by Gerry Boyle
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
With most books I owe a debt of gratitude to my former colleagues in the newspaper business, the best training ground for a crime novelist ever. For Damaged Goods, a special thanks goes to reporter Doug Harlow, who knows a good crime story also contains an element of mystery.
Copyright © 2010 by Gerry Boyle
All rights reserved
Distributed to the trade by National Book Network
ISBN 978-0-89272-796-4 (alk. paper)
Chapter 1
I made my way down the trail through the pinewoods toward the house. Sophie was on my shoulders, her legs tucked under my arms, her arms around my neck, one small hand clutching a droopy bouquet, strangled in her sweaty grip.
“So it was a good day,” I said. “We picked flowers.”
“For Mommy.”
“Yes. And we found arrowheads—”
“—the Indian kids lost them,” Sophie said, whispering into my ear.
“Right. The Indian kids lost them. And we had a picnic at the swimming spot and you went swimming—”
“And we had a nap,” she said.
“Right. We went to sleep in the mossy spot.”
“A bug, he crawled on me.”
“But he didn’t hurt you,” I said.
“No, Daddy,” Sophie said. “He was a nice bug.”
Down the path we went, Sophie’s face brushing against mine as she leaned forward while we passed under low-hanging branches. I could smell her fresh Sophie smell, feel her soft-smooth skin. I bent under the branch of an old maple, craggy and dying, dating to when Prosperity, Maine, was all farms, these woods were pasture, and this maple was spared the axe. Its roots had come to the surface, as if the old tree was trying to get up and move, sick of the same old place after a hundred years.
I stumbled, Sophie hung on, and after a few more lurching steps, we emerged from the shadows of the woods into tall grass, then onto a broad swath of lawn. Beyond the lawn was the Varneys’ big, shingled barn. A door swung open.
“Hey, Pumpkin.”
Sophie slipped her leg over my shoulder, her legs pumping as I lowered her to the ground.
“Clair,” she said, running on little sandaled feet. “We were in the forest.”
Clair held his arms out and she hit them at full stride. He swung her up and around and she was chattering now, about the Indians and the bug, then she was down again, racing back to me as I crossed the lawn and saying, “I need the arrows. Clair needs to see.”
I took three stones from my shorts pocket. Sophie took them and ran back, held them out. Clair bent down, his head of white hair close to her dark curls and his big, tanned hand picked up one stone and turned it.
“Whoa, Pumpkin,” he said. “Where were the Indians?”
“They left,” Sophie said, jumping up and down on one foot, then the other. “They left a long time ago.”
Clair looked up at me and smiled.
“I know where there’s some dinosaur bones out there,” he said, picking her up and holding her so she sat on his bicep, just above his Semper Fi tattoo.
“Wow,” Sophie said. “Can we go get them?”
Then two chickens came around the corner of the barn and she squirmed to the ground, following them and clucking as they fled back toward the coop.
“A lesser paleontologist might mistake them for moose bones,” Clair said.
“Or pointed rocks,” I said.
“Good thing we know what we’re doing.”
“A very good thing.”
“She’s gonna be in trouble if she ever needs to know about video games,” Clair said.
The chickens came back around the end of the barn, heads bobbing. Sophie was behind them, saying, “Peckety peck,” bobbing her head, too.
“You want to come in? Mary’ll make us some lemonade,” Clair said.
“Sure,” I said. “We worked up a thirst, didn’t we, Soph?”
Walking along the gravel path that led from the barn, we started for the house. We were by the back door, closer to the road, when we heard a familiar sound: Roxanne’s Subaru approaching. The car flashed past, headed for home, leaving a billow of dust in its wake.
“Mommy’s home,” Sophie said.
“Yeah,” I said. “And she’s early.”
Clair and I exchanged glances. I said we’d take a raincheck on the lemonade, go see Roxanne. Sophie was already trotting down the drive, and I followed, caught up with her, swung her into my arms, and hurried out to the dirt road.
It was five hundred yards to the house, and when we walked up the drive, Roxanne’s Subaru was parked by my truck. We went inside and as soon as I put Sophie down she dashed for the kitchen, and I heard Roxanne say, “Sweetie.” When I came into the room she was holding Sophie in her arms and the wilted bouquet as Sophie briefed her on our day.
“Indians,” Roxanne said. “Really. Did you see them?”
Sophie said no, slipped down, and said she had to put her arrowheads in a secret spot. She ran out of the kitchen and we heard her shoes slap on the stairs. I walked over to Roxanne, gave her a squeeze and a kiss. Behind her on the counter, there was a bottle of white wine already out of the refrigerator.
“Three o’clock,” I said. “They let you start the weekend early?”
“I’d had enough.”
“Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s just—”
Roxanne closed her eyes. Swallowed hard. A tear showed at the corner of her eye like a tiny pearl.
“A crummy day,” she said.
“Why?” I said.
“Oh—” She paused. Sighed. “We pulled these two little kids in Appleton. People down the road found them rummaging for food in their trash cans. Thought it was raccoons.”
“So why—”
“Why is that so crappy?” Roxanne said, turning and uncorking the wine, pouring a glass. I waited. She took a quick sip. Swallowed.
“Kids didn’t want to come with us, of course. Skinny little things, dirty. Their teeth, oh my god.”
“And?”
“Welts all over them. They said it was from ‘the belt.’ Parents live in this compound sort of place way out in the boonies. Filthy house. Dogs on chains you had to get by. Deputy had to Mace one of them. Inside there’s dishes covered with mold. Blankets over the windows, dark and stuffy and smelly. Mother was clearly an abuse victim, scared to death of the dad.”
“Was he screaming at you?”
“No, the deputies held him back, and then—”
Roxanne d
rank again. Her face was drained and gray, dark shadows under her eyes. She swallowed.
“And then what?”
“He’s going on, saying he’ll see us in court. Usual stuff. State won’t get away with this.”
Roxanne looked at me.
“And then he gets really quiet, he’s this tall skinny guy, going bald, really creepy pale blue eyes.”
She shuddered.
“Marilyn, she takes the younger one, a little boy, five-year-old. They go outside. I’m inside with the older one, he’s seven or eight.”
“Where are the cops?” I said.
“They’re right there, but then the dogs—one of the chains pulled out or something and the dog attacks Marilyn in the yard and the deputies take off, their guns out and everything, and Marilyn is screaming and the younger boy is yelling. Oh, God.”
Another sip. A quick breath.
“So you’re alone with the boy.”
“And the parents. They clearly hate my guts, I mean really hate me.”
“Who are these people?”
“Harland and Cheree Wilton. With two E’s. But you don’t know that.”
“These things don’t usually bother you. Not like this.”
“I know. I mean, they shouldn’t. But this wasn’t just normal angry. The guy especially, just staring so hard, and then out of nowhere he calls me a Jew bitch.”
“Huh.”
“And then I’m headed for the door, I’ve got the boy by the shoulder and he isn’t saying a word. But the father gets close to me, he’s right behind me and the door won’t open, it’s this heavy wooden thing, and I was about to yell for help.”
“You should have.”
“And he’s right next to me, Jack. I can smell him. And he says, in this awful low voice, calm and slow. He says, ‘You’re dead. The power of Satan will destroy your body and soul.’ Those exact words. And then he lets out this awful bellow and raises his arms up, like he’s going to make lightning strike, and he says, ‘Satan. I will do your bidding,’ or something, and then he’s ranting about filthy Christians and Jews, and oh, my God.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, honey,” I said. “He’s just some nut. You’ve seen hundreds of them.”
Roxanne closed her eyes.
“This one just shook me.”
“Sure, but it’s okay now.”
“Jack,” Roxanne said.
“Yeah?”
She looked at me, eyes wide open, tears welling in her lashes. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Alright,” I said.
“Baby, I just want to stay home.”
“Fine. Then you’ll stay home. I’ll pick up the pace on the freelancing, cut wood with Clair. We’ll be okay.”
I held her close, felt her sigh again and shudder. Then we heard Sophie come back down the stairs, one step at a time. We broke our embrace and Sophie ran into the kitchen, launched herself at Roxanne, who caught her, lifted her up, and held her tightly. Sophie pushed herself back and looked at her mother.
“No being sad allowed, Mommy,” Sophie said.
“I’m not, honey,” Roxanne said.
“Where did you go today?”
“A place called Appleton.”
“Is the apple place far, far away?”
“No,” Roxanne said.
About ten miles from Prosperity, I thought, if you took the back ridge roads. Just the other side of Searsmont.
“Do you have to go there tomorrow?” Sophie said.
“No, honey,” Roxanne said. “I don’t.”
Twenty minutes, I thought. Shorter if they were in North Appleton.
“Why did the apple place make you sad?” Sophie asked.
Because some psycho devil worshipper scared the crap out of her, I thought.
I patted Sophie’s shoulder.
“Mommy just missed us,” I said.
Chapter 2
The rain began sometime after midnight and when I got up at five it was falling steadily, a storm with staying power, the kind that goes on for days. I grabbed jeans and a T-shirt and slipped out of the room, leaving Roxanne—dark hair spread on the pillow, beautiful in her stillness—to her Saturday sleep-in. When I passed Sophie’s room, I went in and checked on her. She was on her stomach, stuffed animals sprawled around her like they were sleeping off a wild party. Her breaths came quickly, each one a miracle. The “arrowheads” were on her bedside table.
I leaned over her, watched, and listened. Then I went downstairs, dressed in the kitchen as the water heated in the kettle. When it had boiled, I made a cup of Irish breakfast tea, went to the study end of the big room. Chickadees were already at the feeder, flitting in and out of the rain. I watched them through the sliding glass door, then turned to my desk.
I sat. Opened the right-hand top drawer and took out a leather-bound notebook. I flipped it open and scanned the list, flipped through the clippings and notes scrawled on sticky-notes about stories I wanted to do someday.
Someday was here.
There was an old news clipping about a schooner that had sunk off Deer Isle in the 1950s. That one I’d pitched to Down East. A note about a mother who had reportedly visited her son, a murderer doing life at the Maine State Prison, every Friday for twenty-three years.
A letter (addressed to “Jack McMorrow, the reporter, Prosperity, Maine”) somebody wrote me about a state trooper who delivered twins in the back seat of his cruiser in a snowstorm. They were twelve and he had cancer and they mowed his lawn. A note about a guy alleged to be the biggest outlaw woodcutter in Maine, cutting trees on out-of-staters’ land. A clipping about a guy who claimed to have seen a mountain lion in his backyard in the little town of Swanville, how everybody thought he was nuts.
And a torn piece of classified ad from the Waldo County News a few weeks back. Personals offering recreational massage and erotic entertainment. Who were these people? What financial pressures drove them to this? How did they remain anonymous in this small-town place? Did they know their clients from junior high? The ads were circled. One was underlined, “Mandi. Companionship. 555-9630.”
I looked at it. Remembered why that had caught my eye, that word. What was the going rate for being a companion? By the hour or the day? What did that mean?
I spread the stuff out, considered it. If Roxanne was going to stay home, I needed to start cranking out the stories. If I made a couple of grand for a magazine feature, eight-hundred for a section-front news story for the Times, started pitching stuff to the Globe, even the travel section—maybe we could do this.
That and cutting wood.
Turning from the desk, I looked back outside. The rain was heavier; the chickadees at the feeder had turned to soggy feathered balls. Clair and I, thinning a woodlot in West Montville, wouldn’t be working today. I turned back. I’d missed the mother at the prison. I could try the guy with the mountain lion.
I picked up the classified ads. Looked at my watch. I wondered what time Mandi opened for business.
Sophie woke up at seven and made a beeline for our room, climbed in bed with Roxanne. They slept for an hour and then Sophie was chattering away. I listened from the kitchen as I made scrambled eggs, home fries, and English muffins—our Saturday morning ritual. They came downstairs, Sophie skipping ahead in her pajamas, Roxanne behind her in one of my T-shirts, a big one that said Red Sox, 2007 World Champions.
“Daddy, you made special eggs,” Sophie said, running to her chair at the table. Roxanne went to the counter and poured herself coffee. She held the cup in her hands, turned to me.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hay is for horses,” I said, and Sophie repeated it, kicking her legs in the air and whinnying. I got her plate, scooped eggs and potatoes, and put them in front of her. Added apple juice, a fork, a half of muffin with jam. She drank the juice. Bit into the muffin. Drank some more and started on her eggs.
“You ready?” I said to Roxanne.
“Just give me a minu
te,” she said.
“You okay? You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Why? Because you were—”
“I don’t know. Thinking.”
“Don’t,” I said.
“I’m sorry I was so whiny. I’ll be okay.”
“You’ll be okay when you can take a break,” I said. “Eight years of looking out for everybody else, including me. Time to take care of yourself.”
“I’ll take care of you, Momma,” Sophie said.
“I know you will,” Roxanne said.
“And I’ll take care of Daddy, too.”
We smiled, and Sophie took another bite of eggs, then a drink, holding the glass with two hands.
“I’m going to work some today,” I said.
“You’re leaving?” Roxanne said, looking into her coffee mug.
“Just for a while. You okay?”
“Sure.”
“Those people?”
“What people?” Sophie said.
“It’s work, honey,” Roxanne said. “No, Jack. I’m just fine.”
“I’ll talk to Clair,” I said.
“No, don’t be silly,” Roxanne said.
“I like being silly,” Sophie said. “Daddy’s silly a lot.”
“And he’s being silly again,” Roxanne said.
But she didn’t object any more, and an hour later, when I left, I drove down the road and pulled the truck into Clair’s drive, parked by the big barn, where lights glowed in the rain.
I went in the side door, across the garage, and into the workshop. There was music playing, Copeland, Appalachian Spring. Clair was bent over a chainsaw on the bench vise, running a file over the teeth of the chain.
