“Girl Scout’s honor?”
“Believe me, Joe, I don’t have the slightest inclination to be a hero. Now go home and have fun with Christie.” She backed up a few steps, gave me a little wave. “See you Sunday night back in Machias.”
The bus driver was a lanky guy with a handlebar mustache who swung the big cargo hatch up with a practiced cadence. He extracted a few suitcases and handed them to disembarking passengers, then waved me aboard. I took a seat four rows back and booted up my laptop. I found an unsecured wireless network signal and opened my email. There were two notes from Leah, the first saying the story I’d struggled to write was fine. The second asked me to give her a call as soon as I found a phone. That email was written the previous night, well after deadline.
About a dozen other passengers had filtered onto the bus, almost all of them students from the nearby University of Maine. Noticing a sign behind the driver’s seat depicting a cell phone with a diagonal line through it, I flipped my computer closed and rummaged in my parka pocket for my phone. Before I could step out onto the platform to call Leah, the driver bounded up the steps and pulled the door shut. I sat back down and slid over to the window seat and texted her a quick note.
A half hour later, the bus was crawling along I-95 South and Leah hadn’t responded. I pulled out my laptop to outline the questions racing through my head. Every theoretical approach I tried led me to the same questions. Who other than the O’Rourke brothers would my reporting have riled up? If Danny Boothby wasn’t the one who knifed little brother Frank, who was? Corrine? An unrelated enemy of O’Rourke? Was there an observation buried somewhere in one of my stories that caused whoever it was to worry that I was about to expose them?
The thought of having to tell Leah I’d been run off the road made my stomach churn. She’d have to tell gutless Jack Salisbury, and when he learned my car had been rammed into a ditch in a blizzard, he’d probably lump it together with last summer’s experience and come to the irrational conclusion that I’m to blame when crazy people try to kill me. But keeping Leah in the dark was not an option. My battered Subaru would tell the tale. As I was about to text her again, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
where r u?
on bus, heading 4 ptld.
on a bus? u okay?
fine. long story.
There was a pause.
can u call me?
will do.
Not wanting to be a blatant cell phone scofflaw, I headed down the swaying aisle to the back of the bus, as far as possible from other passengers. Most appeared to be sleeping, or at least trying to doze off. Jamming a finger into my right ear, I punched in Leah’s direct line. She picked up on the first ring.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Hello to you, too.” I kept my voice low.
“Some guy called here and implied you weren’t fine, or that you may not be fine soon.”
“When?”
“Last night. I was about to leave the office. The city desk phone rang and I picked it up myself. A man’s voice said ‘You’d better rein in that reporter who’s been running all over Washington County this week, or there’ll be...’”
With the impeccable timing that distinguishes cell phone service in rural Maine, Leah’s voice disappeared into the ether before she finished the sentence. I hit the redial button twice before accepting that I was in one of the dead zones that plague the system. Text messages sometimes fly when a phone call won’t go through so I tapped one out before shuffling back to my seat.
Sorry lost service will call u when I hit Ptld.
The last part of the ride took a week. I closed my eyes and tried without success to think about something other than Emma alone in her sweet house, a big black Ford barreling into the driveway. I texted Christie from Brunswick, and when we pulled into the Portland bus station she was there to meet me, her dark eyes luminous in the post-blizzard sunshine.
“Must have been a long bus ride, Buckeroo,” she said when I released her from a hug.
“Internet access is spotty, texting has inherent limitations and you’re a pariah if you talk on your cell. The minutes took hours to pass.”
She bumped her hip against my thigh as we walked across the parking lot to her truck. “I’m glad you’re finally here, safe and sound, especially after what your new friend hinted about on the phone last night.”
I glanced sideways, saw a smile playing at the edge of her mouth.
“I’m not sure what she told you, but I had a wild ride down the Black Woods Road.”
“Uh-huh. Somehow you wrecked your car and wound up in a veritable stranger’s arms.” She pulled her stocking cap off and shook out her long black hair.
“Why, Ms. Pappas, you appear to be jealous.”
“Nah,” she said. “Not jealous. But damn curious.”
The bed of Christie’s Toyota pickup was full of snow, so I wedged my bag on the floor of the front seat and sat with my knees up around my ears. Before she started the engine, Christie plucked my hat off my head.
“Why, Mr. Gale, you handsome son of a gun. You look like a new man.”
“I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the old man.”
“There wasn’t. But the new you is better, hands down.” She reached over and stroked my short hair. “It looks great. I’m not kidding.”
I made a grumpy noise, which drew her throaty laugh. “Poor Joe. Forced to listen to compliments about his good looks.”
“Yeah, let me out of this truck right now.” I unclicked my seatbelt and mimed an attempt to open the door.
“You do look handsome, but you also look beat.” Christie stopped for a light.
“More than beat, and more than confused. This story is making less and less sense as the days go by, and someone has realized I’ve figured that out. And that someone’s after me.”
She swerved around a frozen pothole. “What do you mean, ‘after you’?”
“I didn’t run into a ditch all by myself last night. I had help from a guy in a big black truck who latched his front bumper to the back of my car. On purpose. I went off the road at a sharp curve.”
“Your friend Emma swore you were okay.”
“I’m fine, just pissed.”
“You didn’t hit your head?”
“Nope. Banged up my car and lost some love for that windy, narrow road that runs between Franklin and Cherryfield. Very scenic, tourists love it. Last night, it was hell on earth.”
“Do you think it was a drunk? Or maybe some kids out joyriding in the snow?” She guided the truck into a parking space near a little market we favor at Rosemont Corner. Before we got out of the truck I gave her the nickel version of the story, including that someone was also trying to maneuver Emma away from the case.
Christie sighed. “I’m going to want to hear all the details once we get home. Right now let’s get you some food for your fridge, okay?”
We went inside the market and stocked up. Because I’d be home for only a couple of days, we stuck to the basics: bread, cheese, a quart of milk, tomatoes, lettuce, a bottle of red wine. Christie picked out some fruit and asked the deli guy to slice some roast beef thin.
For the rest of the drive to my house Christie kept the conversation light and her eyes on the road. The storm cleanup was proceeding in earnest. City rigs peeled the snow back as close to the curbs as possible, creating frozen five-foot walls in some places. Private plows bombed from driveway to driveway, their blades bouncing with momentum as they jammed two feet of new snow against the graying piles left over from a couple of December storms. At my house the plow guy had come and gone. I was mystified by a set of deep footprints leading to my kitchen door.
“Theo,” Christie said. “He knew you were coming home and assumed it would make you happy to have Lou greet you at the
door.”
“Lou’s here already?”
“Probably sound asleep in that fancy bed.” Christie picked up both grocery bags while I grabbed the duffel and my laptop.
Lou struggled to her feet as soon as I opened the kitchen door, and honored me with the look she bestows whenever we’re apart for more than a few hours. I got down on the floor and wrapped my arms around her aging frame, feeling her shiver with what I hoped was delight.
Christie put the groceries away and was out the door, saying she had to pick Theo up from a pal’s house and would return shortly. I appreciated the space to get reconnected with my dog and call my editor. The old-fashioned telephone answering machine had a big red 6 blinking on its face.
First up was my pal Rufe, so wrapped up in his world—plumber by day, musical-theater star by night—that he forgot I was out of town. He was looking for help building a set and recalled partway through the message that I was in Machias for the week.
“So never mind helping out, but call me when you get back, okay?” Rufe said.
My father left a brief message: “I’m in bed with a cold. Call me when you can, I want someone to talk to.”
The next three calls were hang ups, which robbed the sixth call of its shock value.
“Guess you’re not as smart as you look, Gale.” The voice was a deep growl. “It’s time to back off, buddy.” The caller barked a phlegmy cough. “Fuckwad Danny’s not worth risking your neck.” Another cough, perhaps the caller, but maybe someone in the background. Then the line clicked dead.
The recorded voice that greeted me when I dialed Star 69 told me the number of the last caller was unavailable. That meant either a cell phone or a blocked automatic call return on a landline. My low-tech home phone and answering machine allowed me to listen to the message twice more and jot it down verbatim. Then I unplugged the whole contraption to make sure the message wouldn’t be recorded over. I used my cell to call Leah but she didn’t answer. I left a voicemail telling her the bus had made it to Portland and I wanted to know more about the threatening call to the City Desk. I alluded to the fact that I’d had a phone call of my own, figuring that would put me at the top of her callback list.
Next I dialed Emma, who picked up on the second ring. Her husky “Hello” made me wonder if she used caller ID, but that split second of elation turned into doubt when her voice shifted into a conversational tone upon realizing it was me.
“Joe. Hi. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“I wanted to be sure you made it home safely and everything is cool there.”
“Everything’s fine,” she said after a beat. “And in Riverside?”
“I had an unfriendly message on my answering machine, or maybe it was a friendly message from a kind soul who has my well-being at heart,” I said. “It was kind of hard to tell, and he didn’t leave a name or number.”
“Quelle surprise,” she said. “What did he say?”
I read the caller’s words in my best Downeast accent.
“Wow,” she said. “‘Time to back off—F-wad Danny’s not worth risking your neck.’ Hmm. Could have been the guy who ran you off the road last night or the deputy who stopped you the night before. Kind of ambiguous.”
“What I can’t figure out is why whoever’s behind this doesn’t realize that threatening a reporter isn’t going to cause the reporter to stop covering the story, it’s going to make him dig deeper.”
“Maybe whoever’s on your tail isn’t that bright.”
“Or maybe digging deeper is what he wants me to do.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
She said her day had been routine.
“You keeping the doors locked?”
“I am. A friend’s coming over for dinner and we’ll keep our ears tuned for anything unusual.” She paused. “I really doubt the truck you saw on my road this morning was the one that harassed you last night.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t, but I don’t think there’s reason to worry about it. Relax tonight. You’ve had a long week.”
A beep signaled someone else was trying to get through.
“I have another call, probably my editor.”
“See you in a few days.”
Sure enough, Leah’s newsroom extension was flashing across my screen.
“Joe here.”
“Can you hear me now?”
“Depends what you’ve got to tell me. When we lost contact during my interminable bus ride, you were saying somebody called the City Desk last night to complain about my trial coverage.”
“Actually, he called to say you’ll get your butt kicked if you didn’t stop annoying everyone in Washington County.”
“Describe the voice.”
“Male. Age indeterminate. Strong Maine accent. Extremely fond of swear words.”
“What’d you say?”
“He made it clear he didn’t want a conversation. Said you were ‘stirrin’ up shit’ and if you keep it up, you may wish you hadn’t stuck your nose so far into it.”
“This sound like O’Rourke to you?”
“Eddie O’Rourke? When State House wags say he knows where the bodies are buried, I’m pretty sure they’re speaking metaphorically. The guy on the phone last night implied he personally plans to put your body where no one will ever find it.”
When I told her about the attempt to launch my body and my Subaru into the Black Woods the previous afternoon, she stopped bantering.
“You’ve got to report this, Joe. You could’ve been killed.”
“That thought’s run through my head more than a few times. But what the hell would I report? A big black truck—gee, officer, I can’t tell you what year or even what model except that it was a Ford—ran me off the road in a blizzard. No officer, I didn’t catch the license plate. And no, I don’t have any idea what the driver looks like.”
Leah murmured something I didn’t catch.
“I can’t very well ask for a police escort back to Machias. So what’s the point of making a police report? The guy I suspect set the dogs on me would have a copy on his desk before the ink was dry.”
“How do you plan to keep yourself safe?”
“Don’t be melodramatic. Sunday won’t be like yesterday. The sun will be shining. There’ll be lots of people on the road. I’ll rent a tank on my own dime, and I’ll keep my eyes open and my ears, too.”
Leah sighed.
“If you tell Jack, he and the rest of the boys Upstairs will overreact. If they force me to make a police report, the story becomes about me, instead of by me. And if they pull me off the story, O’Rourke wins.”
She made a noise that sounded like reluctant agreement.
“I know the chase and the calls sound bad, but they prove I’m on the trail of something hot. Maybe that woman in Biddeford is telling the truth and they suspect I’m looking into that. Or maybe there’s some other wrinkle here. The story needs to play out.”
I could hear Leah breathing while she thought.
“One more goddamn time, I’ll put my job on the line by keeping quiet. The tradeoff is you’re going to have to check in at least twice a day—by phone, not text—and you need to talk to me personally, not whoever picks up the phone.”
“No need to worry. I’m not about to let my guard down. From now on, I’ll be paying attention to who’s paying attention to me.”
Leah said the two reporters who’d been busy trying to corroborate scrapper64’s allegations still had nothing to show for their efforts. “Don’t get preoccupied with that angle. You’ve got enough to do. If there’s any truth to it, we’ll dig it out.”
Christie’s truck slid back into the driveway minutes after I hung up. She hadn’t eaten lunch, so I layered some of the roast
beef between slices of oatmeal bread. Settled at my kitchen counter with sandwiches and coffee, I learned that Theo had declined her suggestion to join us for Thai food that night.
“I’ll find a way to get him alone this weekend.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“But you need to know whatever he says has to stay between him and me.”
She looked dismayed. “A guy thing?”
“A common sense thing. He sure as hell isn’t going to talk with me if he thinks I’ll run right back to you.”
“What if he’s in trouble?”
“Then I’ll give him the best advice I can, including that he should talk with you. Don’t let your imagination run wild.”
Her eyes glistened. She blinked several times and took a deep breath. “I hate putting you in the position of father figure.”
“Well, he needs somebody who has been around whatever block he’s trying to navigate, and unfortunately that isn’t you right now.”
“God knows Arn hasn’t the slightest interest in acting as a mentor to my son.”
I shifted in my chair, all but biting my tongue. Arn Giroux, Christie’s longtime boyfriend, was a self-centered jerk. But I knew from experience it would not be smart to chime in with a comment of my own, even when she was the one who initiated the talk about his assholishness.
She twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “My beef with Arn’s a whole different story. I’m glad you’re home, glad you’re willing to spend some time with Theo.”
“Me, too.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
I gave her the unexpurgated version of the week’s drama in Machias, starting with the Speaker’s man knocking me down and ending with the big black Ford chasing me through the Black Woods.
“I keep thinking if I hadn’t shot my mouth off when I was drinking at the townie bar, I wouldn’t have been run off the road.” It was cathartic to spit out the self-reproach that had been sitting in my belly since that night.
“It may not have been your smartest move ever to drink pitchers of beer and bullshit with the locals, and you owe some angel somewhere for not being arrested for driving under the influence, but I’ll bet whoever is doing all this stuff—the O’Rourkes or some goon they hired—would have been on your tail anyway.” Christie folded her napkin into smaller and smaller squares. “I’ll bet as soon as you started hinting in print that Frank wasn’t Mr. Clean, someone in the Speaker’s empire was assigned to deal with you.”
Cover Story Page 17
