How It Happened

by Michael Koryta

  “Yes,” she said softly. “They still put up the star.”

  He nodded and studied the shadowed mountain and thought about the times they’d shared up there or out on this bay. She was the person who’d made him love this place that he’d once loathed. Many of his memories of Maine were wrapped up in fear or failure. When he thought of her, though, the place always felt like home.

  “I love you, Liz,” he said.

  For a moment, he thought she was going to hit him.

  “Not tonight. You kidding me? You say that tonight?”

  “Sorry. But I’m going to say what I need to say tonight. You don’t need to answer it, but you need to hear it. I love you. I always did. When we were together, and when we weren’t. When you were married, and when you weren’t. I always will.”

  In the moonlight he could see her face but not her eyes.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to that,” she told him in a low voice.

  “That’s fine—” he began, but she interrupted.

  “Quiet. Please, Rob. Just be quiet. I’ve got nothing to say.”

  She got to her feet and stretched out her hand for his. He rose and took her hand and she guided him below deck. She had not lied—she had nothing to say. She undressed him silently in the dark, and then he felt her mouth on him, and then her clothes were off and she was above him, then beneath him, but she never said a word. All he heard was her rapid, ragged breathing and then a soft, suppressed moan as a long shudder ran through her body and her fingernails bit deeply into his skin. And then, later, he heard her heartbeat as they lay chest to chest in the sweaty darkness while the boat rolled beneath them.

  She offered no words, though.

  When she finally spoke, her heartbeat had slowed and their sweat had dried and the trapped heat below deck had given way to chilled, predawn air.

  “You’ll need to leave now if you want to beat the sun,” she said.

  He didn’t want to move.

  “Or you could stay,” she said. “And let Vizquel and Broward and the rest of them do their jobs.”

  His chest filled and emptied beneath her weight, and she nodded as if he’d responded. Then she shifted away from him in the darkness, her warmth immediately missed, that unique loneliness that you could feel from an altered position in a shared bed.

  When she began to dress, he finally sat up and did the same. While she went up to the deck, he found his jacket and Howard Pelletier’s gun. Then he joined her.

  Above deck, the faint gray light of dawn allowed him to see her clearly for the first time in hours, but she felt farther away because of it.

  “Put the rowboat back in the same spot,” she said. “I’ll make sure people see me leave this morning and that they see me leaving without you.”

  “Okay. Listen, Liz—”

  She shook her head. “Get going, Rob. Get going before I say something like Be careful, or Please call, or Stay with me. I don’t want to be the woman who tries to say those things to you.”

  She turned away from him and went below deck, alone.

  He climbed down the stern ladder and got into the small boat and cast it loose and began to row across the harbor. He was focused on the task, looking over his shoulder toward land, and when he heard the words I love you, he was facing the wrong way.

  By the time he turned back to the sailboat, he couldn’t see Liz, and the only sound was the water and the creaking oarlocks. It was as if he’d imagined the words.

  47

  The sun was up by the time he reached his car. He lay on the pavement on his aching back and checked the frame for another tracker. It was clean. He climbed behind the wheel and drove out of town headed west, away from the coast. He watched the mirrors. No one was following him.

  At a gas station where the early risers were coming and going with coffees and breakfast sandwiches, he parked in the back of the lot and made a call to the one person affiliated with the FBI whom he trusted not to question his motives.

  Judging by the sound of Seth Miller’s voice when he answered, Barrett figured his retirement gig in Florida had a later start time than the Bureau. Once he was fully awake, though, he was the same genial partner that Barrett remembered.

  “You’re doing PI work down there, right?” Barrett asked.

  “As little as possible, because it interferes with golf.”

  “Do you have fast access to Florida property records?”

  “Sure.”

  “Try a couple names for me, please?”

  Seth ran the requested searches, and ran them fast.

  “House is in her name. Megan Johansson. DOB July ninth, 1971?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but it’s close, and that’s the right name.”

  “SSN is from Maine.”

  “That’s probably her, then. She was born here.”

  “Okay. She’s not far south of me. Lakewood Ranch. Close to Sarasota. Kind of a bedroom community, gatehouses and golf courses.”

  “When did she buy the house?”

  A pause, a few clicks. “January of this year.”

  “Price?”

  “One point two million. Nice spread. I’m looking at the pictures right now. Pool, hot tub, lanai, wet bar. Not bad. Go up to Maine in the summer when this place gets hotter than a whore in church, and then come down to Florida when Mainers start lacing up their snowshoes. That’s good living.”

  “It sure is,” Barrett said through a tight throat.

  “What’d you say the husband does?”

  “He was a cop when I knew him.”

  “I guess that’s been a while, then,” Seth said, and laughed.

  “Yeah,” Barrett said. “Seems like it has been.”

  He was about to end the call when Seth said, “Megan has a nice truck too.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Registered to her in Maine. F-250 diesel, last year’s model. Those aren’t cheap. Has to run, what, sixty grand? Seventy? Big trucks are big dollars. I’ve always liked a woman in a truck, Barrett, got to tell you. Smaller the woman and bigger the truck, the more it works for me. I’m telling you, the smaller the—”

  “What color?”

  “Huh?”

  “What color is the truck, Seth?”

  “Black.”

  “And it’s registered in Maine, not Florida.”

  “Yeah. She bought the truck the same month as the house, it looks like. She’s also got active registration on a Honda CRV.”

  Barrett remembered that car, and he remembered Don Johansson’s battered Ford Ranger pickup. A truck so old they didn’t make them anymore. The Ranger had been parked in the driveway when Barrett visited Johansson last, and no F-250 diesel had been in sight.

  Not then, anyhow. But later, in his rearview mirror…maybe then.

  He thanked Seth, disconnected the call, and started the Mustang. He tilted the rearview mirror and studied the night crawler–looking ribbon of stitches, glue, and knitting flesh that traced his skull. He threw the hat in the backseat, put Howard Pelletier’s nine-millimeter into his jacket pocket, and then pulled out onto Route 17 heading west across the hills to see his old comrade.

  48

  The windows were open when he arrived and a radio was on inside, sports-talk guys breaking down the early-season woes of the Red Sox, who’d been pounded by the Indians. The house was bucolic and peaceful. Barrett left Howard’s gun in his jacket pocket but kept his hand around it as he walked to the front door and rang the bell. The radio went off and footsteps approached and then the door was open and Don Johansson was smiling at him.

  Barrett pulled the gun out and put the muzzle to Johansson’s forehead. The gun jabbed Johansson hard enough to snap his head back, but all Don did in response was what most people did when you put guns in their faces: he stopped moving and started listening.

  “You remember my rule about interviews?” Barrett said.

  Johansson was trying to look at the gun instead of Barrett, which gave him the look of a c
ross-eyed man imploring the heavens.

  “Which rule?”

  “No guns in the interview room. You remember why I put that rule in?”

  “Because guns intimidate people,” Johansson said. His focus was on Barrett’s trigger finger.

  “That’s right. I’ve decided I don’t give a damn about that anymore.”

  Barrett walked into the house, forcing Johansson to backpedal, the gun still pressed to the center of his forehead. Barrett kicked the door shut with his foot.

  “Where were you while they were stitching my scalp back together and pouring other people’s blood into me to keep me alive?” he said.

  “Sitting right here.”

  “Sure. Sitting on the floor of his empty house, poor old Don, down on his luck, head full of guilt, blood full of pills.”

  Barrett stepped back and pulled the gun away. The muzzle left an imprint on Johansson’s pale skin. A thin sheen of sweat formed around it.

  “You were right, Barrett, I got a problem with pills, but I would never have—”

  Barrett lifted the gun again. “Stop talking.”

  When Johansson had been silent for a few seconds, Barrett said, “Now start again. Do it better this time. More truth, less bullshit. Where’s your truck?”

  “Right out front.”

  “I misspoke. Where is Megan’s truck?”

  Johansson’s mouth worked but he didn’t get any words out. He reminded Barrett of Jeffrey Girard dying in the grass, an untold story trapped behind his lips.

  “Why didn’t you pull the trigger on me, Don?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never—”

  “You had me at, what, ten feet? Finger on the trigger too. So why not pull it?” Barrett moved his own finger to the trigger of the Taurus. Johansson’s eyes followed. “Was there enough blood that you thought I was already done, so why turn an accident scene into a homicide scene? Was that it?”

  “I didn’t try to kill you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s the truth,” Johansson said. “I wanted to back you off, not kill you. You got knocked around, that was all.”

  “Knocked around. I was ten minutes from bleeding out.”

  “You were conscious when I left. I could see that. If you hadn’t been, I’d have called it in. It’s the only reason I took the risk of getting out of the truck.”

  “That was real thoughtful of you.”

  Johansson was starting to get a little confidence back now that the gun wasn’t pressed to his forehead. “You want to solve the big mystery, man? You’ve already done it. Donny’s got a drug problem. Ain’t that tragic?” He sneered at Barrett. “Blow that one out of the water if you want. Have your girl put it in the paper, let everybody know that I lost my family, my job, lost everything I cared about to pills.”

  “Wife took the truck and took off. Who wrote those lyrics, Waylon or Hank? Worked out well, though. That’s a nice house she’s got down in Lakewood Ranch.”

  Johansson went as rigid as he had when the gun was in his face, but it was a different type of tension this time—less cowered, more coiled.

  “You leave my family out of this.”

  “You put them in it, you corrupt son of a bitch! Think they’ll just keep floating along down there, nobody noticing? You got a kid, man, he has friends, has Facebook and Instagram and I don’t know what the hell else. At some point, somebody back in Maine is going to notice the Johansson family found a real soft landing place. They probably already have. The DEA is involved in this now.”

  Johansson looked like he’d just been given a terminal diagnosis. Too numb to be angry or scared. Yet.

  “Last time I was here,” Barrett said, “you told me that you’d never heard of J. R. Millinock, but in fact you were at his death scene.”

  Don rubbed the gun imprint on his forehead. “There were lots of death scenes with guys like that. If you think the Millinock family is worth something, then you are truly lost.”

  “I don’t think I am. You took some pictures that day. The drugs that killed him were marked with a cute little logo. The logo was awfully similar to what Kimberly described on the truck. Did you not notice that?”

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Barrett.”

  Barrett didn’t like standing with the wide bay windows at his back, so he sat down on the couch, then checked the hallway again, the Taurus pointed at Johansson, who was still standing in the middle of the room.

  “The DEA agent told me to think bigger,” Barrett said. “Drugs and money, he said. I didn’t like him, but he wasn’t wrong. Now…I can get you on the black Ford alone. I don’t know where you’ve got it tucked away, but I’ll find it. If you want to tell me about your role with the drugs, though, you can buy yourself some time.”

  Johansson shook his head wearily. “I’ve got nothing to do with drugs.”

  “Come on. All of this”—Barrett waved a hand around the half-empty house—“is one hell of a front, I’ll give you that. You even committed physically. That was brilliant. Start peeling off the pounds, then the family moves out, then you’re buying pills from a guy you know can’t keep his mouth shut. You built yourself a beautiful lie. When you disappear, it’ll all make sense. You’re another sad victim of addiction.”

  “It’s not a lie.”

  “Damn it, Don, I—”

  “It is not a lie!” Johansson screamed, and for a moment Barrett thought he was going to charge him despite the gun. Johansson stared at him with hate, his chest rising and falling. “You’ve always got to be so damn smart. Always think you see all the things other people miss. You don’t see shit. Never did. Back when they first sent you up here to look over my shoulder, it was obvious—Rob Barrett thinks he’ll solve this thing by seeing things differently, hearing things differently. You never understood anything.”

  “Did the money come from looking the other way on investigations or from actively helping?” Barrett said. “What’s your role?”

  Johansson gave a contemptuous laugh.

  “Killing Girard probably helped, right?” Barrett said, and Johansson’s smile went away. “How much was that worth?”

  “All of it.”

  The words came so softly that for a moment Barrett didn’t believe they’d actually been said.

  “What’s that?”

  Johansson squared his shoulders and stared at Barrett like a man refusing to back down, the military cadet who couldn’t be broken. There were tears in his eyes, though. He cleared his throat wetly and then said, loud and clear this time, “All of it.”

  Barrett leaned forward, letting the muzzle of the gun drift toward the floor, and stared at his old partner. Twin rivulets of tears ran from Johansson’s tired blue eyes.

  “You think the rest is all a lie,” Johansson said. “You prick. Megan left me. David won’t talk to me. I have lost my wife and son. She’s trying to figure out how to unload that damned house without implicating me. She doesn’t want me arrested, even though I deserve to be. And you know what helps me? Drugs. It doesn’t clear the head, but it…” He made a gesture with his hand like he was petting an invisible dog. “Pushes everything back. For a little while.”

  He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.

  “You got paid for killing him,” Barrett said, remembering the way blood had bubbled out of Jeffrey Girard’s mouth while he lay there in the grass, trying to push the gun toward Barrett, trying to set this terrible misunderstanding straight.

  “Yes. One million dollars.”

  “Whose money was it?”

  Johansson ignored him. “You know I actually told Megan the whole deal? I was that convinced what I’d done was righteous. We had Girard’s fingerprints with the bodies, and then we found the truck…I felt good about it. I was afraid he’d get off in a trial because of us. Because we’d put Kimmy’s bullshit out there, and a defense attorney would use that confession and get him off somehow or get his sentence reduced, and he kille
d two innocent kids and one of them was pregnant, Barrett. She went out walking that morning with a new life inside her. Girard took all of that. He deserved to die.”

  “And you deserved to get paid?”

  Johansson shrugged.

  “Whose money?” Barrett asked again. He wasn’t expecting any answer, and he certainly wasn’t prepared for the answer that came.

  “George Kelly’s.”

  Barrett took his finger off the trigger and set the gun down on the couch beside him. He leaned back and stared at Johansson, who nodded with grim pleasure.

  “One of the good guys,” Johansson said. “You hate that, don’t you? You’re always looking for bad guys, Barrett. In real life…you got all kinds. It’s not so clean.”

  “George Kelly paid you to hit Girard,” Barrett said. He felt numb.

  “No. He promised me a reward if I hit the person who did it. Nobody knew who Girard was at the time. I was at the Kellys’ house one night, before you showed up from Boston, back when I was dealing with those families and seeing all their hope die, and George looked at me and said that if I ever found the man who’d killed his son, he didn’t want a trial. He wanted him killed.”

  “You agreed to it?”

  “Not that night. He repeated it a few times. One million dollars, he said, if you kill the son of a bitch when you find him. I never said yes or no.”

  “But when you had a chance, you killed Girard for the money.”

  Johansson looked reflective. “You know…I’m not sure. You won’t believe that—hell, nobody will—but I am still not entirely sure. These things are true: I killed him, and I took the money. But did I kill him for the money?” He swayed his head side to side. “Maybe. I might have, but in that moment…I might have just killed him because I wanted to. That really might have been all it was that day.”

  Barrett remembered the sun and the smell of the paint and the sound of the air hammer, and he remembered the way Johansson’s voice had broken when he told Barrett that Jackie Pelletier had been pregnant. He thought what Johansson had just said might be the truth.