A wide stairway led up to an open wraparound porch. The house had three stories and two dormers and a big fieldstone chimney at each end. A pale light was flickering behind one of the dormer windows. A candle, maybe.
Floodlights up in the eaves bathed the turnaround out front in yellow light and left the surrounding area in absolute darkness.
“Here we are,” said Cranston. He shut off the ignition, and then the door locks clicked. “Follow me, please.”
I climbed out of the car and looked around. One branch of the driveway curled around the side of the house to the back, where I could make out a couple of rooflines silhouetted against the dark sky. An attached barn, I guessed, and beyond it a lower building with a less steeply pitched roof. A stable, perhaps.
A dog yipped a couple of times. The sound seemed to come from the direction of the barn. It could have been a coyote.
Cranston moved behind me and kind of herded me up the steps onto the porch. He rang the doorbell, and a minute later it opened and a woman wearing a baggy UNH sweatshirt and blue jeans was standing there. She smiled and said, “Come on in, Mr. Coyne. The doctor is expecting you.” She held out her hand. “I’m Jeanette Perkins.”
I shook her hand. She had large brown eyes and olive skin and shiny black hair, cut short. Up close I saw the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth and the flecks of gray in her hair, and I guessed she, like Cranston, was somewhere in her early forties.
She turned and led me through the front living room to a smaller room toward the back corner of the house. This room was lined with bookshelves and furnished with a big leather sofa, several upholstered soft chairs, and a couple of sturdy wooden rocking chairs. A few braided rugs were scattered on the pine-plank floor. A fire crackled in the fieldstone fireplace, and a black-and-white cat was curled up in one of the soft chairs.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” said Jeanette Perkins. She held out her hand. “Let me take your coat.”
I took off my parka and handed it to her.
“What can I get you?” she said. “Wine? Beer? Soft drink?”
I waved my hand. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“You sure? How about a nice cup of tea?”
“Actually,” I said, “I guess I could use a mug of coffee, if you have it. Albert, there, he woke me up.” I looked around, suddenly aware that Albert Cranston had not followed us into this little parlor. “Where is Albert?”
“Mr. Cranston’s waiting to take you back,” she said. “I’ll get your coffee. The doctor will be right with you.”
She left through a doorway in the back of the room. I went to the fireplace to look at some framed photos on the mantel. One showed a young couple sitting on a bench on a porch that might have been this very house I was in. The woman was blond and pale and thin. The man had a long angular face, with a crooked nose and a small mouth. Neither of them was smiling in the photo. The doctor and his wife, I guessed. Greta, I remembered her name was. She died soon after their daughter was born.
There were three other photos in cheap metal frames. All pictured the same blond girl. The girl as a toddler, her hair a helmet of blond curls, sitting on some steps licking an orange Popsicle, with orange stains covering the front of her white T-shirt and a big yellow teddy bear sitting beside her. The girl was older in the next photo, six or seven, I guessed, wearing a little plaid skirt and white blouse, her blond hair longer and less curly and pulled back in a ponytail. She was standing beside a mailbox with a pink backpack over one shoulder. First day of school, maybe. And the same blond girl—Ursula, I assumed, Judson McKibben’s daughter—on the cusp of womanhood, wearing jeans and a sleeveless jersey and a backward baseball cap, sitting bareback on a horse and looking fearlessly into the camera. This photo must have been taken close to the time she died. She was twelve when she drowned. She looked comfortable on the horse.
Something about this photo bothered me. I took it down from the mantel and—
“Ah, Mr. Coyne,” came a deep voice from behind me. “There you are.”
I turned. It was the man in the photo with the angular face and crooked nose and small mouth, except now his face was deeply creased, with half-moon glasses perched down toward the tip of that long meandering nose.
He held out his hand. “I’m Jud McKibben.”
I shook it. “Brady Coyne.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.” He took the photograph I was holding from my hand. “Ursula, my daughter.” He touched the glass with his forefinger. “She died two days after that photo was taken. It’s the last image of her I have.” He arched his eyebrows at me, as if he expected me to say something.
I didn’t.
He gave me a quick smile, then waved at one of the rocking chairs that was facing the fireplace. “Have a seat, please,” he said.
I sat.
“It was a birthday party,” he said. “I didn’t want her to go. There were going to be boys there, and they had a swimming pool. Ursula had bought herself a new bathing suit for this party. My daughter was not naïve. On the contrary. She was wise way beyond her years.” He looked at the photo he was holding. “She knew exactly how she looked in that bathing suit, how the boys would react to it. It was a two-piece. You wouldn’t call it a bikini, but…” He shook his head. “She was turning into a woman, and she was quite aware of it, and she knew that it…it bothered me, and so when she came prancing into the living room that afternoon in this skimpy little bathing suit and did a couple of pirouettes with one hand on a hip and this smile on her face, I said to her, just as she expected me to, I said, ‘I absolutely forbid you to wear that.’” McKibben looked at me. “She just laughed. She knew she’d end up doing what she wanted to do. And she did. I spoiled her. I couldn’t say no to her. So I drove her to the party, and all the way there, and afterwards, after I drove away and went home, I was feeling this horrible dark foreboding. I thought it was about boys seeing her in that skimpy bathing suit, and I felt foolish and overprotective. And then the telephone rang.”
He looked at the photo he was holding for a moment, then put it back on the mantel. He touched the corner, adjusting it, then gave his head a small shake, turned around, and sat on the sofa across from me. “Jeanette will bring your coffee in a minute,” he said. “Me, I can’t drink coffee in the evening.”
I smiled and nodded.
“Do you have children, Mr. Coyne?”
“Two boys,” I said. “Both grown.”
“Do you see them often?”
“No. Nowhere near often enough.”
He nodded. “You should correct that.”
“Nothing to correct,” I said. “They are independent, autonomous adults. They’re living their lives. It’s what I’ve always wanted for them. I miss them, but that’s my problem.”
“And your wife? Their mother?”
“She doesn’t see them much, either.” I looked at him. “She’s no longer my wife.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re not.”
At that moment Jeanette came into the room. She was carrying a tray with two mugs on it. She gave one to me and the other to McKibben. “Can I get you something else?” she said to him.
“Thank you, no, my dear.”
She bowed quickly, flashed a quick smile at me, turned, and left the room.
“Jeanette’s my cousin,” McKibben said.
I shrugged.
“She’s been a comfort,” he said.
I sipped my coffee. I was curious to see how he would proceed.
He dipped his teabag in his mug a few times, then put it on the tray that Jeanette had left on the table beside him. He took a sip, gazed up at the ceiling, put down his mug. He sat back, crossed his ankle over his knee. “I understand you wanted to talk with me,” he said.
“Word travels fast in Churchill.”
He smiled. “So how can I help you?”
“Do you know a girl named Dana Wetherbee?”
He sat still and expressionless for
a minute. Then he said, “You were asking about this girl at Nick’s.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know her,” he said. “I never heard her name before today. I am very curious to know why you think I might have.”
“Let me explain,” I said, and I proceeded to tell him about finding Dana in the snow in my backyard, and seeing the truck with the Ursula Laboratories logo on the side in the same part of the city where Dana had been seen on the night that she died, and learning that Dana had mailed a Christmas card from Churchill. I told him that Dana died, but I did not tell him that she’d had a miscarriage. I did not mention Sunshine or Misty.
As I talked, McKibben watched me without expression. He had pale, intense eyes. They were the color of ice.
“Dana,” I said, “was sixteen. She looked remarkably like your Ursula.” I pointed at the photo on the mantel. “Ursula would be about sixteen now, is that right?”
He nodded. “She died four years ago last July. You find this to be an important coincidence?”
“I don’t know that it is a coincidence.”
“You think Ursula and Dana—what?—knew each other?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out what Dana’s story is. She died in my backyard. I need to understand. I thought you might be able to help me.”
He shook his head. “I don’t see how, Mr. Coyne. I’m sorry. Truly I am. I think I understand how you feel. You feel responsible. You should have rescued her. What happened to her is your fault. When you analyze it, of course, you know that’s not true. But in your heart, you can’t help feeling that way. I carry that same guilt, that same burden of responsibility. It’s with me every minute of every hour of every day, and I don’t think it will ever change.”
“Tell me about your company truck.”
“My truck?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “What do you want to know?”
“Where is the truck now?”
He stared at me for a minute, then shrugged. “Trucks,” he said. “Plural. My company had three panel trucks with our logo painted on their sides. When I dissolved the corporation, I turned the trucks, along with all the furnishings and the laboratory equipment, over to a firm that specializes in liquidations. I have no idea where those trucks are or who owns them now. I must say, though, I would find it odd if the new owners didn’t paint out our old logo.”
“Where’d that logo come from?”
He looked away for a moment. “Ursula designed it. I told her I was naming my new company after her. She knew that her name derived from the Latin word for bear. She sketched the design herself, the two bears, a mother and a cub. She didn’t really remember her mother. Greta was her name. Greta died when Ursula was a baby. Ursula was very curious about Greta, and I know not having a mother was important to her.” He shrugged. “My designer took Ursula’s sketch and created our logo. She was very proud of it.”
“Why did you dissolve your corporation?”
He gazed into the fire. “When Ursula died, I guess I just lost my…my zest for doing business. My motivation. We were making a lot of money. In my mind, that money was for her. For her future. Her…her life. Do you see?”
“Sure.”
“Without Ursula, making money seemed…frivolous.”
I nodded. “And now?”
He turned his head and looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not working? Doing business?”
“I work,” he said. “I cut firewood, and I split it and I stack it. I patch holes in the roof of my barn. I repair my stone walls. I grow vegetables and flowers. Albert helps with the heavy lifting. Jeanette takes care of the house.” He shrugged. “I have more money than I can use. I don’t want any more. I like to give it away. I’m trying to live a quiet, anonymous life here in Churchill, New Hampshire. Simplify, simplify, Thoreau said. I try to be a good neighbor. Really, all I want is to be left alone.”
“To avoid being bothered by people like me,” I said.
He shrugged.
“I’m sorry.”
He waved his hand. “It’s all right. I understand. I suppose I’d do what you’re doing if I were you.”
I took a sip of coffee, then put down the mug. “Thank you for seeing me and helping me to clear this up.”
“You haven’t cleared up anything,” he said. “I haven’t told you anything that helps you.”
“No, I guess you haven’t. But you’ve helped me to eliminate some possibilities. That’s a start.”
“It’s a shame you had to come all this distance.”
“It was doing something,” I said. “Doing something is always better than doing nothing, even if it doesn’t pan out.”
He looked at me for a moment, then said, “Now you won’t have to bother me anymore.”
“Sure.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Albert will take you back.”
“Thank you.”
He stood up, went over to the door, and pushed it open. “Jeanette, dear,” he said, speaking into the other room. “Mr. Coyne is ready to leave.”
A moment later, Jeanette came into the room. She was carrying my coat in both arms like she might lug a load of firewood.
I stood up, took my coat from her, and put it on. Then I held out my hand to Judson McKibben.
He took it. “Good luck on your quest.”
“Thank you.”
“Please,” said Jeanette. “Follow me.”
I followed her through the house. She opened the front door. Albert Cranston was waiting there on the porch for me.
“This way,” he said, and he turned and went down the front steps. The big Lincoln SUV was parked where he’d left it.
“Have a nice evening,” I said to Jeanette.
She dipped her head slightly. “You, too, Mr. Coyne,” she said. Then she smiled, went back inside, and closed the door.
I went down to the car. Cranston got in behind the wheel, and I opened the door on the passenger’s side. As I bent to get in, I glanced up at the attic dormer. The light was still on up there, and as I looked, I thought I glimpsed a shadow sliding away from the window.
Twenty-Two
Albert Cranston turned on the ignition. The lock on my door clicked. “Seat belt, please,” he said.
I buckled up.
He rolled down the long curving driveway. It had stopped snowing, but the night was dark, and all I could see was what the headlights showed straight in front of us. Snow and woods.
At the foot of the driveway, he turned left, which meant he was taking me back a different way. I wasn’t sure why he felt he needed to confuse me. I’d already indicated that my interest in Dr. Judson McKibben had been satisfied.
The clock on the Lincoln’s dashboard read 11:22. I’d been there a little more than an hour.
I watched the clock and the odometer and kept track of the lefts and rights that Cranston took. We didn’t talk at all. By the time he pulled up in front of unit four at Sweeney’s motel, I had a clear mental map of the round trip from the motel to McKibben’s house and back, even though I hadn’t identified a single landmark along the way.
“Here we are,” said Cranston.
I unsnapped my seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Now you’ll leave him alone,” he said. “You have no more business in Churchill.” It was neither a question nor a request. It was a statement.
“I’m pretty tired,” I said, “and I’ve got a long drive facing me tomorrow.”
“I hope you sleep well,” he said. “Have a pleasant trip home.”
The locks clicked. I opened the door and got out.
Cranston sat there in his big square Lincoln SUV with the headlights blazing on the front of the motel while I went to my door, unlocked it, flicked on the light, and went inside.
I stood there for a minute, as if some sixth sense might kick in and tell me if somebody had snuck in while I was gone. Not surprisingly, I received no subliminal
messages.
I went to the bed and dug around under the mattress. My Chiefs Special was still there, as nearly as I could tell in exactly the same place it had been when I hid it there. I slid it out and put it on the table beside the bed.
Nor did it seem that anybody had been digging around in my duffel. Nothing was missing or out of place.
I tossed my parka onto the chair, sat on the edge of the bed, and pried off my boots.
It was almost midnight on a snowy Saturday night in January, and here I was, alone in a motel room in godforsaken Churchill, New Hampshire. If there had been a phone in the room, or if my cellular was functioning, I would’ve called Evie again. I could’ve pulled my boots back on, hunched into my parka, gone out to the pay phone and called her. Maybe she’d be happy to hear from me. Maybe not. Most likely she was already asleep, flopped on her belly, hugging her pillow, with Henry curled up against her hip, and if I woke her, she’d be grouchy, and I’d end up feeling lonelier than I already did.
So I turned on the television, found an old Clint Eastwood movie, took off my clothes, and crawled into bed…and the next thing I knew, gray daylight was filtering in around the blinds and the digital alarm clock on the table beside me read 8:23.
I plugged in the coffee, and while it was brewing, I showered and got dressed. Woolen long johns, woolen socks, heavy woolen shirt, woolen turtleneck sweater, wool pants. I was a big fan of wool. No space-age synthetic I’d ever tried could match wool for warmth. Even when it was wet, wool continued to do its job.
I watched the news while I drank my coffee. Then I packed up my duffel, pulled on my boots and parka, and went down to the motel office.
A pretty gray-haired woman was behind the counter. She looked up and smiled when the bell over the door dinged. “Mr. Coyne?” she said.
“Yes.” I held out my hand. “You’re Mrs. Sweeney?”
“Joanne, please,” she said. “Everything was okay, I hope.”
“Great,” I said. “Slept like a log. Thanks for leaving the key for me.” I took out my room key and my credit card and gave them to her. “Do you know anyplace around here where a man could rustle up some bacon and eggs and hot coffee on a Sunday morning?”
Out Cold Page 20
