Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

by D. A. Keeley

  “Steak and eggs?”

  “And home fries.”

  “Mom, he doesn’t usually eat much before school. Just a little cereal.”

  “Cereal? That’s not enough.”

  “How about some fruit and cereal?” Peyton said, but she knew it was no use. Lois wasn’t changing. Peyton had added a sixth day to her weekly running regimen to counter Lois’s pot roasts, coffeecakes, and Sunday dinners.

  Two deep pans were on the counter. Lois was baking bread this morning.

  “When you do buy a house,” Lois said. “I’ll miss your company, too, sweetie.”

  “We’ll be in the same town, Mom.”

  “I know that, and I know you need your own space.” Lois started toward the fridge but paused. “Something on your mind? Look like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Let me pour you some coffee. We can sit and talk. I can make you ployes.” Lois turned back to the counter, opened a glass cupboard, and took down a cup.

  “No, Mom. I’m just really tired.” Only a partial lie. No way she was sitting across the kitchen table from her mother, saying what was on her mind. Elise could explain that, thank you very much. She hoped like hell Ellie told their mom soon. Her mother possessed a maternal instinct to know when her girls were hiding something.

  As if on cue, Lois said, “Did your sister reach you? She called sounding upset.”

  Nod.

  “She did reach you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “We met for coffee,” Peyton said.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sure, Mom, fine.”

  Lois looked at her, eyes narrowing. It was the same look she’d given Peyton during the Parents’ Weekend of Peyton’s senior year at the University of Maine in Orono. That Friday night, she and Jeff had sneaked the underaged freshman Elise into a bar in Bangor. Next morning, Elise passed on breakfast with Lois and Peyton, who’d also woken with mysterious flulike symptoms. On that day, Lois had stared across the breakfast table at Peyton, eyes narrowed, as they were now.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Lois said, the look vanishing. “Take one guess who waltzed in here last night with flowers like he’d never left you in El Paso. He tried to kiss me on the cheek and called me Mom. I damn near threw his skinny butt out the door.” She motioned to the other room.

  Peyton walked to the living room, where the walls were lined with photos honoring years of farm life: Elise and Peyton, big toothless grins, sitting on tractor tires that were taller than they were; the girls picking rocks ahead of the harvester; Lois standing before a table of men, preparing to serve the afternoon meat-and-potato meal during harvest; and one of her late father fly fishing in the Alagash. But it was the bouquet on the coffee table near the television that caught her eye. She shook her head and returned to the kitchen.

  “No card,” Lois sneered, “since he brought them in person. I told Jeff we already had material for the compost pile.”

  Peyton chuckled. “I bet you actually said that, didn’t you?”

  “Damn right I did. No one hurts my daughter and grandson.”

  “Jeff showed up at Gary’s while Elise and I were having coffee,” Peyton said. “That was great timing on my part. He probably eats there every morning.”

  “All the local businessmen do,” Lois said. “And the politicians. I go there at six a.m. some days to complain about my taxes.” Lois sipped her coffee, then looked at the cup as if she’d added too much cream. “May I ask why you’re buying your home through Jeff, Peyton?”

  “I’m not necessarily buying it through him. We’re back in Garrett now, Mother, so Tommy will see him.”

  “Jeff’s only called once to see Tommy. In four months.”

  “I hope that changes, for Tommy’s sake. Anyhow, I have to at least be cordial.”

  “Well, I’ve been cordial. I let him pick Tommy up after school, didn’t I? But Tommy was in bed when he showed up last night. I didn’t have to hold back. To tell you the truth, it felt nice to give him a piece of my mind.”

  “I bet it did.”

  “So you’re going house shopping at nine for Tommy?”

  “He’s just showing me a couple houses,” Peyton said. “I need some sleep first.”

  “And if the showing goes well?” Lois said. “Then what? Lunch? Then dinner …”

  “Mom, there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  “Don’t give up your dignity so your son can have a father, Peyton.”

  “I’m not giving up anything, Mother.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I hope you end up with someone,” Lois said. “I know this sounds old-fashioned, but Elise is taken care of. She and her son have a man to care for them. I want that for you, too. Your job is so dangerous. Peyton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you staring at the floor? Why won’t you make eye contact?”

  “Just tired, Mom.”

  “Well, just don’t forget that Jeff hurt you once.”

  “Tommy comes first, Mom.”

  “Think of yourself, too.”

  The remark brought back Darrel Shaley, who was now facing jail time for trying to care for his wife. She didn’t know that kind of loyalty. But Tommy would be eight soon, and people could change.

  She left the room. The stairwell to the second floor seemed like Mount Washington.

  “Guess what, Mom?”

  She registered Tommy’s tinny voice and stirred. Her sleep had been dreamless. She rolled over to see Tommy, wide-awake, wearing Superman pajamas and smiling.

  “Guess what?”

  “What is it, Rocket?” She’d nicknamed him as an infant, when he first started to crawl.

  “Dad’s going to my soccer game today.”

  Maternal fear hit her like a hand to the throat. But she managed calmly, “Well, you know your dad’s busy. He might not make it.”

  The seven-year-old shifted. She realized he hoped she’d refute his fears, and she’d done the opposite. Now she’d make damned sure to remind Jeff of the game.

  “Mom,” Tommy said, “if Dad says he’ll be there, he’ll be there.”

  Such loyalty. She could only nod.

  “I’m wearing my new cleats today,” Tommy said.

  She smiled, reached over, and caught him playfully by the arm. He laughed and struggled to get away. But she pulled him closer, wrapped her arms around him, and squeezed.

  “Do you know what a special kid you are?”

  “You’re squishing me, Mom. And, yes, you only tell me every day.”

  She kissed his forehead and released him. He dashed out of the room, giggling. She stood and started toward the shower in her flannel pajamas.

  She paused to watch Tommy set out his uniform. Next to his shin guards, he carefully positioned the new black-and-white Adidas cleats, which lay unblemished.

  FIFTEEN

  HAD SHE PUT OFF the house-shopping excursion because she needed sleep, or had her mother’s words resonated? Peyton wasn’t sure, but she’d slept for three extra hours, then drove to Nancy Gagnon’s home.

  Now she sat rocking the baby Nancy was calling Autumn.

  “You look very natural doing that,” Nancy said.

  Peyton was seated at Nancy’s kitchen table, holding the baby she’d found two nights earlier.

  “I’m rusty,” Peyton said. “My son is seven, and he’s an only child.”

  “Looks like you’re ready for another,” Nancy said. She stood at the counter, chopping strip steak into half-inch cubes. Occasionally, she lifted the cutting board, moved to the stainless-steel stove, and used the knife to slide the meat into a pot.

  “Your soup smells good,” Peyton said.

  “I told your mother I’d send some home with you. Do you want more kids?”

  “That’s putting the cart before the horse.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “Mom hasn’t told you?”

  “We just play bridge once a week.”

&n
bsp; Peyton tried to guess Nancy Gagnon’s age. She looked closer to her own age than to her mother’s age.

  “I’m divorced.”

  Nancy just nodded. “There seems to be a lot of interest in little Autumn. I hope we get her real name soon.”

  “We’re working on that. She wasn’t born in a Maine hospital, we know that much. Who else has shown an interest in her?”

  “That state trooper.”

  “Leo Miller?”

  Nancy nodded. Classical music played from an iHome atop the granite countertop. “Yes. I find that man offensive. Have you dealt with him?”

  Peyton reserved comment.

  “But Susan Perry from DHHS is wonderful. I’ve dealt with her before.”

  “As a foster parent?” Peyton said.

  “Yes. And your people have been great, too, of course. Several Border Patrol agents brought clothing and toys.”

  “Has Susan mentioned a timeline?”

  “For moving Autumn? No. But I’ve offered to keep her as long as they need me to. Tom sold the grocery store last year, and we’re both home now. Our girls are at Bates for college, so it’s nice to have a baby in the house.”

  “Thanks for doing this,” Peyton said. “I’ll try to stop in every few days.”

  Peyton had heard leather seats were colder than cloth and fully expected her life to pass without getting a chance to learn the difference. But there she was, just after lunch, sitting in the posh interior of Jeff’s BMW X5; although, the answer to her question would have to wait because his leather seats were heated.

  “You really look great, P,” Jeff said. “But be careful not to spill your coffee, okay?”

  “Don’t forget Tommy’s soccer game, Jeff. He’s counting on you to be there.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  She looked at him and turned away. Maybe she was maturing; she’d held her tongue on two occasions today—Nancy’s mention of Leo Miller and now “wouldn’t miss it” from the man who’d missed nearly half of his son’s life.

  Jeff drove from Main Street, where his real-estate agency was located, to Medway Road to see a three-bedroom cape with an attached two-car garage for $185,000. As the luxury SUV glided smoothly over the frost-heaved road, she stole occasional looks at him and thought of the past. She’d never forget how she felt the day he left—alone, in a city so far from home—yet there had been good times too: their honeymoon in Quebec City, the years before they’d married.

  She recalled her father again, seated at the kitchen table, dressed in his green sanitation department uniform, shoulders slumped as he left the house each day. He’d taken that job for her. Swallowed his dignity—daily—for their family.

  Tommy needed a father. Could that be Jeff? Biologically, she knew the answer. But could Jeff be a father?

  He turned and smiled at her.

  She exhaled. And then smiled back at him, hearing her mother’s words from that morning, but remembering her father’s daily sacrifice. A lot of people do things they don’t want to do for their children, she thought.

  “Did you get the flowers?”

  “Yeah, thanks. I should’ve said that sooner.”

  He waved it off, then lowered the music, eyes drifting from Route 1 to her face. “Sorry if I upset you in the diner this morning. The way you took off after that kid—I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “I was working.”

  “You were driving your personal vehicle. Weren’t you off duty?”

  “Yeah, but I saw someone who’s part of an investigation.”

  “Aren’t there ever times when a Border Patrol agent isn’t an agent?”

  “Weren’t we married long enough for you to know the answer to that?”

  “I was hoping you’d changed. I sure as hell have. I know what’s important now.”

  Right. She and Tommy had been home four months, and Jeff had spent a total three nights with Tommy.

  Norah Jones played a soft piano melody. Dense forest lined both sides of the road. A mile or more separated one house from the next. “Is work still interfering with your personal life?”

  She grinned and leaned back in the seat. “What personal life?”

  His smile acknowledged her joke, but his head shook sadly. “Tough way to live, P.”

  “Not for me. Just a tough lifestyle for some people to accept.”

  “Seeing anyone?” His eyes were on the road as he pulled into the driveway, killed the ignition, and sat awaiting her response.

  She opened her door to get out.

  “Guess that’s a ‘no comment.’ You always were tough.”

  In Aroostook County, anteroom entryways were known as mudrooms, because on the heels of winter’s often hundred-plus inches of snow, a unique season preceded spring: mud season. The mudroom led to a kitchen, which was separated from the dining room by a breakfast bar.

  “Owners moved to Boston,” Jeff explained. “Hard to gauge the size of the interior since there’s no furniture, but the house is nearly twenty-three hundred square feet. Plenty big for Tommy and you.” He looked at her. “And any visitors who might stay over.”

  “This was a mistake,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re still passive-aggressive as hell.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He led her through the house, to the four upstairs bedrooms. She had to admit the extra bedrooms would allow for an office and a playroom. She stood looking out the window.

  “What are you thinking?” he said.

  “Trying to figure out how far this is to the stationhouse.”

  “That’s your main concern? How long it’ll take you to get to work?”

  “It’s one concern.”

  “Ten minutes,” he said.

  “So twenty in the snow. Not bad.”

  “Peyton, what do you think of the house?”

  “I like it.”

  “Because I’m supposed to show it to a young couple later this afternoon. Do you think you’ll make an offer?”

  “Wow, that’s fast. Um …”

  “Is it big enough?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Even if Lois, or someone else, were to move in?”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “Not a thing. I do this for a living. There’re a lot of things to consider. Do you like the layout? The garage? Yard? I’ve got another property to show you as well.”

  “Can’t,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Got to get to the hospital.”

  “Feeling alright?”

  “Yeah, there’s a suspect there—”

  “Jesus, Peyton. You were chasing some girl around the diner this morning. I thought you’re working nights.”

  “Maine DEA is coming.” She spread her hands. “And I need to type a report before they get here. And don’t worry, Jeff. You don’t have to get upset about my job anymore. Actually, you haven’t had to in three years.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She was already starting down the stairs.

  “Speaking of passive-aggressive,” he said. “Hey, I still worry about you. I hope you know that.”

  Outside, she felt silly standing near the passenger-side door waiting for him to unlock it and wished she’d driven herself. When she heard the doors click, she climbed in.

  “I’m just going to come out and say it,” he said. The dashboard listed the outside temperature at twenty-seven. “I want to see you again, Peyton. Will you have lunch with me sometime?”

  She stared into the wooded backyard.

  “Peyton, did you hear me?”

  She thought of her father’s slumped shoulders, of his sacrifice, of the pride he’d swallowed in the transformation from prosperous farmer to garbage man. He’d done it all for their family. Tommy needed a father.

  “That sounds fine,” she said.

  SIXTEEN

  PEYTON HUDDLED WITH THE two Maine DEA ag
ents outside Kenny Radke’s hospital room. The corridor smelled of disinfectant.

  The sound of rubber-soled Crocs slapping the linoleum tiles echoed as a nurse hustled past. The agents had driven forty-five minutes north from Houlton to handle the previous night’s drug bust and had entered Garrett Station an hour earlier arguing about whose turn it was to buy coffee. Upon hearing the recording of Darrel Shaley’s confession, they were particularly eager to interview Radke.

  “I want to go in by myself first,” Peyton said, “play the tape of Shaley confessing and let Radke hear his name.”

  White-haired Mike Bowden nodded. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and tired running shoes. “If you can get him talking, we’ll take it from there.”

  “You’ve known Radke a while,” the younger agent, Pete Henning, said. “Think he’ll open up?” He was around Peyton’s age and had shown her wallet photos of his twin two-year-old girls. His garb ran to jeans and a Metallica T-shirt beneath a North Face fleece. He wore a diamond stud in his left ear.

  “He might,” she said. “He’s scared shitless of going back to Warren.”

  “Don’t blame him,” Henning said.

  “Me either.” She turned and pushed the heavy hospital door open without knocking.

  “No more needles!” Radke lay on his side, his back to her, staring out the window. “My whole arm is black and blue. No more rookies. Get someone who can draw blood.”

  “Like me?”

  He rolled over and saw her. She was in uniform, Hewitt having approved a couple hours of overtime like a stingy food-pantry employee dolling out the last dinner roll. One look at Radke’s face and she was glad she’d brought the tape player instead of a transcript of the Shaley interview—reading would be a chore. Hewitt had underestimated Radke’s injuries. His nose was bluish and swollen. He had two shiners and three lacerations on his face. Sutures closed the gashes.

  “Who are you? I got nothing to say!”

  “Why are you yelling, Kenny?”

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “Never saw you in my life!”

  “Stop yelling at the door. Who did this to you?”

  He continued to look over her shoulder at the closed door.

  “A cop sat outside your room all night and is still there. Talk to me.”