“I’m going to put this in the oven to keep it warm,” I said, taking the casserole and putting it on the center rack.
“He doesn’t even understand that I can’t do everything he wants to do,” Marie said, and then, realizing her comment might be taken any number of ways, blushed. “I mean, you know, like traveling. He’s up to it, but I’m just not. But I tell him, if you want to go away, you go. You have a good time. The first time I said that, I didn’t think he’d actually go, but off he went once he found somebody else to go. And he had such a wonderful time over there, I didn’t see how I could say no when he wanted to go back.”
“Well,” I said, since I had no comment.
“And not for a second do I believe what Len’s been saying about Thomas,” she said.
“What would that be, Marie?”
“He can’t hear us, can he?” she asked worriedly.
“No.”
“Len’s been saying if the police ever started to investigate what happened to your father, they’d probably be taking a pretty good look at Thomas.”
“Why’s that, Marie?”
“Len says your dad always took chances on cutting grass on the side of that hill, but even so, he was the kind of man who always knew what he was doing. He says if the police ever started thinking he got pushed, that someone was there and let that tractor fall on him, well, they’d have to look no further than Thomas. I’m just telling you what Len says. I was thinking he might have said as much to you when you were over, before I opened the basement door, and I wanted to tell you I’m very sorry if he did. I don’t think Thomas would do that. He’s a good boy, basically. How high you got that oven set? Don’t put it up to 350 or anything. Just warm it a hundred degrees. Just for ten minutes or so.”
I adjusted the oven.
I thought I’d put it behind me, this obsession I’d been having about the tractor key being in the OFF position, the raised housing. Julie’s interpretation of things had made a lot of sense. But now I was wondering whether my earlier supposition, that someone had stopped to talk to my father, and might have been there when he died, could still be true.
But I didn’t hold Len in very high regard, especially lately, so the fact that he and I might be on the same wavelength also gave me pause. And why the hell was he doing this kind of speculating? What had kicked off this line of thinking? I’d only started letting my mind run a bit wild after I’d examined the tractor. Len, so far as I knew, had not been out here to inspect the accident scene before I moved the machine to the barn.
Was he basing his opinion on what my father had told him? If so, it seemed a stretch to draw a line from a push on the stairs to toppling a tractor onto someone. Especially when that someone was your own father.
Or was it possible Len was up to something else? Did he believe what he was saying, or was he trying to make trouble for Thomas? Why would he do that? Was he trying to plant an idea in Marie’s head? And again, why?
“The thing is,” Marie said, “Len’s always judged people harshly. He’s like that. You should hear him go on about the people in Thailand. They’re nice and all, but he says they don’t drive like Americans, their building standards aren’t the same as here, and the place can be so politically unstable at times. He says they need to get over all their petty squabbles and just run their country. And Len has never had much patience for monarchies. He doesn’t get why someone should get to run a country just because they were born into the right family. But it doesn’t stop him from going back, even if he has to go without me.”
Thailand.
Over the years, I’d heard friends talk about what a wonderful place it was. Hot, lush, one of the most beautiful countries on the planet. Terrific nightlife, a rich culture, spectacular food. But every travel destination had its problems. Paris had its pickpockets and unpredictable strikes. London was expensive and, occasionally, subject to terrorist violence. There were those bombs on the buses, and in the tube, a few years back. Same with Moscow. Mexico had its drug wars. Some of America’s greatest cities had to contend with vicious gang wars.
What was it I’d heard about Thailand? Certainly the political unrest Marie had mentioned. But there was something else.
Prostitution. Child prostitution.
I wondered whether Marie’s inability to travel was the real reason Len went on these trips without her.
FIFTY-THREE
“THIS is the sort of thing I’d have thought you might have checked first,” Nicole said, sitting in the passenger seat, her feet propped up on the dashboard, the ice pick poised between her two index fingers.
Lewis said nothing.
“I might have found out whether our guy was actually in Burlington, Vermont, before flying the hell up here. But that’s just me.”
“It was the right house,” Lewis said through gritted teeth. The van, driving through the night, was doing close to eighty, and felt as though it might float off the highway. They were heading west. He figured it would take them about two hours, maybe a little more, to get to their new destination.
An elderly neighbor had spotted them standing on the porch of Ray Kilbride’s house when no one answered. She said her name was Gwen, and that she was picking up Ray’s mail and any flyers left at the door while he was away, in Promise Falls. His dad had just died, she said, and he was staying there while he sorted things out. He was looking after his brother, too.
“Can I help you with something?” she’d asked.
“Wait a minute,” Nicole’d said. “You say someone named Ray lives here?”
“That’s right.”
Nicole had turned to Lewis and said, “I told you this was the wrong house. We’re on the wrong side of town.”
Lewis had shrugged. “I’m an idiot,” he’d conceded.
“So you’re not looking for Ray?” the neighbor had asked.
They’d said no, got back in the van, and pointed it in the direction of Promise Falls.
Along the way, Nicole needled Lewis about his fuckup. She wanted to get under his skin. Push him. See how angry he’d get.
It would be a clue to his intentions.
She said, “If it was me, I wouldn’t have gone up and knocked on the front door. You find a way inside the house, get the jump on them there.”
Lewis tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll try it your way.”
Being nice.
That was when she knew he was going to kill her when this was over. He was being nice so she’d be off her guard.
It would be easy to take him out first. She could put the pick through his neck while he drove, then grab the wheel, get her foot on the brake. In a big van like this, it wasn’t hard to shift over to the driver’s side.
Nicole knew she could do it.
But she had to let this play out. She needed answers to what was going on as much as Lewis and his people did. Had to find out whether this Kilbride was as big a risk to her as he was to those who’d hired her in the first place. And then she’d have to decide how much of a risk her associates—not just Lewis—posed to her. Whether she’d have to do something about them. Because she was done with this. She was through. She’d had enough.
Something had happened to her in that basement in Chicago. When she’d killed that Whirl360 guy’s wife. Nicole didn’t want to take any more orders from any of these men.
She’d ride this one out to its conclusion, keeping a close eye on Lewis the whole time. She’d taken at least one major precaution in the event he got the jump on her.
Lewis said, “Maybe, if we get a second, we can run in somewhere, get some coffee. My treat.”
Oh yeah, he was definitely going to kill her.
FIFTY-FOUR
“THIS is good,” Thomas said, shoving another forkful of Marie’s tuna medley into his mouth.
“Yeah, not bad,” I said. But I’d found, once Marie had left, that I did not have much of an appetite. The things Len had said to her, that she�
��d repeated for me, were stuck in my head. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was up to something. Trying to lay something on Thomas that he hadn’t done.
“I’m going to have seconds,” Thomas said.
“That’s fine. And maybe you’d like to clean up after dinner.”
“Is that fair?” he asked.
“What do you mean, is it fair? Sure, it’s fair.”
“But you didn’t make dinner. I thought, if you make dinner, I clean up. Or if I make dinner, you clean up. But Marie made dinner.” He shoveled some more in.
“So if I follow your logic,” I said, “if someone other than us does some of the duties, whatever’s left is my job.”
He chewed slowly, like he was formulating an argument. “Well,” he said, “that was just how it struck me at the time.”
“So maybe we should both clean up,” I said. “What about that? You clear the table and load the dishwasher, and I’ll scrub out that casserole dish. Judging by how you’re going there’s not going to be any left over.”
“Okay,” he said.
Ten minutes later, we were standing side by side at the kitchen counter. I was filling the sink with soapy water as Thomas put our glasses and cutlery into the KitchenAid. Our shoulders were brushing up against each other, and we actually had a kind of rhythm going. We weren’t talking, but it was the closest I’d felt to him since coming back here.
But later, as he was wiping down the kitchen table, Thomas said, “You ever feel like someone who was your friend really isn’t your friend anymore?”
He wasn’t looking at me when he asked. He was focused on making the table as clean as possible.
“Yeah, that’s happened to me a few times. Who are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know if I should say.”
“It’s okay. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”
He caught my eye. “The president.”
“Clinton?”
Thomas nodded, walked over to the sink to rinse out the cloth, and draped it over the faucet. “He’s always been nice to me, except the last couple of times we’ve talked, it’s kind of different.”
“What do you mean, different?”
“I don’t know. He’s been putting a lot of pressure on me.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t talk to him anymore.”
“When the president calls, you kind of have to talk to him,” Thomas said.
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s true.”
“But he’s telling me I can’t talk about certain things. Things that don’t have anything to do with my mission.”
I rested a hand on his shoulder. “You want to go in and talk to Dr. Grigorin tomorrow? I could see if I can set something up.”
“That might be good,” he said. “I don’t like it when the president says I’m going to look weak.”
“Weak?”
“Like, if I say certain things, I’ll be in trouble. He doesn’t even want me to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“About when I was in the window. When I waved to you, and you didn’t see me. Because you didn’t look up.”
I stood there with him, the two of us leaned up against the kitchen counter. “When was this, Thomas?”
“The day you tried to find me. When you found my bike in the alley. Do you remember that?”
“Yes,” I said. “I rode all over downtown trying to find you. I even shouted out your name.”
“I heard you,” Thomas said quietly. “That was when I got away, and ran to the window. I wanted to call out but I knew he’d get mad. But if you’d seen me, then Dad would have believed my story.”
“Got away? Thomas, what happened?”
“He hurt me,” he said. He briefly tucked his hand under himself. “He hurt me back here.”
I put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezed. “Tell me what happened. Someone did something to you? Who? Who did something to you?”
“Dad got so mad,” he said. “He got so mad when I told him. He said I had to stop making things up. He said if I ever talked about it again, he didn’t know what he’d do. But I knew it would be something awful. Maybe he and Mom would send me away. To a place. So I never talked about it.”
I hugged him. “Thomas, I’m so sorry.”
“And I think…I think I’m ready to talk about it. But the president says I can’t. He says if I tell anyone, bad things will happen.”
“Thomas, who hurt you?”
He looked down into his lap. “I need to think about this. I don’t want to go against the president’s wishes.”
“Would you tell Dr. Grigorin?”
“I’ve wanted to, but haven’t. You know who I would be okay telling?”
“Who?”
“Julie.”
“You’d tell Julie?”
He nodded. “She’s nice to me. She talks to me like I’m a regular person.”
“Okay, well, she’s coming back tonight, kind of late, but I’m sure she’d talk to you.”
“Is she coming back to have sex with you?” he asked.
“Probably not now,” I said, and smiled. “I think it would be great if you talked to her. I do. Can I be there, or would you like to talk to her by yourself?”
He thought about that. “She’ll tell you later, won’t she?”
“If you asked her not to, no, I don’t think she would.”
He looked down, pondering. “It would be okay if you want to be there.”
“Okay. But she’s not going to be here for a while, so do you want to watch some TV or something?”
“No. I have to go back to work. Even if I don’t like the president’s attitude lately, I still have my work to do.”
“Sure,” I said.
“But before Julie comes, I want to get some pictures to show her.”
“What pictures?”
“Our photo albums. So she’ll know what I looked like then. And what you looked like. They’re in the basement.”
“Whatever you want. You know where they are?”
He nodded, then left me for his room. I went out to the porch and sat down for the better part of half an hour, until it was dark enough that you could see the stars. I went in, plunked myself down in front of the TV, and flipped through the channels. Nothing held my interest. It wasn’t likely that anything could. I was preoccupied. Thinking about Julie. About my father. About Len Prentice.
About a face in a window, and two dead people in Chicago, and the late Allison Fitch.
About how I wouldn’t have to be thinking about a lot of these things if Thomas had a different hobby. Stamp collectors never saw possible homicides, so far as I knew. Same for jewelry makers and gardeners.
I wondered whether Harry Peyton had had a chance yet to talk to this Duckworth guy he’d mentioned. Barry Duckworth. Was that why I hadn’t heard anything yet? Had Harry talked to him, and Duckworth was looking into things right now? Or did Duckworth listen, and say it was the biggest crock of shit he’d ever heard in his entire life?
I couldn’t think of any good reason why I shouldn’t just find out myself.
I turned off the TV, grabbed the laptop, and looked up the Promise Falls Police Department. I found a nonemergency number and dialed.
“Promise Falls Police Service,” a woman said.
“I’m trying to reach Detective Duckworth,” I said.
“I think he’s gone home,” she said. “Who’s calling?”
“Ray Kilbride.”
“Let me check.” She put me on hold. While I was waiting, Thomas came down the stairs.
“What are you doing?” I asked, putting my hand over the receiver.
“I’m going downstairs to look for the photo album,” he said, and disappeared through the door to the basement.
“Hello?” the woman on the switchboard said. “Mr. Kilbride?”
“Yes?”
“I reached Detective Duckworth at home for you. Hold on and I’ll connect you.” There was a pause, and then,
“Go ahead.”
“Hello?” I said. “Detective Duckworth?”
“Who is this? You told the switchboard you’re Mr. Kilbride?”
“That’s right.”
“This some sort of joke? Not Adam Kilbride.”
“No, sir. This is his son.”
“Which son?”
“I’m Ray Kilbride.”
“Okay, right,” Detective Duckworth said. “You’re the one from, where is it? Vermont somewhere?”
“Burlington.”
“And your brother, that’s Thomas?”
“Yes.” I was guessing Harry had filled him in pretty thoroughly.
“You’ll have to forgive me there a second ago,” he said. “It threw me, when the girl called, said it was Mr. Kilbride. I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Well, thanks. And thanks for talking to me. I don’t know where to turn. I’m in kind of a mess here, as you probably know.”
“Yeah, your dad and I had spoken,” Duckworth said.
I felt as though someone had put my head in a paint mixer for a second. “Excuse me?” I said. “When was this?”
“A couple of weeks back,” Duckworth said.
From the basement, Thomas shouted, “Ray!”
“My father spoke to you a couple of weeks ago?” I asked.
“That’s right. That isn’t why you’re calling?”
“No—I mean, yes. I was just following up,” I said.
“I told your father, if he wanted to proceed, it wasn’t going to be an easy thing to prove.”
“Ray!” Thomas shouted again.
“Hang on!” I shouted back. “Sorry about that. My brother’s trying to find something in the basement. You were saying, it wouldn’t be easy to prove.”
“Not considering all the time that has elapsed. And the fact that your brother’s testimony is going to be problematic, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Your father did. Also, he wasn’t sure he wanted to put your brother through all that. He was a good man, your father. Only spoke to him the once, but he seemed like a decent guy, a good father. With a lot on his plate.”
“Detective Duckworth, you won’t believe this, but only in the last minute have I gotten any kind of inkling what you’re talking about,” I said. “My brother was assaulted, wasn’t he?”
Trust Your Eyes Page 32
