My Wife's Husband

by E H Davis

  The rain had stopped. Jens opened the Subaru’s door and got out. Tomorrow he and Teddy would drive back down the mountain to the seacoast, where he’d get to the heart of the matter, the truth.

  He’d also have to face the consequences of his decision to drop the Honore Poulon book, or postpone it at the very least, to pursue Cassie Melantree. In her he knew he’d found a vehicle to explore his deepest concerns in life: suffering, guilt, redemption.

  The phone was ringing in the house. He bounded up the front steps and yanked open the door.

  “Teddy, you up yet?” he yelled into the basement. “We’ve got to get a move on, kiddo.” He picked up the phone, prepared to confront Vivian about this Laurent character.

  But it was Ferdie, calling to tell him that Daniel, “the unsub,” had passed away. A blood clot from the trauma to his brain had dislodged, killing him in his sleep. Jens thought to ask her what would become of Daniel now, but she’d hung up, leaving him with more questions than answers.

  And sadness — that could not be entirely accounted for by the death of a stranger whose life he’d saved.

  And a pang of jealousy — at the thought of Vivian with another man.

  And concern — that a stranger was trying to insinuate himself into their lives — a dangerous stranger.

  He reached deeper, looking for the tenacity and resourcefulness he would need to get to the bottom of the Laurent matter.

  And the nerve, to protect his family, no matter what.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Laurent maneuvered around the newly-cemented sidewalk, cordoned off with yellow tape while it dried; shuffled past exhaust-dusted hedges and chain-link fences that kept the neighborhood pit-bulls and rottweilers from taking off his hide. They lunged and snapped at him, making him scoff, as he considered the irony of upscale homeowners keeping dogs once reserved for parolees and inner-city drug dealers.

  Portsmouth had changed in his absence, bought up by the rich.

  With real-estate prices skyrocketing in Portsmouth, gentrification had waved its magic wand, transforming this once low-income enclave into an upscale development.

  He pushed on through the back alleys and courtyards, a labyrinth of made-over triple-deckers and single-family homes. Ever since Laurent could remember, this end of Portsmouth had always been home to those living, literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. Not anymore. He wondered how his friend, his erstwhile cellmate, could still afford to live here.

  At the end of the courtyard, he bounded up the steps of a modest cape, the door glowing with a fresh coat of white paint easy to find in the dusk. His friend, he noted, had been keeping up with the gentrification trend. That meant he must be doing well, even for an ex-con.

  Laurent rapped three times in quick succession, paused, rapped again.

  From the triple-decker next door, with its widow’s walk converted to a dormer, wary eyes peeped from behind closed shades. The widow’s walk reminded him of Portsmouth’s origins as a whaling town, when wives, keeping faith with sea-faring husbands, scanned the harbor from their iron-gated rooftops.

  Laurent pushed back the anger that was always there, simmering beneath the surface. Hadn’t he deserved the same treatment from Vivian? Hadn’t he risked it all for her?

  He was about to rap again when the door swung open. A tall man in his early 40s, his predatory features hard and unforgiving, looked him over.

  Warren.

  With his long ponytail and black leather vest worn over a work shirt, he looked like an old hippie who’d just climbed down from the roof he’d been working on. This wasn’t far from the truth, as earlier he’d been putting up new cedar shingles out back.

  But his muscular arms — sleeved with jail-house tattoos — told a different story. This was a man who could kill without blinking.

  Warren tossed his braid over his shoulder. His movements were spare, economic like his words, as Laurent knew from sharing a cell with him for more than a decade.

  Laurent’s voice wavered, caught off guard seeing him in the flesh after so long.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes, brotha.”

  He ventured a smile, which went unreturned.

  Warren made a deft movement behind his back, tucking a pistol under his belt. Laurent wondered why he would jeopardize his parole and all that he’d worked for by keeping a firearm.

  “Supposed to call first, right?”

  Laurent fumbled for an answer.

  “Don’t tell me, no cell phone yet?”

  Caught like a schoolboy, Laurent nodded.

  “Heard of burner phones?”

  Laurent’s discomfort was palpable.

  “Get in here, chooch!”

  Grinning, he yanked Laurent inside and locked the door, but not before scanning the neighborhood for watchful eyes.

  ________

  Laurent followed him into the living room, a cozy space dominated by a matching faux-leather recliner and couch grouped around a wide-screen TV. Lace doilies covered the arms of the furniture. Yarn paintings adorned the walls, depicting homey scenes and sayings: Home is where they have to take you when you got no place else to go. Over the fireplace hung a picture of haloed Jesus, morbidly pointing at his bleeding heart. On the coffee table, a spray of white roses scented the room.

  Laurent held out his right hand for Warren to shake, forgetting that cons don’t shake. Warren gripped his forearm instead, and they tapped each other on the shoulder with the left hand — ensuring that neither was holding a weapon. A standing joke between them while in prison, as they’d trusted each other with their lives.

  Warren pushed up the sleeve of Laurent’s shirt, exposing his tattoos: a weeping woman, interlocking barbed wire bracelets, a spider web cradled at the elbow, a quincunx of four dots around a center dot on the underside of the wrist, and three dots in a triangle in the web formed by thumb and forefinger on the back of the hand. No color; all faded black and blue.

  He held his own arm alongside Laurent’s, his tattoos nearly identical, except for the four-petal shamrock reserved for members of the notorious Hell’s Kitchen gang, the Westies.

  “Some things never change.” Grinning, he pushed down Laurent’s sleeve.

  “You got that right,” Laurent answered.

  “You want something to drink — or smoke?”

  “Both if you don’t mind.”

  Laurent felt Warren’s eyes drilling him, stripping him bare of deception and lies, even the ones he told himself. Just like in stir.

  “Sit. I’ll be right back.”

  ________

  He returned carrying a tray with two juice glasses, filled to the brim with colorless alcohol. Laurent knew the lime slices and saltshaker meant tequila, though he’d never tried it before, having missed it while in prison.

  Warren set everything down on the coffee table without spilling a drop. He demonstrated the ritual, licking salt from the back of his hand, tossing back the shot, biting the lime — his accompanying grunt of satisfaction optional.

  Laurent followed his lead, snuffling back the fiery liquid when it went down the wrong way and seeped from his nose.

  “I got this,” Laurent said, choking.

  Warren gave him a whack on the back

  “My pruno never agreed with you neither.”

  He motioned for Laurent to sit on the couch, angled the recliner to face him, and sat down. He took a glassine bag from his shirt pocket and tossed it to Laurent.

  “This gonna do the trick?”

  Laurent examined the contents: a verdigris and gold-colored marijuana bud the size of a walnut. He broke the bag’s seal and took a whiff.

  “Man!” He passed the bag back to Warren. “Your product?”

  Warren glared at him.

  “Don’t even think that. Marie will have my balls if she thinks I’m back in the game.”

  Laurent knew all about Marie from Warren’s endless stories. With a then eleven-year-old daughter from a previous marriage, she’d marri
ed him on the condition that he give up his old ways and fly straight.

  “Marie’s job doesn’t cover your nut?”

  Warren broke up the bud with a small scissors and rolled a tight joint without losing a crumb.

  “RNs don’t make shit, even with overtime.”

  His eyes roamed the room as he licked and sealed the joint.

  “House in this neighborhood — not cheap.”

  He fired up the joint and passed it to Laurent.

  “You do the honors.”

  The pot — which Warren extolled as Merrimack Valley Primo, known for its mellow yet energizing qualities — performed as advertised.

  Lubricated by the tequila and smoke, they talked about everything that had transpired in their respective lives since Warren had been paroled seven years earlier, leaving Laurent in Concord to serve out his sentence alone.

  By that time, Laurent had no longer needed Warren’s protection. He’d proven his resolve not to “swing” by cutting those who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Though it had cost him time in solitary away from his job at the library — his only pleasure — it had been worth it.

  Grinning, Warren now owned that he’d been a law-abiding citizen since his release — except for the pot farm he’d recently taken a stake in.

  “Explains the piece you greeted me with at the door.” Laurent toked, held his breath, passed the joint.

  “So what are you going to do with your life, genius?”

  Laurent’s sudden deflation was palpable.

  “I screwed up — bad,” he said, exhaling between the words.

  Warren waited for him to go on.

  “How bad?”

  “Broke into Vivian’s house. Her kid may have spotted me.”

  Warren waited, sensing there was more.

  “I threw a rock at her husband, broke a window on his car. Luckily he didn’t see me.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know — carjack her old man, get some money out of him. He’s loaded.

  Lauren gnawed on a knuckle nervously. “Grab Vivian, start a new life.”

  “You check with her on any of this?”

  Laurent stood, agitated, his massive shoulders trembling.

  “Easy, bro. Marie will be home soon — we gotta wrap this up.”

  “That’s not all,” Laurent blurted. “I went to her art gallery, made a fool of myself.” He started to say he’d gone to the Corbin boy’s school, but thought better of it.

  Warren was the first to break the heavy silence.

  “Look, you need a plan. This guy, her husband, what’s he do?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s a writer, damn successful one.” He sniggered. “Writes crime novels — had a bestseller a few years back. Fugger’s loaded. I know we can take him off,” he added. “I’m just not sure how.”

  Warren stroked his ponytail thoughtfully.

  “Okay, say I help you. You gotta stop thinking with your dick and use your head. First thing, get a cell phone, a burner — use it to call me. Lay low. And no more stalking, not unless you’re ready to go back.”

  It was the most he’d ever heard Warren say at one time. He felt better already.

  “Vivian ... she’s not going to get hurt, right?”

  “Nobody’s going to get hurt — except in the pocket. We’re going to have to be smart and careful. I have no intention of going back to jail, friend.”

  Warren walked him to the door.

  “One more thing. You listening?”

  Laurent stiffened.

  “Stay away from Vivian.”

  Out on the doorstep, Laurent congratulated himself on saying nothing about stalking the boy. Or his upcoming meeting with Vivi, for that matter.

  ________

  After Laurent left, Warren tidied up, putting away the drinks and opening windows to air out the pot. Marie didn’t like him getting high in the house, setting a bad example for her daughter, as straight an arrow as they come. Marie made him toe the line. Being married to her, he passed for a law-abiding citizen with his front as a contractor, basically a handyman. But that didn’t stop him from doing what he did best — drug running and extorting any and all fool enough to fall into his web.

  That included his ex-cellie, time spent in stir watching each other’s back notwithstanding. Stir was one thing; this was now.

  Warren fanned the air in the living room with a towel, chasing away any scent of pot and with it any regrets he might have about taking Laurent for everything he could. Which, naturally, included Laurent’s ex-wife and her husband’s money, home, possessions, and life, if it came to that.

  Laurent, he decided, would be set up as the fall guy.

  He smiled to himself as he straightened the doily on the armchair.

  Things were looking up. Hopefully, they’d happen quickly enough to appease his business associates from Boston’s North End. Time was running out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jens and Teddy spent Sunday morning fishing the Saco River, where they each caught three legal-sized brown trout on 5-weight line, using mayfly nymph flies. The flies had been recommended by the bluff, red-faced clerk at the tackle shop, who was sure they would work. Jens cleaned the fish and pan-fried them for lunch with home fries. Eating the fish gratified Teddy, who was incensed by fishermen who turned their catch back into the water, fishing only for sport.

  Later, they hiked Red Ridge Trail on the eastern slope of Moat Mountain, north of Conway. Of some difficulty, with a steep incline and a peak elevation of 3,196 feet, the four-hour hike offered spectacular panoramic views of the surrounding ranges. Its chief attraction, because of its difficulty, was the lack of crowds. Jens found it more challenging than the climb up Black Mountain Trail, where they’d had the incident with Daniel.

  As they hiked, Jens attempted to get Teddy talking about himself, but he remained reticent, answering in monosyllables. Jens tried to find an opening in which to bring up the letters from Laurent. But a graceful opportunity never arose, and he gave it up, content to enjoy the boy’s company without stress. He thought that the ride home back to Lee the next day might be more opportune.

  Over a dinner of cheeseburgers, chips, and a rare beer that Jens occasionally permitted, Teddy became more animated, speculating about the identity of Daniel and his motive for wanting to kill himself.

  “I think that what got Daniel going probably had to do with a woman, maybe his wife, who is probably dead.”

  Startled, Jens looked at him, sensing the likelihood in Teddy’s observation.

  “I think you’re right.”

  Teddy nodded. “Why else would he try to kill himself? If she were gone, he’d have nothing to live for.”

  Jens smiled at the simplicity of Teddy’s logic. He was about to ask him to speculate further when Teddy jumped up from the table.

  “Daddio, I challenge you to a game of Xbox. I’ll give you twenty bucks if you beat me.”

  Jens smiled. “Do you even have twenty dollars?”

  “C’mon, it will be fun.”

  “Hey! I got an idea. You don’t happen to have a racing car game, like Le Mans, do you?”

  Teddy shot him a perplexed look.

  “No, Dad ... why would I? I’m into ... assassins.”

  “There was a time, back in Los Angeles, when I was writing a script and I needed to take a course in intensive driving offered by a Hollywood stunt car driver. For research. It was awesome,” he added, his excitement flagging as he gauged his son’s disinterest. “No? Okay. You go ahead then.”

  ________

  Jens dutifully called Vivian and listened patiently — despite a raging impulse to interrogate her about Laurent — while she recounted a rambling story about how Bruzza had gotten out. There was an odd excitement in her voice that he hadn’t noticed in a long time. Still, what he had to ask her would have to be done face-to-face. It was too easy to lie over the phone.

  Besides, he was impatient to end the call and s
trategize his meeting with his agent, Jean Fillmore-Smart, who was driving up from Boston to Portsmouth, to meet with him to discuss the next Honore Poulon installment.

  Vivian, sensing his distraction, curtly ended the conversation with a brusque “Okay, I’ll let you go now.” Jens was accustomed to her discourtesy, which spoke volumes about their marriage. Though he enjoyed being with Teddy, he’d planned the trip to give his wife time alone, to work uninterrupted on her painting. And for him to get some time off from her.

  Accompanied by his customary glass of red wine, he settled down before the fireplace with a notebook. He slid a pen out from the spiral coils and wrote in the middle of the green cover, in large bold script: “Forsake Me Not: A Cassie Melantree Novel by Jens Corbin.” Now it was official. He turned to the first lined page and began to write.

  Background: What does she look like? Where does Cassie live? Why was she a single mom? Who was the father of her abducted daughter? How and when was she taken? How did the local civic leader get away with it? How did she solve her daughter’s case?

  Jens stopped to consider the questions he’d raised about Cassie. He had a clear picture of her in his mind’s eye. She was tall, well-proportioned, and athletic. Pretty, in a wholesome way. Like Ferdie. He saw other physical features, scars, old sports injuries, but he had enough — the rest he would discover as he went along.

  Tomorrow, once back in Lee in his attic study, he would flesh out Cassie’s personality and finalize her background, then he’d be ready to pick up her story in Mexico. With Tommy Flaherty, a missing persons cop she likes but is reluctant to show feelings for, they track the suspect back to Mexico, taking them deeper into the underworld of Mexico’s human trafficking, a world coincidental with that of the drug trade. He had enough to go into a meeting with Jean and infect her with his enthusiasm.

  Glancing up from his notes, he saw that Teddy had forgotten to mark off the day’s trail on the topographical map over the mantle. As he traced the trail in red magic marker, he thought about how mountain climbing was a metaphor for writing — step by step the incline is surmounted, overcoming all obstacles.