“Does he have friends?” said the sheriff. “People coming to visit?”
“I don’t recall ever seeing anybody.”
“How long have you lived here, Mattie?”
“Since the end of June,” she said. “Me and my mom moved down from Madrid after school was out.”
Calhoun noticed that she pronounced the town of Madrid with the emphasis on the first syllable, Mad-rid, which reminded him that his own Maine accent and manner of speaking was acquired, not inherent. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have noticed.
“Was Mr. Watson living here then?” said the sheriff.
She nodded.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Allison,” said Mattie.
“She keep her married name?”
Mattie nodded. “Allison Perkins. People mostly call her Allie.”
The sheriff took out his wallet, removed a couple of business cards, and handed them to Mattie. “Please give one to your mom when she gets home,” he said. “Tell her we’re interested in what might’ve happened to Mr. Watson and have her give me a call. And keep one for yourself. Call if you think of anything else. Okay?”
“Sure,” she said.
“And when you talk to your daddy, tell him the same thing.”
Mattie shrugged. “I’ll try to remember.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you.” He turned to Calhoun and said, “Let’s get going.”
They started for the truck.
“Wait a minute,” said Mattie. “I thought of something. You asked about Errol having friends?”
They turned around. “That’s right,” said the sheriff.
“I don’t know if it was an actual friend,” she said, “but one man did come to see him. It was like a month ago, maybe more, maybe five or six weeks. I’m sorry. I just remembered.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just,” she said with a little wave of her hand, “this nice car driving up, man wearing a suit going up to his door. This was, oh, after suppertime, it was getting dark. My mom was working.”
“Did you get a good look at this man?”
She shook her head. “Just his clothes, like he just came from an office.”
“What about his car?” said the sheriff. “What kind of car was it?”
“I don’t know cars that well. It looked new, with a sunroof. A sedan. Dark red.” She shrugged.
“Dark red,” repeated the sheriff.
“Like … burgundy? You know what I mean?”
The sheriff nodded. “A big sedan? Medium-sized? Compact?”
Mattie rocked her hand. “Medium, I guess. Not big like those old Cadillacs and Lincolns you see on TV. Not real tiny, either.”
“Why did you say you didn’t think this man was a friend?”
Mattie smiled. “That nice car? All dressed up? Not what you’d expect for a friend of Errol, that’s all. Maybe I was wrong about that.”
“How long did the man stay?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was in the house. I just noticed the car drive up and the man get out.”
“Did he go inside? Did he and Errol talk?”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t like snooping, honestly. I just happened to glance out the window and notice that car pulling up in front of his house. Only reason I even paid any attention was, we don’t have cars like that coming to this neighborhood that much. Next time I looked out, it was gone.”
“How much later was that?”
She shrugged. “Couple hours, I guess. But it could’ve been gone for a long time before that.”
“This is helpful,” said the sheriff. “Thank you, Mattie. If you think of anything else, you be sure to give me a call. You’ve got my card.”
“Sure,” she said. “I will.”
They got into Calhoun’s truck and waved at Mattie, and the sheriff told him to head back to the shop.
“You didn’t want to talk to some of the other neighbors?” said Calhoun after they’d pulled back onto Route One.
“Nope.”
“You find anything interesting inside?”
The sheriff shrugged.
“It would appear that Watson was interrupted,” said Calhoun. “Left the TV running, his dinner half eaten.”
“It’d take some kind of man to eat even half of that shit,” said the sheriff.
Calhoun smiled. “You gonna tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m your deputy,” said Calhoun. “You’re supposed to share.”
The sheriff shook his head. “If I’m wrong,” he said, “I don’t want you to think I’m stupid.”
When they got back to the shop, the three of them went inside. Ralph curled up on his old sweatshirt in the corner next to the door. Adrian was still behind the counter, and Kate was talking with a customer at the rack of fly rods. The sheriff went over and spoke to her, then crooked his finger at Calhoun.
Calhoun followed the sheriff back to Kate’s office. “What’re we doing?” he said.
The sheriff sat in Kate’s chair and hitched himself up to her computer. “Watch and learn,” he said.
“I ain’t interested in learning any of that computer mumbo-jumbo,” said Calhoun. “My head’s too full already.”
“Well, sit there and keep me company, at least.”
Calhoun took the wooden chair across from him.
The sheriff was pecking away at the computer, mumbling, “Hm,” and then, “Ha,” and after a few minutes, “I thought so.” He looked up. “Come here, Stoney. Take a look at this.”
Calhoun got up and went around to the sheriff’s side of the desk. On the computer screen was a colored photograph of a thin-faced man with a balding head and round glasses. He looked about forty, and then Calhoun saw his birthday, which was 7/17/62. His place of residence was Portland 04101. No street address.
“Errol Watson?” said Calhoun.
“Himself.”
“Looks like a banker.”
The sheriff snorted a quick laugh. “Take a look.”
The sheriff scrolled down the screen, and Calhoun saw a list headed “Convictions.” Errol Watson had five convictions—two for Title 17A, section 253, “Gross Sexual Assault,” two for 17A, section 254, “Sexual Abuse of Minors,” and one for 17A, section 255A, “Unlawful Sexual Contact.”
“Not a nice man,” said Calhoun.
“No. I’m prepared to bet my pension that as we speak, Mr. Watson is in a drawer in the refrigerator room in the morgue in Augusta, all burned beyond recognition.”
Calhoun found himself nodding. “I wouldn’t bet against you. How’d you do that, anyway?”
“I told you to watch and learn.”
“Just give me the condensed version.”
The sheriff smiled and waved his hand. “I had a hunch, that’s all.”
“More than a hunch, I bet.”
“Well, sure,” said the sheriff. “A couple of things struck me, as they probably struck you. First off, our corpse having his pecker cut off and jammed into his mouth, suggesting he might be a sex offender of some kind. Second, Mattie there, her mother being so emphatic, telling her to stay away from Errol Watson. Third, the fact that Watson left suddenly, his dinner half eaten, his dog on the loose, the TV still running. And fourth, just the way he was living. Solitary. Disorganized. Aimless. A man having trouble finding a place in society, no friends or family coming to visit, and who didn’t care very much one way or the other.” He looked at Calhoun and shook his head. “So anyway, putting all that together, I wondered if Mr. Errol Watson himself might be a convicted sex offender. If so, I knew we’d find him on the sex offender registry. So I just went there on the Internet and typed in his name, and that’s how I got what you’re looking at.”
“Simple as that,” said Calhoun.
“Yep. Simple as that. Here. Take a look.”
The sheriff typed something, and up on the screen came a page titled “Maine Sex Offende
r Registry Search.” “Okay,” he said. “When I went here before, I typed in Watson’s name, but you can type in a town instead. Let’s look at Portland.” He pressed a key, and another page appeared on the screen. He scrolled down a list and clicked on “Portland.” Almost instantly an alphabetical list of names with telephone numbers appeared. “Here you are,” said the sheriff. “All the convicted sex criminals who live or work in Portland. They update it on a regular basis.” He scrolled down the numbered list.
Calhoun read the names as they appeared on the computer monitor. The last one on the list was number 129. “That’s a lot perverts for one little city,” he said.
“Those are just the ones who’ve been tried and convicted,” said the sheriff. “The tip of the proverbial iceberg.”
“Only three women.”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s the usual percentage. Women don’t get accused much, and they get convicted less often. Doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of female perverts out there.”
Calhoun was nodding. “So these people,” he said, “these sex offenders, anybody can see who they are, what they look like, what they’ve done, where they’re living and working. All you need is a computer.”
“That’s right,” said the sheriff. “It’s all public information, and they try to make it as easy as possible for the public to get at it. The whole point is for everybody to know who these predatory sons of bitches are.” He pushed himself to his feet. “So now I’m going to hustle back to my office and see what else I can find out about Mr. Errol Watson. And I’m going to inform Detective Gilsum and the ME’s office up in Augusta that we have a possible ID on our corpse. They can get the dental records of anybody who’s spent time in prison.”
The sheriff went to the front of the shop and waved at Kate, who was on the phone at the counter. She waved back at the sheriff and gave Calhoun a quick little smile that was pretty convincing around her mouth but didn’t make it all the way up to her eyes.
“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Calhoun said to her.
“If the sheriff needs you …”
“Hell,” he said, “I’m just a volunteer deputy. I got a responsibility. I’ll be here to open up at noon and I’ll close at four, and you should stay home and take it easy for once.”
“I might just do that,” Kate said. “I sure could use a break.”
“I’ll be here,” said Calhoun. “Don’t even think about it.” He gave her a smile and a nod and got out of there quick before Kate felt obligated to try to smile again.
The sheriff was in the parking lot leaning against the side of his Explorer. When Calhoun caught up to him, he said, “We did some good work today, Stoney. I think we make a pretty good partnership, don’t you?”
“It ain’t a partnership,” said Calhoun. “You’re the boss and I’m your deputy.”
“I don’t really think of it that way.”
“I do,” said Calhoun. “It’s the way I want it to be.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Whatever. Either way.”
“Those records,” said Calhoun. “Watson’s, I mean. They should tell you who his victim was, right?”
“Victim or victims, plural. Yes.” The sheriff smiled. “You’re thinking about somebody with a motive to slice his throat and cut off his dick and set him afire.”
“Well,” said Calhoun, “if some man had unlawful sexual contact with my minor daughter, say, and sexually abused her, and committed gross sexual assault on her, if I’m even close to imagining what those crimes actually amount to, I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t want to do to him.”
“Or,” said the sheriff, “if you just suspected he might’ve had unlawful sexual contact with your daughter. Or even if you suspected he might’ve just thought about it.”
Calhoun nodded. “You’re thinking about Mattie.”
“Mattie’s daddy. Lawrence Perkins from Kittery.”
“Or even Mattie’s mom.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Anybody who knew what Mr. Errol Watson was makes a pretty good suspect when you think about it.” He climbed into his Explorer, started it up, and rolled down the window. “We’ve still got to find the Paul Vecchio connection,” he said.
“If there is one.”
“Oh,” said the sheriff, “I’m sure there is.”
“I’m working at the shop in the afternoon tomorrow.”
“I’ll find you if I need you.”
Calhoun heated up a can of beans and a leftover piece of steak for dinner. He and Ralph ate out on the deck while the sky turned from blue to pewter to purple to black and Bitch Creek bubbled around the rocks out back and the bats flapped around in the yard.
He was in the kitchen washing the dishes when he saw headlights cutting through the woods and pulling into his yard.
He took the Remington twelve-gauge off its pegs and went out onto the deck in time to see the Man in the Suit step out of his Audi. He made a visor of his hand, looked up, then waved and started up the steps.
Calhoun stood there at the top with the barrel of his shotgun resting on his shoulder.
“Put that damn thing away, Stoney,” said the Man in the Suit. “I come in peace.”
“You never go anywhere in peace,” said Calhoun. But he turned and leaned the shotgun against the wall.
The Man in the Suit went over and sat in one of the Adirondack chairs. “You got some coffee heated up?”
Calhoun shrugged, went inside, poured two mugs full, and took them outside. He put one on the table next to the Man in the Suit and held the other in both hands. He remained standing. He figured if he sat down it would look like he welcomed the man’s company. “So what do you want?” he said.
“I wanted to congratulate you. A deputy sheriff. The first step in what promises to be a long and exciting career as a crime buster.”
“Not me,” said Calhoun.
“I mean it,” said the Man in the Suit. “You made the right decision. So how’s it going?”
“What’s it to you?”
The Man in the Suit smiled. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” He leaned forward. “Stoney, I wish I could speak more candidly with you, I really do. Maybe someday I’ll be able to. But let’s put it this way for now. You are investigating a couple of interesting crimes. You are, I have no doubt, discovering talents and knowledge that you didn’t know you had. You’re remembering new things, learning more about yourself. Am I right?”
Calhoun shook his head. “I just do what the sheriff tells me to do, that’s all. I drive him around, mainly. I don’t have any particular talent or knowledge that I’m aware of. I’m just helping him out. It’s no big deal.”
The Man in the Suit smiled. “You can be up-front with me, Stoney. I’m your friend.”
Calhoun had danced this dance with the Man in the Suit before. He had no intention of being up-front with him. “I know that,” he said. “I’m just telling you how it is.”
The Man in the Suit peered at Calhoun over the rim of his coffee mug. He took a sip, then put it down. “There is much about yourself that you don’t know, Stoney, and that I do know. Quid pro quo, remember ?”
“I got no quid for you,” said Calhoun. “Sorry.”
“Your family,” the Man in the Suit said, as if Calhoun hadn’t spoken. “Your education. Where you lived. What you did. What you were good at. Who you loved. Who loved you.”
“I don’t care about that,” said Calhoun. “I got a chance to start my life over again, and it’s going pretty good.”
“That’s not how I hear it.”
“What do you hear?” said Calhoun before he could stop himself.
The Man in the Suit shrugged. “I hear Kate dumped you, for one thing.”
“She didn’t—” He clamped his mouth shut, then took a deep breath. “That’s none of your God damn business.”
The Man in the Suit shrugged. He finished his mug of coffee, put the mug down, and stood up. “Maybe next time I come by you’ll be in a better mood, Stone
y.”
“Don’t bother coming by,” said Calhoun. “This is my mood whenever I see you.”
“We haven’t talked about your relatives lately,” said the Man in the Suit.
Calhoun knew this was how the man hoped to manipulate him, but he couldn’t help himself. “What relatives?”
“Well,” said the Man in the Suit, “for example, it occurred to me that you might have wondered if you had any children.”
Calhoun clenched his teeth so that he wouldn’t speak before he thought about what to say.
Then he said, “I don’t care about that.”
The Man in the Suit smiled and nodded. “Right. Okay, Stoney. Maybe another time.” He went down the steps to his Audi. He opened the door, looked up and waved, and got into his car.
Calhoun stood there and watched him head up the driveway
until his headlights stopped winking through the woods and the purr of the Audi’s engine died in the distance.
He knew it was going to be hard not to think about children, now that the Man in the Suit had stuck that idea into his head.
But he planned to try.
CHAPTER NINE
Calhoun woke up with gray light and a cacophony of birdsong seep-ing in through the bedroom window screen. It had been another lousy night’s sleep. The last time he remembered sleeping decently was several nights earlier with Kate beside him, their legs all tangled together, her hair in his face, her skin slick against his.
That was before she told him she wasn’t going to come to his house anymore, and before Paul Vecchio showed up dead, and before Ralph disappeared.
The dreams, as usual, faded too fast for him to nail them down, and he was left with that familiar sadness, the vague certainty that things were not right. He often had vivid dreams, and he understood that if he could remember them and analyze them, they would give him a window into his life before ten thousand volts of lightning had pulverized all of his conscious memories.
He could never recall them, though. He’d tried instructing himself to wake up in the middle of a dream so he could write it down for later analysis, and he had managed to do it a few times, but in the sharp rational light of morning wakefulness, his notes made no sense whatsoever. “Woman with no eyes waving her hat at me,” he’d written once about a dream that had left him feeling panicky. Another time: “Naked in the desert surrounded by children with heads like tennis racquets.”
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