by D. A. Keeley
“He died trying to protect the president,” she said, “and if he didn’t step on that bomb, I would have.”
And, she thought, Tommy would be motherless in a rapid-fire world.
“I hear he’s up for a Congressional Medal of Honor.”
“He’ll get something,” she said. “He earned it.”
“They found six more bombs in all.”
“What?”
“Six more. They were all near the first one. You were lucky.”
She sat staring at him.
“Peyton, you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You sure? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Fine,” she said again. “So we know Simon Pink was from Prague.”
“And that he studied chemistry there.”
She looked at page two. “And he was part of Andela when Kvido Bezdek was in the group.”
“Yeah. And the group evolved significantly after nine-eleven, but then fell off the radar.”
“The material coming out of Washington has nothing new on Simon Pink,” Jackman said, “nothing you don’t know. Bezdek, though, is becoming a person of interest. He was arrested in Moscow once and failed a psychological evaluation.”
“Clinicians don’t say anyone failed an examination, Stan. What did it say?”
“He wanted to represent himself after being arrested during a protest. He was deemed unstable and to have anger issues.”
“By Russian authorities?” she said. “That makes him a person of interest in the US?”
“He arranged anti-US protests as a teen, then eventually started visiting Moscow, and then the Khost Province in Afghanistan.”
“That’s quite a jump,” she said. “How did he go from being pro-union to anti-US and then to hanging out in the Taliban’s back yard?”
“Not much on that,” Jackman said. “As information rolls in, I’ll keep you posted.”
“Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall said she met him at a workshop she gave related to her books. He loved her work.”
“What’s the focus of her work?” he asked.
“She told me it was the political landscape of the Czech Republic. She says what they have between them is ‘special.’ The way she talks, he’s her intellectual soul mate.”
“He might just be another asshole.”
“You really are a clinician when it comes to psychoanalysis,” she said.
Her cell phone vibrated against her leg. She took it from her cargo-pant pocket.
It was Hewitt.“You’re looking for me?”
Peyton glanced at Linda Cyr. “I want to do something that might be a little, ah, unorthodox, Mike.”
“Uh oh. That sounds bad.”
“Not bad, just unorthodox. And I thought I should run it by you first.”
And she did.
“That’s your plan?” he said. “You think any lawyer would let you do that?”
“I was going to try to get around the lawyer.”
“You march to the beat of your own drum. I’ll give you that. Go for it.”
She smiled. Mike Hewitt, for all his regulations, had a wild side after all.
Thirty-Six
“Oh, hello, Peyton,” Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall said when Peyton knocked on the door of suite 418 at the Hampton Inn in Reeds.
Sherry wore a navy-blue pant suit and open-toed heels. Her nails were bright pink, a contrast to her purple academic glasses. She looked ready to lecture at Harvard or meet an exec for drinks at the Ritz Carlton.
“I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch,” Peyton said.
“That’s a kind offer, but right now I’m in the middle of an important meeting.” Sherry motioned over her shoulder.
Peyton assumed the meeting was taking place in the suite’s back room.
“It really is a kind offer, though, Peyton.”
The formal note in Sherry’s voice hadn’t been there when they met for breakfast, or the second time they had coffee. Now Sherry sounded like the alpha female she’d attempted to be during the discovery session between attorney Len Landmark and DA Stephanie DuBois.
However it had taken Stephanie all of five minutes to crush Sherry, and even today—despite the confidence her tone and outfit suggested—Sherry’s eyes belied her outward appearance: they were bloodshot and their pinpoint focus hinted at desperation.
It made Peyton wonder just how much anyone really changed. Sherry—for all her academic accolades and accomplishments, and despite the image she worked so hard to cultivate and project—was still the same person who allowed her father to choose her friends.
“Are you appearing in court today?” Peyton asked.
The door was open four inches, the safety chain still attached.
“Can’t a woman dress like a professional? Looking nice makes me feel good, Peyton. So I try to look nice often.”
“What else makes you feel good?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m curious,” Peyton said. “You dress nice to feel good. What else do you do?”
Sherry looked at her. Unconsciously, her palm came away from the door, and she wiped it on her pant leg. “I don’t follow you,” she said.
“Does being accepted make you feel good?”
“You’re making me uncomfortable, Peyton. What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be here. A meeting is taking place now, and I need to be part of it.”
“You can’t break for lunch?”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate either.”
Whatever was being discussed in the back room led to raised voices. Peyton could hear bits and pieces of an argument. One voice, in particular, was familiar.
“Steve St. Louis is in there. Is he representing your brother and you now?”
Sherry didn’t reply.
“Well, if you’re meeting about your brother’s case, I need to ask you some things about that, too.”
“I’d rather keep our relationship personal, not professional.”
“You don’t get to choose, Sherry. And, after all, you called me, sobbing, at seven a.m. last week.”
“I have Steve now.”
“I’m out, he’s in. It’s that simple?”
“What do you mean?” Sherry said.
“Forget it. Where’s Chip?”
Sherry took her purple glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“He left you, didn’t he?”
Sherry nodded, looking at the floor.
“Because of Kvido Bezdek?”
“You won’t understand. No one will. I’m not even sure I do.”
“You’re not sure?”
Sherry didn’t speak.
“You’d better be sure, Sherry. You have two kids.”
“Don’t patronize me, Peyton.”
“Where’s Kvido now?”
“Not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He went out for cigarettes,” Sherry said.
“Two people are dead. One was a wonderful man, a grandfather. I have questions to ask you. Cooperating is the best thing you can do right now.”
“I’ll have to ask Steve first.”
“Steve’s never defended a murder case, Sherry. You haven’t lived in Maine for a long time, so I’ll explain something to you: Conspiracy to Commit Murder is a class-A felony, punishable by ten to thirty years in state prison. If you want Steve with us, I’m fine with that, but whether he’s with us or not, cooperation is your best bet.”
“Sherry,” Steve St. Louis called.
Sherry’s eyes fell to the floor. “I need to go, Peyton.”
“You’re going to need to talk to me, Sherry.”<
br />
“I don’t need help.”
“I think Nancy Lawrence would disagree.”
“I didn’t pay her to be my brother’s alibi.”
“Sherry, don’t insult me by lying. The last time you pulled this, we were thirteen. You ran me out of your life.”
Steve St. Louis was calling, “Sherry, where are you? We really need to talk.”
“Even back then you always reached out. Called me, sat beside me in study hall …”
“That was a long time ago, Sherry. And this isn’t a middle-school issue. Two people are dead. You can talk to me willingly, or I can have the state police bring you in. I’m giving you five seconds to think about it. Then I’m walking away once and for all.”
“It’s so risky,” Sherry whispered, more to herself than to Peyton.
“St. Louis can be present, Sherry.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Sherry said.
Peyton looked at her.
Sherry didn’t speak.
“Goodbye, Sherry.” Peyton turned and walked away.
Thirty-Seven
Thursday, at 3:30 p.m., Peyton entered Garrett Middle School. She was led to the meeting room and took the only empty chair at the round table. Introductions were made all around: Kelli Link, the Garrett Central Schools director of special education; Dr. Tom Martin, principal; and Nancy Lawrence, Tommy’s fifth-grade teacher.
“Hello, Peyton,” Nancy said, and extended her hand. “I love your blouse.”
“Thank you,” Peyton said, trying to read Nancy’s expression. Was the compliment sincere?
Peyton had returned to the station to change into jeans and a checkered blouse before the meeting. She didn’t want to be in uniform for this sit-down with Nancy Lawrence. This encounter wasn’t work-related. It was about Tommy, about the recommended accommodations for his diagnosis.
When they shook, Nancy’s hand felt damp.
“Thanks for coming in,” Kelli Link said. “I’m sure you’re anxious to discuss the findings of Tommy’s testing.”
“I’ve read the materials several times.” Peyton could feel Nancy looking at her.
“Let me begin by saying what a sweet boy Tommy is,” Link said. “We all really enjoy working with him.”
“Yes,” Nancy said. “We certainly do.”
Peyton watched Nancy closely. Her face was warm, welcoming—the face Peyton had seen at Nancy’s front door, the face she’d seen when Nancy confided in her about her dinner date with the doctor. Since Nancy Lawrence first entered the Simon Pink murder investigation, Peyton had worried: would Nancy take her frustration out on Tommy?
Tommy had said, in so many words, that he was being bullied, but he’d never complained about Nancy. The initial parent-teacher conference had given Peyton a poor impression of Nancy, but perhaps the fifth-grade teacher with a Carrie Underwood poster on her classroom wall had a level of professional integrity Peyton had misjudged. Yes, Nancy had insulted her during an interview. But Peyton didn’t put too much stock in that. She’d been insulted far worse during other interviews, and an interview rarely brought out the interviewee’s best self.
“Tommy has worked very hard, especially this past week,” Nancy said. “I spoke to him privately on the playground one afternoon. I was very impressed by how you’ve handled his diagnosis, Peyton.”
Peyton looked at her. All of twenty-six, yet speaking to Peyton as if much older. Either she was ice-cool or highly professional.
“I told him this is the best thing that could’ve happened,” Peyton said. “I told him that now he’ll get help and school will be fun.”
“That’s wonderful,” Link said. “As you know, it was determined that he has dyslexia.”
“That confuses me,” Peyton said. “He reads well, I think.”
Link nodded. “Yes. He’s certainly at grade level. Dyslexia is an information-processing affliction. Tommy’s reading rate is slow, but his comprehension is strong. Math, though, is challenging.”
Link explained Tommy’s test scores and the consultant’s findings. Then she said, “I’d like to begin working with Tommy next week and carry it into next year.”
Peyton nodded. Her face felt flushed. What did it all mean for his future?
“Can he be cured?” she asked.
“He can overcome it,” Link said. “Many people have learning differences, and some estimates are as high as twenty percent of the population. Albert Einstein had dyslexia. But, no, we can’t ‘cure’ the way one learns or processes. However, we can help him to utilize his strengths and to be more efficient.”
Link sounded like a recording. Peyton didn’t want data; she wanted information as a mom.
“How will you do that?”
“He will leave the classroom for math and work with me one-
on-one.”
“So he’ll be singled out? That’ll be embarrassing for him.”
“Receiving this diagnosis,” Principal Tom Martin said, “is the best thing that could happen to Tommy, as you said. It will allow us to assist him in ways that we could not if he wasn’t diagnosed. He’ll get extra time on tests and even the SATs.”
Nancy was smiling warmly and nodding.
“Sounds like a lot of extra work,” Peyton said, remembering their conversation during the parent-teacher conference.
Nancy looked at Tom Martin and smiled. “That’s my job. And it’s not much really, an extra lesson plan here and there. No big deal.”
Tom Martin smiled approvingly at Nancy.
An IEP, or an independent education plan, had been what Nancy had called it when Peyton had originally met with her. And then, Nancy had made it sound far from being “no big deal.” If she was playing to the crowd, she was hitting all the high notes. After all, Martin was her boss.
“So tell me how this is all executed,” Peyton said. “Will Tommy be doing different work? Extra work?”
“Nancy and I will work together to create some alternate activities for Tommy. Some might be more hands-on. Sometimes, I will simply work with him to be sure he is grasping concepts and is at grade level.”
“Will he be doing many different assignments?”
“It will depend on the topic of the lesson,” Martin said. “He does, after all, have a learning difference.”
“Will the other kids know?”
“He’ll leave the classroom and come to the resource room,” Link said.
Her little boy was heading to the resource room.
“Are you okay with all of this, Ms. Cote?” Martin said.
“My son is being teased at school already.”
“Teased?” Martin said.
“Bullied is probably a more accurate word.”
“There’s quite a big difference,” Martin said. “A student was dismissed for bullying last year.”
“I ask that you watch Tommy’s interactions,” Peyton said.
The room fell quiet, the educators looking at one another.
“What do you need from me at home?” Peyton asked.
Link offered her a folder containing literature on dyslexia, including some articles featuring methods to try when Tommy worked at home.
“And I certainly want you to feel welcome to visit and volunteer,” Link said, “to take part in Tommy’s education anytime you’d like.”
“I might be able to come in for an hour or two a week,” Peyton said.
Nancy had been writing something down but looked up then.
“Thank you for supporting my son,” Peyton said to the room, as the meeting came to a close.
When Link stood, the others followed suit. At the door, Nancy touched Peyton’s elbow. “May I talk to you?” she said quietly.
Peyton followed her into the hallway. Nancy waited until Link and Martin had moved out of earshot.
“Will you be coming to school every week, Peyton?”
“I’ll try. It seems like that might help.”
“I’m not sure about that. But, regardless, I just want you to know that I’m going to be cleared of having anything to do with Freddy’s problems.”
“Okay,” Peyton said.
“Do you believe me?”
“Sure.”
“Then there’s no reason for Dr. Martin to find out that somehow Freddy implicated me.”
“He won’t hear it from me,” Peyton said.
Nancy looked at her for several seconds.
“Nancy, that’s my work; this is my life. When I’m here, I’m here as a mother.”
Nancy’s eyes continued to scrutinize Peyton’s face. Finally, she nodded and moved away, her two-inch heels clicking quietly as she walked.
In her Jeep, Peyton took out her phone and called Stone Gibson.
“I need a favor,” she said.
He listened.
“That’s a big one,” he said. “What do I do if he doesn’t want to come with me?”
“Tell him he can pass on dinner and that I’ll take him to a liquor store,” she said and hung up.
Thirty-Eight
Peyton arrived at the Tim Hortons on Main Street in Reeds, Thursday at 5:10 p.m. After ordering a black coffee, she took a window booth near the spot where she’d recently sat with Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall.
She took her phone from her purse and called Lois. “I’ll be home by seven,” she said.
“I’ll have dinner waiting for you, sweetie.”
“Anyone ever say you run the best daycare program in the world?”
“No, but I know I do,” Lois said and chuckled. “Take your time, I’ll bake something for Tommy. Maybe he can help me. Where are you?”
“Tim Hortons in Reeds. I need to meet Stone Gibson.”
“I hope it’s a date. He’d make an adorable son-in-law.”
“Mom, please.”
“I’m serious. Think of the children you’d have. They’d be bea-
utiful.”
“Oh my god, Mother. This is business.”
“You spend too much time on business, Peyton.”
Peyton said nothing.
