December Boys (Jay Porter Series)

by Joe Clifford

  “Yeah, Gerry Lombardi was a creep.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

  “I don’t know what that old man did or didn’t do. But their father’s perversion wasn’t what had Adam and Michael so rattled. That hard drive your brother got his hands on contained something far worse.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Jay. I’m not exactly an inner-circle guy. I handled more of the grunt work.”

  “You mean breaking and entering, assault . . . murder?”

  Even at the accusation, Bowman remained unfazed. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of. But I didn’t kill your brother’s friend.”

  “Is this like a criminal’s code or some shit? Beating and battery is okay, but you draw the line at murder?”

  He stopped reading to catch my eye. “I never said I haven’t killed a man. Just not that man.”

  I gauged the distance to the door, adding how many steps I could manage before I reached the edge of the forest versus the likelihood a bullet would split my scapula first.

  Disinterested in my crisis of faith, he continued. “Whatever was on that hard drive is tied to this UpStart business, I can tell you that. You only copied the pics. We got back the hard drive. Which is the only reason you’re still here. Even when Gerry was alive, doing whatever he was doing, Adam and Michael were planning this center. It’s why Adam spoke out about the drug epidemic so often, why Michael lobbied so hard to get legislation passed for a private facility. The Coos Center is priority number one. It’s why they blew up the truck stop and motel. It’s why they paid off judges like Roberts to ship kids to North River. Necessity feeds the mother. They want this prison.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “If I could prove that, Jay, why the fuck would I need you?”

  “Why do you need me?” I pointed at the trail of papers. “Those are public records my friend Nicki copied, newspaper articles I snipped out. Available to anyone with a buck and pair of scissors.”

  “Your girlfriend got her hands on something special. Someone from the courthouse called Michael. The Brothers have been freaking out ever since. I need to get out of here.”

  “Here?”

  “New Hampshire. New England. Maybe the country.”

  “Had to fuck up pretty bad to need to run that far.”

  “That part doesn’t concern you,” Bowman said, “But, yeah, I wouldn’t mind landing somewhere those two can’t find me. And a parting payback shot would be nice.” He closed the folder. “You don’t have it.”

  “What?”

  “What you need.”

  “I thought you worked for Tomassi Construction now. Delivering payoffs.”

  “I’m a jack of a lot of trades. Listen, kid, none of this would make any sense to you. It’s a need-to-know basis. I’m telling you what you need to know. Don’t worry about me or my life, what I did or where I’m going, okay? You’re on the right track. Judge Roberts, HUD programs pushed through, the new juvie center. But the spike you need to nail those pricks to the wall isn’t here. Now think back. Your little girlfriend—”

  “I told she’s not—”

  “—got into some records. Out-of-state extradition. Population overflow—”

  “That’s everything I have.”

  He slammed his fist on the table. The hobo jump-farted in his sleep. The dropout cashier recoiled, terrified.

  “If they want her that bad,” I said, “why haven’t they sent someone to toss her place?”

  “They have. The girl hasn’t been home in days.”

  Where the hell had she been sleeping?

  Bowman stood to leave.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Where you going?”

  “Away from here.”

  “How am I supposed to get home?”

  “Not my problem.” He slid on his jacket. “Call your girlfriend. You’re going to want to do that anyway.”

  “Well, thanks for the date.” I would’ve pushed harder for a ride back, since I was now stranded, except for two things: one, I had no interest in running into those Longmont cops, and two, I didn’t want to spend another minute in this guy’s company. He had that wild, unhinged look of a man with nothing left to lose, someone who wouldn’t mind going out in a blaze, a lethal combination I didn’t want to spark.

  Bowman nodded at the documents. “Don’t go back to your place. Have your girl pick you up here. She has a photocopy. I know that for a fact. Every copy made at the courthouse needs an ID. Either she made it or someone using her name did. What you’re looking for involves the kids shipped out of state. Kentucky. Arizona. You find that information and you slip it in an envelope, ship it down to the Monitor, care of Jim Case.”

  “Who’s Jim Case?”

  “He’s a reporter. Been poking around this Roberts stuff too. Making the Brothers very nervous. He’s next on the list, if you know what I mean. Get him those papers. Then you and your little girlfriend take a trip out of town.”

  “I’m married.”

  “Leave your wife and son in Burlington. They are a lot safer up there.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

  “Figure it out. And then get out of Dodge. You’re in the crosshairs, kid. You and the girl.”

  When Bowman got to the door, he turned over his shoulder. “Sorry for punching you in the back of the head last year. When you hit a man you really should look him in the eye. Good luck.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I KEPT TRYING to reach Nicki, who still wasn’t answering. I left increasingly dire messages, attempting to explain the danger in thirty seconds, avoiding asking where she’d been sleeping because I didn’t want to sound like a possessive ex-boyfriend. If Bowman was right, she couldn’t go back home now, wherever “home” was. The thought of her sleeping with someone else burned me up, although I knew I had no right. What did I really know about the girl? Besides that she was from New York City and had been studying at Keene before taking a semester off and getting stuck with a relative up here. An uncle, I thought she said.

  There are few things in this life as depressing as contemplating life’s mysteries inside a Dunkin’ Donuts on the side of a highway in the dead of winter.

  The gas station next door sold cigarettes. I made sure to be extra friendly to the clerk, over-explaining how my car had broken down and I was waiting on a friend. I couldn’t afford to get tossed for vagrancy. I’d watched the hobo get the boot a while ago. I didn’t know which jurisdiction I was in or what police force might get the call, but I didn’t want to find out.

  If those two Longmont cops couldn’t find me at my place, how long before they checked Charlie’s? I dreaded calling him. Mostly because I was worried he wouldn’t pick up the telephone. I could take getting ignored by Nicki or even my wife, but the day Charlie Finn stopped taking my calls I’d know I’d burned my last bridge, abandoned forever on the Island of Misfit Toys. I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t sit on a gas station curb smoking cigarettes all night. I hadn’t seen a single car pull in. Not that anyone picked up hitchhikers these days. Plus, where would I go?

  Charlie wasn’t thrilled to hear from me. I could hear the Dubliner in the background. He didn’t sound too drunk. When I explained where I was and who’d brought me there, he agreed to come get me. I ordered another coffee and donut so I’d have an excuse to wait inside where it was warm. The whole time I kept hoping Nicki would call back, but she never did.

  I tried to remember the day she got fired. Interstate extradition? Maybe. Kentucky, Arizona? Sounded right. By that point, she’d already crawled under my skin, bugging me. I wasn’t the greatest listener under normal circumstances.

  What if Bowman was setting me up? If they couldn’t find Nicki, maybe I could. Maybe that’s what they wanted, for me to bring her out in the open. Except I’d been running around town with the girl for the last few days, in plain
sight. She’d just been in my house. If those cops were looking for her, why hadn’t they grabbed her when she left? She’d been parked right out front. Or maybe they’d arrived a minute too late, the timing too convenient. Or maybe those weren’t the same cops. I was pretty sure the car was the same one as the other day, but a lot of cars look alike, Crown Vic the preferred prowl vehicle for undercover. Which meant I was taking my cue from a criminal and murderer. And still Bowman had given me more to work with than anyone else.

  Sometime around midnight, Charlie pulled up, alone. I hadn’t anticipated Fisher tagging along for the ride but I wouldn’t have been shocked to see him. Either way, I was glad I didn’t have to deal with his bullshit.

  This time of night granted wide berth on the parkway. The thoroughfare, like the Turnpike, traversed mountain granite, but located on the other side of the range, the road invited less traffic.

  Charlie immediately brought up the elephant.

  “And why do you believe Bowman?”

  “His real name is Erik Fingaard.”

  “Whatever you’re calling the guy,” Charlie said, “he’s the same asshole who knocked you unconscious and dumped Pete Naginis’ body behind the truck stop.”

  “He admitted punching me out,” I said, “and a lot of other fucked-up shit, too. But he denied killing Pete.”

  “Did he pinky swear?”

  Charlie’s skepticism was understandable. You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Especially when that impression is one someone wants to stomp into your skull. I couldn’t explain why my gut told me to trust Bowman.

  Charlie reached for a smoke. “So, where to? You said you don’t want to go home. I guess you can crash at my place.” He sounded exhausted.

  “Sorry about last night.” I passed my pack. “Sorry about, y’know, everything.”

  “I love you, Jay. You’re the closest thing to family I got.” He took a deep breath. “Just tell me the plan, man. You say Bowman’s on the level? Sure. Why not? Can’t hurt mailing a package to the press.”

  “Won’t matter if I can’t get Nicki to return my call.”

  “Don’t shit where you eat, bro.”

  “I didn’t fuck her.”

  “None of my business. But I could see where that was headed soon as you walked in the Olympic. The way she looked at you. The more you denied it.”

  “I love my wife.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first guy to love his wife and get some on the side.”

  “I told you I didn’t sleep with her. We fooled around for, like, thirty seconds, a minute tops.”

  “I’m sure Jenny will love to hear that explanation.”

  * * *

  After Charlie went to sleep, I logged onto the web. The Department of Health and Human Services (DHHS) handled most substance abuse cases in New Hampshire, overseeing juvenile subdivisions like CHINS (Children in Need of Services) and DJJS (Division of Juvenile Justice Services). Both had the power to remove a child from the home, especially when drugs became an issue. The worst of the worst were generally sent to the Sununu Youth Services Center in Manchester. That’s not where Brian Olisky and Wendy Shaw had been sent. North River had flexibility, operating as a diversion program. Did that mean they could send kids packing across state lines? Is that where Brian and Wendy now slept? Anything’s possible if parents sign off. I couldn’t find reports of New Hampshire shipping inmates out of state. But I learned Vermont did it all the time. In fact, our neighbor to the west paid out over sixty million to a company called Justice for America, Inc., which oversaw privately owned, for-profit prisons. Most of these facilities were located in Kentucky and Arizona. How did that work? My eyes were going cross trying to figure it out.

  I delved into the Monitor archives, searching out bylines from the reporter Bowman mentioned, Jim Case. No scalding exposés on the Brothers, but I could see he was playing for the other side, a vocal opponent of the push for privatization, a liberal crusader urging rehabilitation over throwing away the key. Everyone had a horse in this race. Maybe Case just needed a cause to rally around, a pulpit from which to preach. At least this part of Bowman’s story checked out. Which made me remember something else Bowman cautioned: the reporter was next on the list.

  A Google search revealed an address and phone number for Jim Case. Just like that. You can find anything on the Internet these days, a detail that did nothing to assuage my paranoia. I cross-checked to make sure I had the right guy, the name common enough. Didn’t take long. Jim Case had a public Facebook page, Twitter account, LinkedIn profile listing full name, hometown, age, which I matched against other articles and recognitions, all his contact information out there for the whole world to see. Email. Phone number. Mailing address. Nothing was private anymore. I reached for the phone, then thought better. What could I explain to a stranger at two a.m. over the telephone?

  I crashed on the old floral print couch. Taunted by hissing radiators and groaning wood, the lingering scent of lavender and liniment, sleep came uneasy. I hadn’t enjoyed a full REM cycle since Jenny moved out. Mix in the alcohol and anxiety, the dehydration, I mirrored the walking dead. Half alive, half something not human anymore. Bedtime offered no solace. Whatever questions plagued me during the daytime shadowed me into slumber.

  Lucid dreams transported me back to the final act of last January’s tragedy. I’d just run a man off the road. He lay dead in the ravine. My brother and me stashed in an empty farmhouse in the foothills, the cops coming for us both. My brother talking crazy, making up stories about our dad, trying to blame him for why he was such a mess, using the opportunity to rewrite history and paint himself the hero. This was the end of my road, too. And in those waning minutes, knowing I was about to leave my son orphaned, the only woman I’d ever love abandoned to raise our child alone, I had prayed to God to get me out of there. Please, give me one more chance. Keep me safe and I swear I’ll make it right. And He heard me. I’d been granted a second chance. And I’d fucked that one up, too.

  I saw the red-and-blue lights, heard the crunch of footsteps over snowy gravel, authority closing in to take me away.

  I woke on Charlie’s couch, lights swirling through the window, bouncing off the glass and walls.

  Then came the loud knock at the door.

  They’d come for me again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHARLIE SAWED LOGS in the back bedroom. I eyed his car keys in the bowl of waxed fruit on the kitchen table next to my sack of papers. I fantasied a fantastic scenario, where I’d sneak out the back door, slit the cruiser tires with a switchblade, steal a car and speed my way to freedom beneath predawn skies. This is the crazy shit you cook up when you can’t fully fall asleep.

  At the window, I peeled the curtain as another heavy fist rained down.

  “Open up. It’s me. Turley.”

  I cracked the front door, rubbing my eyes like he’d interrupted a wonderful dream. “What the hell time is it?”

  “Thought I’d find you here.” Turley stepped past, barging inside. He stopped when he heard Charlie raising the roof. “Is that Finn? How you get any sleep?”

  “What do you want, Turley?”

  “I need you to come down to the station. Some detectives from Longmont been looking for you. Got some questions.”

  “Detectives?” Like the man sent to execute my brother last year? Those cops on the side of the road weren’t detectives. Maybe Turley was willing to double down on that bridge. I sure as hell wasn’t.

  “They said they’d been out to your place. Truck’s there. You’re not. I told ’em to head over.” Turley looked bored with the conversation. “I said I’d fetch you.”

  “And take me where?”

  “They’re gonna meet us at the station.”

  “Ever hear of calling?”

  “Yeah, Jay. Charlie’s landline was busy. Neither of you was answering your cell.”

  “That’s because there’s no cell reception out here for one, and two, I was
fucking sleeping. It’s the ass crack of dawn.”

  I saw the receiver belly up on the nightstand. Must’ve kicked it over in my thrashing attempts to sleep.

  “Which is why I had to drive out here.” He reached for my arm.

  I pulled away. “The fuck are you doing?”

  Turley’s hand shot for his holster.

  “What? You’re going to cuff me? Arrest me? Shoot me?”

  The snoring in the backroom stopped.

  “No one is arresting anyone. These boys just want to talk to you. Don’t be a red-ass.”

  “What’s going on?” Charlie stood in the doorway to his bedroom, pink ham belly more swollen that usual, like the meat had soaked too long in the brine. “What are you doing here, Turley?”

  “Hey’ya, Charlie. Sorry to bother you. Got a couple of cops up from Longmont. Need to talk to Jay. Said I’d grab him.”

  Charlie scratched his head. He didn’t understand what was happening. But I did.

  “Fine.” I grabbed my winter coat, nodding toward the back bathroom. “Okay if I take a piss first?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  While Charlie and Turley made small talk about ice fishing and elk, I walked into the kitchen, plucking a plastic apple from the fake fruit bowl. I stuffed the evidence inside my coat, double-checking that the blade was still there. I snuck out the side door.

  At the back of the house, I pulled the steak knife from my pocket and slit the telephone wire. Then I crept toward Turley’s squad car, cracked the driver’s side door, and sliced the CB cable, too. Good luck getting a cell signal. I plunged the knife headlong into his tire.

  I was turning over Charlie’s engine as Turley, the fat fuck, lumbered down the steps, shouting after me.

  Speeding out of the foothills, I made for the lowlands. The papers were going to love this one. Another one of the Porter boys embroiled with the law. But I’d fallen for the masquerading cop bit before. Fool me once, not this time. I had to find that reporter Bowman told me about. One objective: Get Jim Case the evidence. After that, I didn’t care what happened to me. Without Jenny and my son, nothing mattered.