“Heavy stuff,” said Calhoun. “You did a really nice job reading it, too.
“So this Dunbar,” said the sheriff, “he’s who we’re on our way to visit. Be interesting to see what he has to say now, whatever it is, six or seven years later.”
“Burn in hell,” said Calhoun. “When we talked to Maxner, he mentioned the cutting off his evil penis part, but he didn’t mention the burning in hell part.”
“That caught my attention,” said the sheriff. “Burn in hell and have his organ hacked off, the man said. Pretty much the fate that actually befell Mr. Errol Watson.”
“Doesn’t sound like a coincidence, what happened to him,” said Calhoun. “Wonder how many people heard or read about what Dunbar said.”
“Who knows?” said the sheriff. “Besides the people there in the courtroom, it must’ve been reported on TV and in the papers. Maybe Mr. Dunbar gave out interviews.”
“When you think about it,” said Calhoun, “it’s kind of obvious. Cutting off his pecker and then setting him afire.”
“A damn good idea,” said the sheriff.
“But not all that original. Anybody could’ve thought of it.”
“True enough,” said the sheriff. “Except this Dunbar’s the one who actually said it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was dusk, and orange streetlights lit the tree-lined suburban street in Biddeford. The houses, Colonials and dormered Capes, were set back from the sidewalks on what Calhoun guessed were one-acre lots. Newish automobiles, mostly big square SUVs, were parked in front of the garages. The lawns and gardens appeared to be well tended. The maples and birches were just beginning to turn yellow.
Calhoun was driving slowly. The sheriff was trying to read house numbers off the mailboxes and doorframes.
The clock on the dashboard of the Explorer read seven thirteen when the sheriff said, “Here we go. Pull over here.”
Calhoun stopped in front of a big white Colonial house framed by a pair of big maple trees. When they started walking down the driveway, a floodlight on the peak of the garage roof, apparently motion activated, flashed on and lit up the area. A basketball hoop on a steel pole stood at the side of the paved area. The garage had four doors and was nearly as big as the house.
The sheriff went to the garage and peered through the windows. Then he took out his flashlight and shined it inside. “Come here, Stoney,” he said. “Look at this.”
Calhoun went over and looked in. There were four bays. One was occupied by a canoe upside down on sawhorses. Cars were parked in the other three. There was a blue Subaru Legacy, a black Honda Accord, and a dark red Saab sedan. All three vehicles looked quite new.
“The Saab,” said Calhoun. “Dark red.”
“Burgundy,” said the sheriff. “With a sunroof. To quote Sherlock Holmes, ‘Aha.’“
“I don’t think Sherlock Holmes ever actually said ‘Aha,’“ said Calhoun. “He might’ve said ‘Egad’ or ‘Zounds’ or ‘The game’s afoot.’“
“That doesn’t sound right, either,” said the sheriff. “Let’s talk to the Dunbars.”
They went up to the front door. The sheriff rang the bell.
The light over the door flicked on, and then the inside door opened. A boy stood there on the other side of the screen. He looked sixteen or seventeen, Calhoun thought. He was tall and gangly, a good-looking kid with dark curly hair. “My parents don’t talk to salesmen or Mormon missionaries,” he said.
“We’re not salesmen or missionaries,” said the sheriff. He held up his badge. “I’m the sheriff and this is my deputy.”
The boy narrowed his eyes at the sheriff’s badge, said, “Hang on a minute,” and disappeared.
A minute later a man appeared. He had a cloth napkin in his hand. He wore a white shirt with the cuffs turned up at his wrists and a necktie pulled loose at the throat. “Can I help you?” he said.
“I’m Sheriff Dickman,” said the sheriff. “This is Deputy Calhoun. We’d like to talk to you.”
“Me?” said the man.
“You are Franklin Dunbar?”
“Yes, I am. But—”
“Your wife is Meredith, and your daughter is Bonnie? And the young man who came to the door is your son?”
“That’s Benjie,” he said. “Yes. What’s this about?”
“May we come in?” said the sheriff.
“We’re just finishing up our dinner,” said Dunbar. “It’s really not a good time. Can’t it wait?”
“No,” said the sheriff.
Dunbar frowned for a moment, then wiped his mouth with his
napkin and unlatched the screen door. “Well, all right. Come in, then.”
The sheriff and Calhoun stepped into a small flagstone entry-way, and Dunbar led them into the living room. There was an Oriental rug on a wide-plank pine floor, new-looking square furniture, a glass-and-steel coffee table, a big flat-screen TV mounted on one wall, a huge abstract oil painting on the other wall, and a brick fireplace. The lights were recessed in the vaulted ceiling except for a track light that illuminated the painting.
Calhoun noticed the absence of family photos or, for that matter, any personal memorabilia in the room. It appeared to have been professionally decorated in preparation for a magazine photo shoot.
Dunbar gestured to an L-shaped sofa. “Have a seat,” he said.
Calhoun and the sheriff sat.
Dunbar remained standing. He was a bigger man than he’d appeared to be at first. He had dark, curly hair like Benjie, his son, except Franklin Dunbar’s was flecked with gray. “So what do you want?” he said.
“I could use a glass of water,” said the sheriff. “How about you, Deputy ?”
“I wouldn’t mind some water,” said Calhoun.
A woman came into the room. She peered at the sheriff and Calhoun, then said, “What’s going on, Franklin? I was about to serve dessert.”
“This is Sheriff Dickman and Deputy Calhoun,” said Dunbar. “They haven’t yet said what they want.”
A sudden smile appeared on the woman’s face. Calhoun figured she was one of those people who could smile on demand regardless of what she might be feeling. She stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m Meredith Dunbar. Did Franklin offer you some coffee?”
“He offered water,” said the sheriff. “We accepted.”
Dunbar left the room. The sheriff and Calhoun both shook Meredith Dunbar’s hand. Then she sat across from them. She wore a white blouse and dark tailored slacks. She was slender to the point of being skinny. Her blond-streaked hair was cut short and straight. She wore clever makeup around her eyes that made them look larger
and wider-spaced than they were. Calhoun guessed she was around fifty. He pegged her husband as a few years younger.
Franklin Dunbar came back with a pitcher of water and four glasses on a tray, which he put on the coffee table. Then he sat beside his wife. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s some water. Help yourself. I’m sorry if I was impolite. I had a long day on the road, and I was just relaxing with my family over dinner, and …”
“And we interrupted,” said the sheriff. Calhoun noticed he didn’t apologize. “We want to talk to you about Errol Watson.”
Dunbar frowned. “Who?”
His wife, almost simultaneously, said, “Oh, my God. What has that monster done now?”
Dunbar turned and frowned at her. Then he said, “Oh. Him.” He looked back at the sheriff. “What about him?”
The sheriff said, “You didn’t remember his name?”
“Of course I remember,” said Dunbar. “I don’t like to think about him, that’s all.”
“Have you seen Errol Watson recently?”
Dunbar opened his mouth, then shut it. He reached for the water pitcher, poured some into a glass, picked up the glass, and took a sip. “Watson’s in prison, isn’t he?”
“He’s been out for over a year,” said the sheriff.
Calhoun was watching the woman. She was frowning at her husb
and. “Ma’am,” he said, “you knew he was out, right?”
She nodded. “We heard. He served a total of four and a half years. Which is ridiculous, after what he did. I supposed he’s … molesting children again?”
“You knew he was out,” said the sheriff to Dunbar.
“I guess so.”
“Why did you lie?”
Dunbar shrugged. “I was denying, not lying. This is an unpleasant subject.”
“You said you haven’t seen him?”
“That’s right. Why would I see him?”
“Which of you drives the Saab?”
“I do,” said Dunbar.
“Your car was seen at Watson’s house a few weeks ago,” said the sheriff.
Dunbar opened his mouth to speak, but his wife put her hand on his leg and said, “Franklin, you didn’t!”
He looked at her. “What? Well, what if I did?”
“You were there,” said the sheriff.
“Look,” said Dunbar. “All right. I can’t tell you how I hate that man. He haunts my thoughts constantly. He has wrecked our lives. My poor daughter is ruined. My marriage is.. .” He glanced at his wife, who looked away. “It’s not the same. Never will be. Nothing will ever be the same. Can you understand how this one evil person could poison the innocent lives of an entire family?”
“So what did you do?” said the sheriff.
“Do?”
“When you went to Watson’s house ?”
“I wanted to see him. I wanted to see if he had changed. I wanted to know if he had … repented. In court he never said anything, never looked at us, never conveyed any emotion whatsoever. I wanted to give him the chance to say he was sorry, to say he regretted what he had done.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Dunbar blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I thought it would make me feel better.”
“What happened ?” said the sheriff.
“Nothing. He wouldn’t talk to me. He wouldn’t let me in.”
“So what did you do?”
Dunbar shrugged. “I left.”
“Was that the only time you were there ?”
He nodded. “Yes. Just that once.”
“You want to think about that?” said the sheriff.
Dunbar blinked, glanced at his wife, then said, “Okay. I went back. It was a few nights later. But I just drove past his house. I didn’t know what to do. I was angry and frustrated.”
“So what did you do?”
“Do? I didn’t do anything. I drove by, that’s all. And then I came home.”
“What about the other times?”
“There was only—what do you mean?”
Meredith Dunbar took her husband’s hand in both of hers. “You should just tell them the truth,” she said.
“Which truth?” he said. “The truth about how he destroyed us? The truth about how he barely got his wrist slapped in court? The truth about how they set him free so he could wreck other families?”
“Just tell them what you did,” she said softly.
Dunbar looked at the sheriff. “I didn’t do anything. That’s my shame. What kind of man am I, I can’t take care of my family, correct this horrible thing that’s been done to my daughter, to us. Why can’t I do what I want to do?”
“What do you want to do?” said the sheriff.
“What do I want to do? I want to go back in time to before Er-rol Watson lured my little girl into his house to show her his puppies, and I want to kill the man right then, before he could do what he did.” Dunbar took in a deep breath. Calhoun noticed that his eyes were glittering. “But I can’t do that, can I? It’s too late, isn’t it? So now? Now I just want him dead. I want him to suffer. I want to know he’s burning in hell.”
Calhoun was watching Dunbar’s wife. She was hard to read. She kept her eyes on her husband’s face as he talked, and her lips were moving slightly, as if she were trying to speak for him.
“You went to his house to kill him,” the sheriff said to Dunbar, making it a statement, not a question.
“No, no.” Dunbar shook his head. “I don’t know why I went there. Not to kill him. I don’t think I could do that.”
“What exactly do you want with us?” said Meredith Dunbar. “What’s happened to that man?”
“Why do you think something happened to him?” said the sheriff.
She shrugged. “Why else would you be here?”
The sheriff turned to Dunbar. “Where were you two weeks ago last Saturday night?”
Dunbar frowned. “I don’t know. What was the date?”
“August thirty-first.”
“We were home that whole weekend,” said Meredith Dunbar. “That was right after Bonnie left. She’s attending college in California. It’s a small Catholic girls’ school. Very strict. Very regimented. It’s what she needs. She’s doing a little better. Her therapist is optimistic. We hope she’s going to be all right.”
“Yes,” said the sheriff. “Good. So what about that Saturday night? Where were you?”
“We were here.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Benjie was away for the weekend. That would be the weekend before he started school. Labor Day weekend. He was up at the lake. His friend Charles—Charles’s parents, that is’ they have a place on Long Lake. They do a lot of waterskiing. He came back Monday afternoon.”
“Did you have guests or visitors that evening?”
“That Saturday, you mean?”
The sheriff just looked at her.
“No,” she said. “It was just the two of us.”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It was just another Saturday night. Watched television, I suppose. We don’t do much anymore. We don’t go out. We don’t have friends. Franklin goes off to work. He’s on the road a lot. I volunteer at the library. As many hours as I can get. We try to keep busy. We don’t have any fun.”
The sheriff said, “Since …”
She nodded. “Yes. Since that happened.” She cocked her head at him. “Errol Watson has been murdered, hasn’t he?”
“Why would you say that?” said the sheriff.
“Why else would you be here, asking us these questions? We’ Franklin, I mean’he’s your best suspect. He threatened Watson in court, and he’s been seen at his house.” She smiled. “You don’t know my husband. He couldn’t do that. He’he has trouble doing much of anything. He thinks and agonizes and ponders, and he looks at things from all possible angles, and he ends up doing nothing.”
“What about you?” said the sheriff.
“I could do it,” she said. “I didn’t, but I could. I am very clear about the difference between right and wrong. Killing Errol Watson would not be wrong. If somebody killed him, they did the right thing. If my husband did it, I will take back every bad thing I’ve said about him over the past seven years.” She turned to Dunbar. “Did you do it, Franklin?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She smiled. “Well, if he’s dead, maybe our family can begin to heal. Maybe it will give us closure, finally.” She narrowed her eyes at the sheriff. “Is he dead?”
He nodded. “Yes, he is.”
Meredith Dunbar nodded. “Good. I’m sorry to tell you, we didn’t do it. So do you have any other questions for us, Sheriff?”
The sheriff glanced at Calhoun, who shook his head. “No, I think that’s it for now.” He pushed himself to his feet, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Franklin Dunbar. “If you think of anything you forgot to tell us, please give me a call.”
Dunbar ran the ball of his thumb over the front of the sheriff’s card, then tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Sure,” he said. “Of course.”
They went to the front door. Watson pulled it open.
“Do you like fishing?” said Calhoun.
“Fishing?” said Dunbar. “Yes, I guess so. I used to like fishing.”
&nbs
p; “Do you have a boat?”
Dunbar nodded. “Sure. Everybody around here has a boat. Having a boat, spending time on the water, that’s why people choose to live near the coast of Maine, isn’t it?”
Calhoun nodded. “What kind of boat?”
“Ours?” said Dunbar. “Boston Whaler. It’s just an eighteen-foot runabout with a forty-horse motor. Nothing fancy. I got it before … what happened. I thought, you know, it would be fun to take the family out in the boat, spend some time on the water, have picnics on the islands, explore the rivers, dig some clams, do some trolling.” He shook his head. “Since … well, we pretty much stopped doing family outings. Benjie uses the boat mostly, now.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“At the marina. The Saco Marina, right there in the river.” He frowned. “Why are you asking about my boat?”
Calhoun smiled. “I’m interested in boats, that’s all.”
“Well,” said Dunbar, “I’d sell that damn thing if it wasn’t for Benjie. You know what it costs to rent a slip in a marina? He keeps saying he might want to try lobstering, and I think it would be good for him, a good thing for a boy to do, if he could ever got off his butt.”
Calhoun nodded and pushed open the screen door. From somewhere outside came a rhythmic thumping sound that he identified as a ball bouncing on pavement.
The sheriff turned to Meredith Dunbar and said, “I wonder if I could use your bathroom ?”
Gray Ghost Page 17
