In Shadows

by Chandler McGrew

  “Nice of you to pick us up,” said Jimmy, smiling at the driver again.

  Smitty nodded, brushing back a lock of wavy black hair. Jimmy figured him for thirty but he might have been younger. The few wrinkles could have been caused by heredity or stress instead of age.

  “I told you, it’s no problem. I needed to go to Boston next week anyway to meet some potential clients. This way I go early and get that out of the way. And you can never rack up too many points on the other side, eh?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Nothing like good karma.”

  “You got that right. I do need to stop at the next gas station and phone my wife, though.” He glanced at the cell phone stuck in the console between them and shook his head. “Figures it would be on the blink at a time like this.”

  “No way I can talk you into giving us a ride on up to Maine?”

  Smitty frowned. He was one of those people who really had trouble saying no, but it was clear that Jimmy was approaching the limits of his hospitality.

  “I can’t, fellas. Sorry. You can catch a train or bus in Boston.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “I had to ask. The way our luck’s been running both the train and the bus will be out of service.”

  He gave Smitty one his best grins, and Smitty responded with another of his own, clearly mollified. Jimmy loved that word. Mollified. He was good at mollifying people.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “I’m up for a big lunch, how about you?”

  “Well . . . we’re almost there,” said Smitty.

  “Come on,” said Jimmy. “It’s on us. Pull over at the next exit, and we’ll find a really nice restaurant.”

  “I am getting hungry,” agreed Smitty. “And I hate to pass up a free meal.”

  The exit turned out to be more of a rest area than a real village. McDonald’s competed with Burger King directly across the street, and four gas stations lined the road. But a half mile up the straightaway a sign flashed, and Jimmy pointed at it.

  “That might be the best we can do after all,” he said.

  Smitty shrugged, squinting. “Way Out Steak House. I wonder if that’s way out in the middle of nowhere or way out of our price league.”

  “Don’t worry about our league,” said Jimmy.

  “You never told me exactly what it was you did for a living.”

  “A little of everything. I’m a businessman, but I own several enterprises.”

  “You need any management seminars, call me. I can book you the best in the business.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much your consultants could teach me,” said Jimmy, looking at the worn upholstery next to his leg, “but I’ll take it under consideration.”

  “You got my card,” said Smitty, pulling into the restaurant lot.

  The building was long and low slung with faded clapboard siding milled so that the bottom of each board still held rough bark. A wide shaded porch ran the length of the building, shielding the large, dusty windows from another approaching thunderstorm. Smitty parked between a car and a pickup near the front door.

  “They probably have a pay phone,” he said, nodding to himself.

  Jimmy glanced at Paco, who leaped out of the car as though scalded and ran up the front steps. Smitty looked at Jimmy, and Jimmy shrugged.

  “Weak bladder,” he said.

  As Smitty started to follow, Jimmy caught his eye again. “Aren’t you going to lock it?”

  “Here?” said Smitty, glancing around the lot that held only four other cars.

  “You never know.”

  Smitty turned around, digging for the keys as Jimmy moved around the car beside him. He glanced over his shoulder when Jimmy approached.

  “I got it,” he said, fumbling the key into the door and turning it to lock the car.

  Jimmy nodded, waving toward the restaurant entrance and following Smitty inside. The place smelled of french fries and hamburger, but the couple in the first booth were both eating thick steaks.

  “How about there?” said Jimmy, pointing toward a table in the back.

  “That looks fine. I’m just gonna find a phone.”

  “Let’s get seated first so Paco can find us.”

  Smitty frowned but followed Jimmy. A waitress wove through the empty tables, giving them a look that said she wished they’d sat a little closer to her other customers.

  “Do you have a pay phone?” asked Smitty.

  She gave him a funny look, pointing toward the rest-rooms, and he disappeared.

  Jimmy glanced at his watch as the waitress poured three waters. The acid in his stomach was starting to churn. He and José had never been all that close, but, even so, he hadn’t allowed himself time to mourn. Grieving was not the Torrio way, anyway. Revenge was in their blood and had been instilled in both brothers from the cradle. When Jimmy was only eight his own father had slit a man’s throat in front of his eyes for stealing from the family. Don’t cross a Torrio wasn’t a motto with Jimmy. It was genetic code. Cramer and Jake Crowley were going to pay dearly for ever messing with his business. For murdering José, Jake Crowley was going to pay doubly dearly.

  Smitty stared at the receiver in his hand. The metal cord dangling near his knees had been jerked right out of the phone. You wouldn’t think in a small place like this that kind of vandalism would be common, but for all his naive optimism Smitty had come to see the growing sense of desperation in the world. It was something he chose to combat a little at a time, with random acts of kindness, such as picking up two stranded strangers and going out of his way to help them reach their destination. Still, the violation of private property ruined his appetite, and the fact that he could not get in touch with his wife bothered him even more.

  He’d never gone so long without phoning Molly before, and he knew she’d worry. This was her first pregnancy, and even with her mom living two doors down, she was still a bundle of nerves. If there was any way at all he could have stayed home with her he would have, but he had to earn a living, and with the increasing availability of Internet training it was becoming harder every day to sell small companies on live seminars. He turned away from the phone but decided to wash his hands before lunch. Entering the rest-room, he was struck by the smell of urine. There must be a drain plugged up, and he wondered if this was even a decent restaurant after all.

  He splashed water on his hands and pumped soap into them, then lathered his face, as well. He leaned down with his eyes closed and slapped more water on, rubbing the suds away, shaking his hands under the cold flow, reaching blindly for the towel dispenser. A hand caught his wrist, and he jerked. All he could see through soapy eyes was a blurry figure.

  “Hey!” he said.

  He heard the sound of the towel dispenser ratcheting, and a paper napkin was slapped into his palm as his wrist was released. As he wiped the suds out of his eyes he saw Paco grinning at him.

  “Thought you needed help,” said Paco.

  “Th-thanks,” said Smitty.

  “Sorry. Did I make you nervous?”

  Smitty noticed that—like Jimmy—Paco tended to crowd a man’s personal space. He could smell not only Paco’s minty aftershave but a touch of feral body odor, as well. And the squinty brown eyes and thin lips made him even more nervous.

  “No,” he lied. “You just surprised me.”

  Paco nodded, straightening and peering in the mirror to brush back his wavy black hair.

  “Okay,” he said, taking Smitty’s elbow. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  ANDI RACED BACK THROUGH the pouring rain to the car, carrying two soft-serve vanilla cones. She kicked twice on the door, and Pierce leaned over to open it for her. She made a squishing noise as she dropped into her seat.

  “Here you go,” she said, slipping the cone into Pierce’s waiting hand. He licked greedily as one long drop formed, running down his chin.

  “Damn,” she said.

  She patted his knee to let him know she’d be right back. Then she raced back inside and returned with a pile of
paper napkins, only to find that it was too late. Pierce’s T-shirt was splotched with ice cream, and he was obliviously crunching the cone. He chomped his way down until the only thing left to do was lick his palms. He had to have an ice cream headache the size of Manhattan. She dampened a napkin and handed it to him, but there was no way to clean up all the mess.

  She took his hand and signed. You jump in the tub when we get home.

  She made certain his seat belt was tight—even though he frowned at her—and still licking her own cone, she backed out and headed home. By the time she’d finished her ice cream she’d dripped some on her pants, as well.

  “Guess we’ll both need hot baths,” she muttered, watching the wipers splash across the windshield.

  She drove slowly down Route 26, following the river that had already spilled out of its banks in several places. The Androscoggin was one of those muddy waterways that had been domesticated by a hundred mills over the centuries, but never really tamed. Crowley Creek fed into it, as did a thousand other tributaries, and the river meandered through a hundred villages and towns on its way to the sea. In most places it wasn’t deep enough to be navigable except by canoe, but in a flood it could roar across farms and fields like a river four times its size.

  Like almost every township in Maine, Crowley had its share of flood zones, but Mandi and Pierce lived on higher ground. At least it was high enough that the house had never been inundated since she’d lived in it. But if the Androscoggin flooded—like it had the year before—the junction of the valley road and Route 26 would be closed, and they’d be trapped.

  As she approached the intersection, she couldn’t help but glance at the police tape in the trees where the girl’s body had been discovered. How could two horrible murders happen in such a peaceful place in such a short time? How could they happen anywhere? In the seat beside her Pierce rode blissfully along, unaware of the scene of horror they were passing.

  The gravel in her driveway was turning to muck, and she had to put the Subaru into four-wheel drive to avoid sliding off into the trees. By the time she and Pierce negotiated the ramp into the house they were both soaked to the skin, and he was shivering. She signed for him to strip down while she ran him a hot bath. Then she toweled herself off and donned her bathrobe. She turned off the water and let Pierce know it was ready. He wouldn’t take off his briefs if he knew she was in the room, so she headed for the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  Inexorably her thoughts were drawn back to Jake, and she bit her lip as the old hurt welled up again. It had felt so good and so bad at the same time to see him with Pierce. She loved Jake as much now as she ever had, and she knew that she always would. But he was carrying around a bunch of hidden demons that she didn’t know how to deal with, and she didn’t want to expose Pierce to that. He’d suffered enough in his life.

  It was probably best not to see Jake anymore while he was here.

  ARBARA’S LEGS BURNED LIKE FIRE where they hung down through the busted floor, and an equally impressive heat radiated around her hip. She stared at Oswald, sitting on his chunky haunches in the dark hallway.

  “Are you stupid? Or don’t you give a shit?” she hissed.

  Oswald gave no sign that he understood the question or that he cared to answer.

  “Help me!” she shouted.

  The dog rose, spun on its heels, and pattered away into the gloom.

  “Fucking mutt!”

  When she got out of this predicament she was going to trade the little shit in for a poodle. Only getting out didn’t look to be happening. Her energy level had drained to almost nothing, and she had stopped struggling when she realized that no matter what she did, movement only made things worse. But if she didn’t do something soon, she was going to die.

  At least the damned whispering had stopped.

  “Come back here, you ratshit dog!” she shouted.

  Calm down. Oswald isn’t Lassie.

  Right. Bring me the crescent wrench, Oswald. No. That’s the monkey wrench. The crescent wrench. Good boy.

  “Well, I have to get out somehow,” she muttered, smirking at the image in spite of her predicament.

  The last time she’d moved, the beam beneath her had creaked so loudly she’d frozen in place. It was an ominous sound, half crack, half rotten crunch, and the floor supporting her was so spongy it bounced around like a wooden trampoline.

  I’ll bet I could fall right through.

  Right. And what if it’s twenty feet down?

  Don’t be silly. It’s a crawl space. The dirt floor is probably an inch from my toes.

  And if it’s not?

  If it’s not I’m going to die here, anyway.

  She took a deep breath and kicked, ignoring the stabbing pains that struck her in both thighs. Her feet touched nothing but air, and the cracking noise grew louder as the floor swayed rhythmically up and down. The whole room danced to the beat of the straining beams. The dim gray light filtering through the rain and dust created silver ghosts that swirled before her eyes.

  “Screw it,” she muttered, shifting her weight and rocking even harder.

  She was jumping up and down now, the pain in her thighs flashing up her hips into her back. The floor gave one last rise, and then it felt as though she dropped lightly through a ripped sheet, the beams and floorboards cracking and groaning, lowering her gently to the dirt below. The beams fell away to either side, and she wobbled to her feet. She leaned back against a tilted section of floor, studying her legs. Her hose looked like scarred battle flags, and they were blood-soaked to boot. Her skirt was ripped in numerous places, and one of her shoes was buried somewhere under the debris. Splinters as long as her fingers protruded from her thighs, and she jerked at them, wincing as she withdrew each one, although the real pain in her legs now was the blood returning.

  The cellar was deeper than she had imagined. But the wooden crater formed by the busted floor wouldn’t allow her to explore it even had she cared to. She glanced up, measuring her chances of making the climb. Other than tiny gaps between the rotten floorboards there was nothing for a handhold, and even if there had been stainless steel handles for her to hang onto, she couldn’t imagine that she had the strength to make the climb back out.

  Oswald yipped and peeked over the lip of the floor. She managed a smile for him.

  “Come back with the crescent wrench?” she asked.

  He took a tentative step forward, but hastily withdrew his foot when it slipped on the sharp incline.

  “Stay back,” said Barbara, waving at him.

  He whimpered as though he might disobey.

  “What? Are you getting guts in your old age, or are you just hungry?”

  He whimpered again, glancing nervously back toward the corridor, and for the first time Barbara noticed that the whispers had returned.

  RAMER STARED AHEAD INTO THE DOWNPOUR. “Memere would tell you there really are monsters. Sounds to me like you know that. The boy was running from something when he stole the car.”

  “Kids get spooked. And it wasn’t a monster that killed Albert. You saw that shoe print.”

  “Which doesn’t prove the man who was wearing that shoe did anything but step in some blood and then leave a track on an old newspaper.”

  “Come on. That’s a little thin.”

  “Just saying.”

  Jake caught Cramer’s eye. “What did you see in the woods?”

  Cramer took a minute answering. “I told you, I couldn’t get a good look at it because of the shadows.”

  “Then maybe it was just shadows.”

  “You don’t say that like you really believe it,” said Cramer, studying Jake closely. “You said your father never struck your mother before that night.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you see on the beach?”

  “What’s the beach got to do with anything?” said Jake quickly.

  “You tell me. I’m just trying to add things up. You don’t want to talk to P
am. You get pissed at me for bringing Mandi up. You spend fourteen years away from this place. Then eight men get killed under . . . strange circumstances, and all of a sudden you’re on a plane.”

  Jake sighed. “It was dark and stormy. Torrio’s men were trying to kill me. I was killing people. It was crazy. I can’t tell you what happened while I was in the water.”

  “So you didn’t see anything strange at all?”

  “Maybe . . . just a shadow.”

  Cramer nodded. “And the night your mother was killed?”

  “I was ten years old.”

  “But you said you heard whispers.”

  “Maybe.”

  The wipers slapped noisily. Alongside the road water streamed from the balsam limbs.

  “This is Barbara’s drive,” said Jake, sounding relieved.

  “The crazy old lady that wants to hump my brains out?” said Cramer.

  “Yeah,” said Jake.

  Cramer frowned. “Why don’t we skip Barbara?”

  “Why? You scared of a little old lady? You didn’t want to skip the Murphys.”

  “I’ve met hookers with less hormones,” said Cramer.

  Barbara’s home had a blue metal roof, fading gray stain on the clapboard siding, and blue trim. There were lace curtains in the windows.

  “Lovely place. Probably has cats,” muttered Cramer.

  “Goldfish,” said Jake.

  “Lynx more likely.”

  “What do you have against lynx?”

  “I don’t like the way it’s spelled,” said Cramer, shielding his head under both hands as he climbed out of the car. They raced up onto the front porch.

  Jake rang the bell and peered through the window at a fat little dog dancing in the foyer and barking up a storm.

  “Feisty little mongrel,” said Cramer. “They’re the ones that will bite the shit out of your ankles.”

  “Nobody home,” said Jake, ringing the bell again.

  “Duh,” said Cramer.

  “You are definitely getting me down. You want to go back to Pam’s?”