you should stay another week. The last usually signaled the end.

  “You worried about someone blowing me up?”

  “Killing yourself with work is more like it. You look exhausted.”

  A carousel of images triggered by finding Billy’s body, and the phone call from New York that might mean he would have to cut this visit short, clamored for Tom’s attention. He hadn’t wanted to mention any of it right away. But the dead body of a childhood acquaintance is not something that can go unmentioned for long. “Look, mom. On the way in from the airport…”

  “Is that why your hand’s hovering over your pocket like there’s a pack of cigs in there and you just quit this morning?”

  He sighed, reminding himself to be patient. “Joe delivered your warning about the phone.”

  She placed her fingers on his forearm. “Leave it, Tommy. Just for a week. You need your family time.”

  “And happy to have it.”

  The opening was small, but she plunged. “And about time you started your own, don’t you think?”

  He laughed. “No.” And not fair asking questions out of order.

  “You’re wearing yourself out.”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re obsessed.”

  That wasn’t part of the usual litany. He smiled, hoping it didn’t encourage.

  “With money,” she pressed.

  Ouch! Then the words slipped out. “I wonder why?”

  Her chin jerked up and back as if he’d slapped her from below. But before he could sweep question and subject back under the rug where they belonged, one of the wireless gizmos on the table beside the couch began to trill. Lost among the bottled water, snack packs and piles of paperbacks, it was a mo
ment before either of them could find the source. Mary grabbed the phone first. “No, I’m afraid he’s not,” she said. “I would try him at the station house… No, I really don’t… As I told you before, Miss Pearce, this is his home not his office.” Click.

  Tom lowered his chin and peered at his mother from beneath compressed eyebrows. “Susan Pearce?” The name of his high-school girlfriend came out a rasp.

  “Three times in the last half hour.”

  “She’s here? Already?”

  “She’s been back a year.”

  “What? The Dooley brothers just fished her brother’s body out of Coldwater Lake less than an hour ago. Joe got the call on our way here. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  Mary’s hand moved to the top of her forehead where her long white fingers combed a meticulous hairdo. “Oh, dear. No wonder you’re so testy. I wish you’d told me. And the poor girl’s just after losing her parents, too.”

  “What? Dr. Pearce is dead?” It came out nearly a shout. “And Mrs. Pearce?”

  Mary closed her eyes, sighed and then opened them again. “Didn’t you know? That’s what brought Miss Pearce back to Coldwater. The parents drowned in a boating accident in Wilson Cove last year. She and her brother inherited that beautiful estate.”

  * * *

  Susan’s back in Coldwater?

  Tom felt like a kid who’s just heard the jingle of an ice cream truck rolling down the street—alert, excited, ready to blast off. But the sound of an SUV coming to a stop, a door flying open and cries of, ‘Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom!’ forced him to tuck the feeling away for later.

  Two pairs of sticky hands wrapped around his neck. Four gangly legs slid into his arms. He staggered upright like an out-of-shape circus strong man. “Girls!” he groaned. “You make your daddy do this?”

  “He can lift us over his head!”

  “Well, I can drop you!” Tom flexed his knees and a staccato of pink flip flops slapped the hardwood. Squeals of laughter blasted his ears.

  “And who’s this? Somebody’s new boyfriend?” A dark haired boy of about six ducked behind his sister’s legs and peered shyly around them. Tom bent at the waist and held out his hand.

  “That’s Luke, Uncle Tom!”

  “No way! Luke’s about yeah high.” Tom turned his palm upside down over his knee. “Are you Luke?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Let me feel your muscle.” Tom reached toward the boy, who lifted his arm slowly while holding tight to his sister’s leg. Tom wrapped his fingers gently around the boy’s bicep. “Wow! You’ve grown, buddy.” The boy smiled. “Where’s your mom?” He pointed toward the door. “She got packages?” He nodded and stepped cautiously from behind his sister. “Okay, let’s put those muscles to work.”

  Tom and the kids helped their mother carry groceries to the kitchen, then she sent them off to play and do homework. Rising on her toes, Joe’s pretty wife gave Tom a quick peck on the cheek, and whispered, “Good to have you back.” A petite girl-next-door type with a slim figure and short brown hair, Bonnie Morgan was even-tempered, competent and forgiving of her husband’s many shortcomings, including his family. Tom didn’t often see that combination in his colleagues’ marriages. If his brother’s wife had been a tall redhead, there might have been some fraternal competition.

  Joe came home an hour later and pulled Tom aside. “I got a call from somebody who saw Billy’s picture in this afternoon’s Coldwater Gazette and claims it looks like the guy who broke into his business a few weeks ago. I told him we’d meet him in an hour.”

  Bonnie came out of the kitchen and gave her husband a hug and a kiss, saying that dinner would be ready in five minutes.

  Joe took her hand. “Did Tommy tell you about Billy Pearce?”

  “We’ve been whispering about it all afternoon. It’s terrible. But don’t say anything in front of the kids. Please. We don’t want nightmares.”

  Joe squeezed her hand. “Look, I hate to do this, but Tommy and I need to run.”

  “Joe!”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a lead on this Billy Pearce business. I need to jump on it.”

  “At least eat, babe.”

  “Maybe I should stay,” said Tom. He had altered his vacation plans to help Joe’s wife, who had her hands more than full taking care of three kids and a self-medicating mother-in-law with a broken leg. If he said yes to Joe, they could be doing the Holmes/Watson thing all week, and then so much for helping Bonnie.

  “I need you, Tommy. The guy who called is the owner of that new bio-research company that moved into Coldwater Park last year. He’s a corporate wheeler dealer, like you. I need someone to translate the bullshit.”

  “Joe!” said Bonnie.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I need Tommy’s help, that’s all. We’ve got to run.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Eat, then run. Don’t disappoint your mother. She’s been waiting all day to have the two of you together.”

  Used to be she couldn’t wait to get rid of us.

  The brothers carried their mother outside to the picnic table, while Bonnie and the girls brought out plates of hamburger and sweet corn. It was too late in the year to dine comfortably outside, so they ate hurriedly while the sun sank toward the horizon. When they finished, Tom produced a bag of exotic presents from foreign locales: geisha kimonos for Kate and Meghan, a scrimshaw pocket knife for Luke. The girls put on the kimonos and performed an energetic hip hop while the sun dropped over the trees beyond the lake. Luke toyed with the knife under the watchful eye of his mother.

  “Do you know how to play Mumbly peg?” Tom asked.

  The boy moved his head from side to side.

  “Your dad used to be pretty good at it, until grandma took away his Barlow. Get him to tell you the story sometime.”

  “Careful, brother. I’ve got stories, too.”

  “But not the right audience.” Tom turned to Luke. “Anything you want to know about your dad, you ask me. He was a wild man before he met your mom.”

  Bonnie laughed. “I might like to hear those stories.”

  “Tommy!” Mary’s voice was a warning.

  “He gets it from Grandma,” said Tom. “Do you take after your mom?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “adic-I s-adic-ee,” Tom said, in a soft, conspiratorial whisper.

  The boy cocked his head.

  “I used to do the same thing to Grandma. Drove her n-adic-uts.”

  “Tommy!” Mary’s voice rose again. Bonnie’s head swung back and forth between mother and sons. Joe raised his eyes to the sky.

  “It’s a secret language,” Tom explained. Only eldest male Morgans are allowed to speak it. I spoke it with my Dad. He spoke it with his. Luke and I are allowed to speak it, too—but no one else.” He put his arm around his nephew. “I thought I saw some rushes down there by the pond. Why don’t you cut a big one and I’ll show you how to carve a whistle they can hear all the way to town.”

  The boy nodded vigorously and took off down the hill toward the pond at the bottom of the property. As soon as he was out of earshot, Mary cautioned, “Be careful, Tommy. Don’t embarrass the boy.”

  Bonnie spoke quietly. “We took him to Upstate Medical last month. They said the same thing as the doctors here. There’s nothing wrong with his hearing or his vocal cords. He understands everything. He just won’t speak.”

  CHAPTER 4

  NeuroGene occupied the first floor of a prefabricated metal building on the outskirts of town where the Coldwater drive-in movie theater used to be when Tom and Joe were growing up. Tom felt himself smile as they drove past the oak tree that had been the unofficial line of demarcation between the families who were there to see the movie, and the teenage couples who were there to make out. Joe stared straight ahead. He was in his hunter mode. Nothing extraneous was going to register until the bio research company owner was bagged, or released.

  Joe parked the patrol car in front of a steel frame building skinned in faux ston
e and tinted glass. Holes in the stone showed where the lengthy logo of a previous tenant had been replaced by the single word NeuroGene. Tom expected a blast of over-air conditioned air. But the air inside the glass-fronted reception area felt tepid and stuffy. New Age Muzak filtered through stands of spindly bamboo on either side of a metal reception desk. Joe leaned a hand on the desk, and it slid toward the wall.

  “Hey careful!” The girl behind the desk braced it with her forearm, keeping a phone wedged tightly between shoulder and ear.

  Joe flashed his badge. “We’re here to see Mr. Willow.”

  She sighed into the phone, “Back in a sec,” then pressed numbers on a keypad. “They’re here.” Then she pressed some more buttons and showed the Morgan brothers the back of her head.

  Tom noted the absence of visitors’ chairs in the reception area or any magazines, company literature, corporate art or other visual distraction beyond the single word NEUROGENE painted on the wall above the receptionist’s head in a fashion-y script that looked like something you might see on the window of a hair salon.

  When the door next to the reception desk finally opened, a lanky, middle-aged man in need of a haircut and sunlight stepped forward to greet them. The outstretched hand and simian show of outsized teeth were perfunctory. “Dave Willow,” he said, “Follow me.”

  The NeuroGene owner led them down a hall lined with inspirational posters and empty offices to a tiny unpainted room containing a single metal desk, two unmatched chairs and stacks of files and loose paper that looked less like they were passing through in any commercial sense and more like permanent residents. To Tom’s well-traveled eye, the venue was more academic than entrepreneurial and not too successful at either.

  Willow motioned his guests to sit, and then settled into a faux leather chair behind the cluttered desk. Joe produced a blown-up copy of a New York State driver’s license, and Willow leaned forward to look at it. “That’s him,” he said. “No question.”

  “The guy you found rummaging in your mail room?”

  “I don’t know that he was rummaging. He was just there where he shouldn’t be.”