by Jen Blood
Q. Prior to July 12, are you aware of the last time that your husband took LSD?
A. I’m not sure. You’d have to ask him.
Q. Can you tell the court what happened on November 2nd, 1973?
A. I don’t know. That was a long time ago.
Q. I’ll refresh your memory. On the evening of November 2nd, 1973, you contacted the Black Falls sheriff’s department. Can you tell the court why you made that call?
What followed from there was a long, drawn-out account of a fall night in 1973 when Hank Gendreau dropped acid, had a bad trip, and wound up naked and fetal on the porch of his girlfriend’s parents’ house. He was twenty at the time; Ashley was three, and Ashley’s mother—Glenda—was a whopping seventeen years old, still living at home with her parents while she and Hank saved to get their own place. A bad trip was hardly unheard of for college kids in those days, but Hank Gendreau wasn’t a college kid, he was a deadbeat twenty-year-old who’d already knocked up a thirteen-year-old girl back when he was in high school. Not exactly the kind of guy who inspired a lot of faith in your average, God-fearing jury. When you looked at that in conjunction with the events of the day Ashley Gendreau had been killed, it established a history of drug use and what the prosecuting attorney called “deviant behavior.” Hank’s defense had taken a bad hit that day, and things had gone downhill from there.
The only chink in the State’s case was an alternate suspect in the area at around the time of the murder, but the judge had ruled the evidence inadmissible before the jury ever heard about it. I read through appeals filed and news articles written on one Will Rainier, a convicted sex offender and one of Hank’s best friends. I thought of the photo Hank had shown me: Jeff, Will & Hank. Though I didn’t know for sure, it seemed safe to assume that the man in the photo was Will Rainier. If this Jeff kid really had been my father once upon a time, he had epically shitty taste in BFFs.
Will’s alibi—a fishing trip with his father and brothers the day Ashley was killed—seemed weak to me, but apparently the judge didn’t agree. Will Rainier was written off and the case moved forward without him.
I took a break about an hour in because I was about to either burst into flames or melt from the heat. The pack descended the second my feet hit the first floor, Bonnie close behind. She opened the front door and the lot of them fled for the yard.
“You look mal,” she said. “Come in the kitchen. I’ll get you something cold.”
I nodded gratefully. The kitchen was no cleaner than the rest of the house, but an ancient air conditioner roared in the window, making the temperature at least twenty degrees cooler than it had been in Max’s office. Bonnie fixed me a glass of iced tea and set a plate of very stale-looking Oreos in the middle of the table.
“You are investigating Hank, non?” she asked before I’d even had a chance to sample the iced tea.
“I’m looking into his daughter’s murder, yes—or at least that’s the plan. I’m not sure what I can do, though.”
“Rien, maintenant.”
I looked at her in surprise. My French was virtually nonexistent, but her tone came across loud and clear.
“Nothing,” she said. “It is better to leave it.”
She sat in a torn vinyl kitchen chair across from me and pushed the hair out of her face. Her eyes were deep-set and brown, the lashes long and dark—the kind of eyes that could make an otherwise unremarkable face stand out in a crowd. Despite a little lax hygiene now, I suspected she’d been a real beauty in her day.
“So you know Hank, then?” I asked.
“Oui,” she said briefly.
“What do you think of his story?”
“The day Ashley died?”
I nodded. “From what I can tell, there are quite a few people out there who think he didn’t do it.”
“C’est vrai. Red Grivois arrested him that day, but he never did believe Hank was the one.”
I jotted down the name. “Hank said something about DNA evidence—do you know where that’s kept at this point?”
“In Augusta—with the State. It was in a drawer here for a long time. They don’t let us do that no more.” She took a long, slow sip of iced tea before she spoke again. “Did Hank tell you about that day?”
I set my tea back down. Health code-wise, I figured Bonnie’s kitchen was just a step above eating from a dumpster in Bangkok, so I avoided the cookies. I shook my head.
“I haven’t gotten to his testimony yet,” I said. “And we didn’t have that much time to talk when I met with him the other day. Has he talked to you about it?”
It looked like she was about to say something important, but she changed tacks at the last second. “Your name—what is it, s’il vous plez?”
“Erin,” I said. “Erin Solomon.”
She nodded, never taking her eyes off me. “How did Hank find you?”
“I’m a reporter—he read a story I’d written, and asked me to look into this. I thought it sounded interesting. Can we get back to what you were saying a minute ago, about what Hank saw the day his daughter was killed?”
She stood abruptly. “It was a bad day.”
I’m no Sam Spade, but I’d managed to put that much together on my own. I waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. Instead, she took the still-full platter of stale cookies off the table and headed for the sink.
“How do you know Hank, exactly?” I asked.
She set the platter on the counter and started the water running in the sink. Between that and the air conditioner, it was hard to hear her when she finally spoke.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t catch that.”
She turned around and fixed me with that Hellraiser stare of hers again. “Don’t worry about Hank. He won’t hurt nobody.” She stopped. Despite the fact that her eyes were drilling holes clear through me, I got the sense she wasn’t seeing me at all. Then, suddenly there was a shift. She softened, and her eyes found mine. “It’s G. you watch for, oui? Because G. will be watching for you.”
A damp, icy chill climbed my spine. “Excuse me? Who’s G?”
“Il est un diable,” she said. “The devil, oui? He comes out at night. Et when I’m in the garden. He waits for me in my dreams. The world grows cold, and then, voilà. Il est là.”
“I’m sorry—I don’t think I’m following you. Who are we talking about?”
“I don’t know him—I only see him. Not see him avec mes yeux,” she laughed dryly, gesturing to her eyes. “I know he isn’t there. Not truly.”
Somehow, that wasn’t a lot of comfort. She continued without another prompt from me.
“When he sees you, that’s when he is le diable. Even when he doesn’t want to be no more, oui? Il ne peut pas arrêter.” She closed her eyes. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “When he smells blood sous le rouge blanc et bleu—il est fait. He is done. His eyes find yours, et maintenant il a besoin de vous. You run. And don’t stop.”
My new psychic friend lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, took a long drag, and let it out in a slow, shaky exhale. She turned the water off in the sink.
“I should go back to work,” she said.
“Just a second,” I said. “This man you see—this G. Can you tell me what he looks like? Is he someone you know?”
She took another pull from her cigarette. I’d quit just a couple of months ago; it was a testament to how wrapped up I was in the conversation that I didn’t even notice the smell.
“I don’t see him,” she said. She rolled her eyes, like she knew exactly how nuts she sounded. “Not his face—jamais. Il est un fantôme. A ghost, oui? A shadow I feel sometimes. I don’t know what he looks like—only what he feels. What he wants.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the table in front of me. “And what does he want?”
She opened the kitchen door and started out, leaving the water in the sink and the dishes on the counter. When she turned again, there was something cold and resigned about the way she looked at me.
“Il vous
veut. He wants you,” she said. She hesitated a split second, like she was trying to decide whether or not she dared say whatever it was she’d been holding back. “For the game. He already had you one time,” she said finally. “That’s why he needs you again. Il ne se reposera pas—he won’t rest after seeing you, oui? A la pleine lune…” She stopped, thinking about her words. “When the moon is full,” she started again. “Then, the game begins. He won’t stop. Not until he est mort.”
She walked out. The kitchen door swung shut behind her, and I was left with a knot in my stomach and the unshakeable feeling that her warning was one I should heed. Clearly she was a crackpot—she had a pack of dogs at her heels and a lawyer in her attic, all living in a filthy house about five degrees hotter than the sun. If I was looking for crazy, there was no shortage of it here. It was still hard to shake the look in her eyes, though.
I left the kitchen and headed back up to Max’s office, thinking about what Bonnie had started to tell me before the whole channeling business began: something about whatever Hank had seen the day his daughter was killed. I made a mental note to reexamine the statement he’d made just after being taken into custody. And maybe figure out when the next full moon was.
Chapter Four
I left Max & Sons at a little after eight that night. Max never came back and Bonnie vanished with the dogs, leaving me with a notebook filled with questions and the rare opportunity to snag whatever files I wanted. Somehow, I didn’t think Max would mind. Or notice, for that matter. I took a box of transcripts and some press clippings, and made sure not to let the bird or the one-eyed cat out as I left.
I was about forty-five minutes from Littlehope, where my dog and all my worldly goods—or at least my backpack and my favorite pj’s—were being held hostage. I glanced at the clock, then at my phone. Tapped on the steering wheel a few times, getting progressively more irritated.
Finally, I gave up and picked up the damn phone.
“Are you coming back, or can I get rid of your bed and tell the boys at the paper we’ve got that scrapbooking room we’ve always wanted?” Diggs asked.
“I was just making sure I wouldn’t be interrupting anything.”
“Nope,” he said breezily. “I’m running solo tonight. I’ve got portabella burgers for dinner and Swiss chocolate for dessert.”
“You didn’t invite my mother, did you?” I paused. “Or anyone else?”
“It’s just you, me, and the hound tonight.” He was quiet for a second. When he resumed, there was something weird in his voice—something weighted that hadn’t been there before. “I found out a few things about the bodies up in Quebec you might be interested in, too.”
“What?” I asked immediately.
“The usual—torture and an agonizing death, in graphic detail.” He was trying to be light, but he fell considerably short on that count. “We can talk about it when you get here.”
The portabella burgers weren’t much of a draw, and I was rapidly reaching my limit when it came to speculation about the grisly murders of young girls. The thought of spending an evening with Diggs, Einstein, and Swiss chocolate, however, was more than enough to sway me. I told him I’d be there in an hour, put the car in gear, and headed back to Littlehope.
◊◊◊◊◊
Burgers were on the grill and Diggs had U2’s The Unforgettable Fire on vinyl playing loud enough to make a lesser man’s ears bleed when I arrived. My mother had dropped Einstein off earlier, sparing me the agony of trying to find common ground since Maya’s revelation about the status of Kat’s surgical career. My mutt thumped his tail and his ears perked up when I stepped onto the deck, but otherwise he remained focused on any table scraps that might fall his way.
Diggs wore jeans and a burgundy pullover that did ungodly things for his shoulders, his hair still wet from a recent shower. No shoes. We’d been friends long enough that it was easy to forget just how good looking he actually was—until moments like this, when it was almost impossible to ignore.
“You mind setting the table?” he asked over his shoulder.
I cleared my throat and focused on staying focused. “Yeah, sure.”
The bugs were staging a revolt, so we opted to eat inside rather than on the deck. I gathered plates and glasses and we did the polite small talk thing until dinner was ready, all the while carefully avoiding any mention of Diggs’ perky new reporter at the Trib. Once the burgers were up, I grabbed a beer for myself and the requisite bottled water for Diggs, chomping at the bit to get started.
“So, what’d you find out about the case?” I asked the second he was seated.
“You’re getting a little over-eager in your old age, Sol. How about a little foreplay before we dive into the heavy stuff, huh?”
“I thought this was the foreplay. Come on—I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” His casual façade slipped, and I felt a sudden push of adrenaline. “You found something, didn’t you?”
“I haven’t eaten all day—let’s have dinner first, then we can dig into it.”
“Are you kidding me? Diggs—”
“Please,” he said. “Just have dinner with me. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
If it was anyone but Diggs, I would have told them to go to hell. But he didn’t ask for much from me these days. The least I could do was have dinner. I took a bite of my portabella burger—which, it turned out, was a thousand times tastier than I’d ever imagined fungi could be. When that single bite didn’t prompt Diggs to spill his guts, I took another.
“So, why don’t you tell me what you found while you were at the lawyer’s place?” he asked.
The man was impossible.
For the next half hour, I told him everything I’d learned about the Gendreau case: about the alternate suspect and the endless transcripts and Max and his balding bird and Psychic Bonnie and her pack of dogs. I left out her grim prediction about my fate, since it seemed to me we’d had enough of that sort of thing in the past few months.
Diggs switched U2 out for Dusty Springfield for dinner, her voice sad and silky and the perfect complement to our quiet night. When we were done eating, we took the dishes into the kitchen and he washed while I dried.
“You’re stalling,” I finally said. He was scrubbing the last pan, and my patience had worn thin about an hour earlier.
“Maybe.”
“Is it about my father?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. There was only one reason Diggs would have his knickers this twisted.
“Finish up and meet me in the living room.”
His good humor had vanished about halfway through the dishes. Now, he looked conflicted and concerned and a little bit sad, and he wouldn’t look me in the eye. He left me in the kitchen, where I focused on drying the last beads of water from his cast iron skillet. Whatever he knew, it wasn’t good—that much was clear. The thought that the delicate cocoon I’d woven around my sanity in recent months was about to unravel was unsettling, but it still couldn’t compete with the thought that Diggs might actually have a lead that could bring me closer to learning the truth about my father.
Diggs was on the couch with Einstein beside him and a manila folder in his lap when I came in. He nudged the dog to the floor and nodded to the spot Stein had grudgingly vacated.
“Have a seat.”
“Are you trying to freak me out with this act, or is that just a side benefit?”
He grinned—a wide, rakish smile that never came close to touching his eyes. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little off my game tonight.”
I sat down yogi-style, facing him on the couch. When I reached for the manila folder in his hands, he held it just out of my reach.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I finally demanded. “Just give me the friggin’ thing, Diggs.”
“Just relax for a second. There’s a preamble to this file.” Arguing was pointless. I shut up and let him have the floor. “I talked to my guys in Quebec today. They told me the police up there have a suspect
they’re looking at.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Jeff Lincoln.” He watched me closely when he said the name. “It turns out he’s originally from Black Falls—where Ashley Gendreau was killed.”
I flashed on Hank’s picture again: Jeff, Will & Hank, Summer 1968.
“Jeff Lincoln,” I said, half to myself. I had a hard time finding my voice. “Why do they suspect him of the murders? Where is he?”
“They’re looking for him,” Diggs said. “He’s been a fugitive for almost thirty years now.” He’d already figured out there was a connection between Jeff Lincoln and my father—I could see it in his eye. He handed me the file.
There were photocopied news articles and a couple of stories Diggs had printed off from online sites. I started with the top of the stack: a story from the Bangor Daily News, dated September 28, 1970.
Fifteen-year-old Jeffrey Lincoln and twelve-year-old Erin Rae Lincoln were both reported missing after their boat was found capsized on Eagle Lake early Saturday morning. A search party has been organized, and area residents are asked to lend their assistance.
“Erin Rae,” Diggs said when I’d finished reading. “That’s your name, right?”
I nodded. My reaction was immediate, and a lot stronger than I’d expected it to be—I felt like I’d just been side swiped by a steam engine.
“This is him,” I said. “He always told me I was named after his sister. This has to be my father.”
“Keep reading,” he said. He didn’t look happy.
The next article was dated two weeks later, also from the Bangor Daily.
BRUTAL MURDER SHAKES COMMUNITY
The body of Erin Rae Lincoln was discovered by workers on a logging road fifteen miles from Eagle Lake, where the Lincolns’ boat was found abandoned earlier this month. According to sources inside the police department, twelve-year-old Lincoln was tortured and strangled shortly after her disappearance. Fifteen-year-old Jeffrey Lincoln, who also went missing at the time, has still not been located. Authorities will not specify whether or not he is a suspect in his sister’s murder. A service will be held for Miss Lincoln at the Black Falls Baptist Church this Saturday at 1 p.m.
