Jude functioned as a kind of father fgure for the homeless of the city, and his relationship with the police allowed him to intervene on behalf of men and women who sometimes found themselves in trouble with the law for minor infractions. He also acted as a go-between for the operators of the city's homeless services, keeping an eye on those who were most at risk and therefore least likely to maintain a consistent relationship with anyone who might be in a position to help them. Jude knew where everyone slept, and at any time he could name the number of homeless in the city to within a handful of people. Even the worst of them, the most violent and troubled, respected Jude. He was a man who preferred to go a little hungrier himself, and share what he had with a brother or sister, than see another starve.
What Jude declined to share with others was much of his own history, and he rarely sought anything beyond the most basic assistance with his own needs. He was clearly an educated man, and the backpack he wore on his shoulders always contained a book or two. He was well-versed in the great works of fction, but preferred history, biography and works of social commentary. He spoke French and Spanish, some Italian and a little German. His handwriting was small and elegant, not unlike its practitioner. Jude kept himself clean, and as neatly turned out as his situation allowed. The Goodwill stores on Forest Avenue and out by the Maine Mall, and the Salvation Army on Warren Avenue, all knew his sizes by heart, and would often put aside items that they thought he might appreciate. By the standards of the streets, one might even have said that Jude was something of a dandy. He rarely spoke of any family, but it was known that he had a daughter. Of late, she had become a topic of conversation among Jude's few intimates. It was whispered that Jude's daughter, a troubled young woman, had fallen off the radar again, but Jude spoke little of her, and refused to bother the police with his private concerns.
Because of his efforts, and his decency, the city's advocates for the homeless had tried to fnd Jude some permanent housing, but they soon learned that something in his character rendered him ill suited to settling down. He would stay in his new home for a week, or a month, and then a social worker would respond to a complaint and fnd that Jude had given up his apartment to four or fve others, and had himself returned to the streets. In winter, he would seek a bed at the Oxford Street shelter or, if no such bed was available, as was often the case when the weather was harsh, he would lie down on a thin mat on the foor of the nearby Preble Street community center, or take a chair in the lobby of Portland's general assistance offce. On such nights, with the temperature at seventeen degrees and the wind so cold that it penetrated his layers of wool and cotton, of newspaper and fesh, right to his bones, he would wonder at those who claimed that Portland was too attractive to the homeless because it found a place for anyone who sought shelter. But he would consider, too, the faws in his own personality that rendered him unable to accept the comforts that he sought for others. He knew that it meant he would die on the streets. He was not surprised, therefore, by the fact that death had now come for him at last, but merely by the form it had taken.
He had been living in the basement of a rundown and gutted condo near Deering Oaks for a week or more. He was eating little, apart from what he could scavenge and what the shelters provided, trying to balance the need to save money with the basic requirements of staying alive.
He would be of no use to her if he died.
Was it genetic? Had he passed on his own faw, his destructive love affair with the streets, to his only daughter? In his colder, more logical moments, he thought not. He had never had diffculties with drugs or alcohol. Substance addiction was not in his nature. His daughter, by contrast, started using shortly after Jude left home, or so her mother had told him before all communication between them ceased. His wife had died hating him, and he could hardly blame her. She would tell him that she did not know what she had done wrong, what grave offense she had given that caused her husband to leave her and their child, for she could not accept that she had done nothing. Something had broken inside him, that was all. He had walked away from everything – his job, his family, even his dog – because, had he not done so, he would have taken his own life. His was a psychological and emotional disturbance of untold, awful depth, mundane and yet tragic in that very ordinariness.
He had tried talking to his daughter, of course, but she would not listen. Why should she? Why should she take lessons in life from a man who had been unable to come to terms with happiness, with being loved? She threw his failings back in his face, as he knew she would. If he had stayed, if he had been a true father, then perhaps she too might have remained where she was, and this beast would not have taken her in its clutches and slowly drained the life from her. You did this to me, she said. You.
But he had done what he could for her, in his way. Just as he kept careful watch on those in his charge on Portland's streets, so others did the same for his daughter, or attempted to. They could not save her from herself, and she had a selfdestructive urge that was kin to her father's fractured nature. Whatever had come from her mother's estate went into her arm or the arms of others, or briefy lined the pockets of boyfriends who were one step above pimps and rapists.
Now she had traveled north. He had heard reports of her in Lewiston, in Augusta, then Bangor. News from an old homeless woman, traveling south, was that she was clean and seeking somewhere to live, as a place of her own would be the frst step toward fnding a job.
'How did she look?' Jude asked.
'She looked well. She's pretty, you know that? Hard, but pretty.'
Yes, he thought. I know that. Pretty, and more than pretty.
She is beautiful.
So he took the bus north, but by then all trace of her was gone. There was talk, though. She had been offered a job. A young woman living and working at the Tender House, a shelter for homeless mothers and their children in Bangor, had spoken with her, so Jude was told when he called. His daughter had seemed excited. She was going to take a shower, buy some new clothes, maybe get a haircut. A couple, a nice older couple, needed someone to help maintain their house and their big yard, perhaps cook a meal or two, or drive them places when the need arose. For the sake of their own security, and to calm any concerns that the girl might have, they told her that they'd drop by the local police department on the way to the house, just so that she could confrm they were on the level and meant her no harm.
'They showed me a picture of their house,' Jude's daughter told the young woman from the Tender House. 'It's beautiful.'
What was the name of this town, Jude asked his informant.
Prosperous.
Its name was Prosperous.
But when Jude traveled to Prosperous, and went to the police department, he was told that no such girl had ever passed through its doors, and when he asked on the streets of the town about his daughter he was met with professions of ignorance. Eventually the police came for him. They drove him to the town limits, and told him not to return, but he did. The second time he got a night in a cell for his troubles, and it was different from the cells in Portland or Scarborough because he was not there of his own volition, and the old fears came upon him. He did not like being shut in. He did not like locked doors. It was why he roamed the streets.
They drove him to Bangor the next morning and escorted him onto the bus. He was given a fnal warning: stay out of Prosperous. We haven't seen your daughter. She was never here. Quit bothering people, or next time you'll be up before a judge.
But he was determined not to stay away. There was something wrong in Prosperous. He felt it on that frst day in the town. The streets had made him sensitive to those that carried a bad seed inside them. In Prosperous, one of those seeds had germinated.
None of this he shared with others, and certainly not the police. He found excuses to remain silent, although one in particular came more naturally than others: his daughter was a drifter, an addict. Such people routinely disappeared for a while before turning up again. Wait. Wait and see. She'
ll come back. But he knew that she would not return, not unless someone went looking for her. She was in trouble. He sensed it, but he could not bring himself to speak of it. His vocal cords froze on her name. He had been on the streets for too long. The illness that caused him to leave his family had left him unable to open himself up, to express weakness or fear. He was a locked box inside which tempests roiled. He was a man enshadowed by himself.
But there was one whom he trusted, one to whom he might turn an investigator, a hunter. He worked for money, this man, and with that realization came a kind of release for Jude. This would not be charity. Jude would pay for his time, and that payment would buy him the freedom he needed to tell his daughter's story.
This night, his fnal night, he had counted his money: the handful of notes that he had hidden in a box in the damp earth of the basement; the small savings he had entrusted to one of the social workers, reclaimed that day; and a bag of flthy bills and coins, just a small fraction of the loans that he had given out to others and now repaid at a quarter on the dollar by those who could afford to do so.
He had just over $120, enough to get him beaten up by some, or killed by others. Enough, he hoped, to hire the detective for a couple of hours.
But now he was dying. The rope, suspended from a ceiling beam, was tightening around his neck. He tried to kick, but his legs were being held. His arms, previously restrained by his sides, were now released, and he instinctively raised his hands to the noose. His fngernails were ripped from his fesh, but he barely felt the pain. His head was exploding. He felt his bladder release, and knew that the end was coming. He wanted to cry out to her, but no words came. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, so sorry.
The fnal sound that he made was an effort to speak her name.
4
It was left to Thomas Souleby to calm the girl down. He had four daughters of his own, and they, in turn, had so far gifted him only with female grandchildren, so he had more experience of placating women than anyone else in the room. This particular woman needed more placation than most: her frst act, after they had let her in through the back door of the store, was to grab the nearest knife and keep them at bay. None of Thomas's offspring had ever pulled a knife on him, although he wouldn't have put it past one or two of them during their teenage years.
'Easy, honey,' he said. He stayed out of range of the knife, and spoke as softly as he could. 'Easy now. What's your name?'
'Annie,' she replied. 'Call the police. Please, just call the police.'
'We will,' he said, 'but we just—'
'Now!' she screamed, and the sound just about busted Calder Ayton's hearing aid.
'Okay, we're calling them,' said Thomas. He motioned to Ben, who already had his cell phone in hand. 'But what are we supposed to tell them?'
'You tell them that some bitch and her fucker husband locked me in a basement, and fattened me up like a pig for slaughter,' she said. 'That's what you tell them.'
Thomas looked at Ben, and shrugged.
'You maybe don't have to use those exact words,' Thomas told him.
Ben nodded, and started dialing.
'Put it on speaker, Ben,' said Thomas, 'just so Annie here knows we're on the up and up.'
Ben tapped the screen on his phone, and turned the volume to maximum. They all listened to it ring. On the third tone, a voice broke in.
'Chief Morland,' it said.
The girl seemed to relax at the sound of the voice, but Thomas could still see her casting glances over his shoulder, staring out the picture window in the direction from which she had come. She couldn't know how long it would be before her captors noticed that she was gone and came looking for her. She didn't trust four old coots to keep her safe.
'Lucas, this is Ben Pearson over at the store. We got a girl here in some distress. She says her name is Annie, and that someone has been holding her in a basement. I'd appreciate it a whole lot if you could get here real soon.'
'On my way,' said the chief. 'Tell her to sit tight.'
The connection was cut.
'How far away is the police station?' asked Annie.
'Less than a mile, but I called the chief on his cell phone,' said Ben. 'He could be closer than that, or a little farther away, but this isn't a big town. It won't be long before he's here.'
'Can we get you something, honey?' said Thomas. 'You want water, or coffee? We got whisky, if that helps. You must be freezing. Ben, fnd the girl a coat.'
Ben Pearson moved to the rack to get one of the men's coats. His motion brought him almost within reach of the knife, and the girl slashed at the air in warning.
'Jesus!' said Ben.
'You stay back!' she warned. 'All of you, just keep back. I don't want anyone to come near me, not until the police get here, you understand?'
Thomas raised his hands in surrender.
'Anything you say, but I can see that you're shivering. Look, Ben will go to the rack and slide a coat across the foor to you. None of us will come near you, okay? Seriously, nobody here is in a hurry to get cut.'
The girl considered the offer, then nodded. Ben took his big old L.L.Bean goose down parka from the rack and slid it across the foor. The girl squatted and, never taking her eyes from the four men, slipped her left arm into the sleeve. She rose, and in one quick movement changed the knife from her right hand to her left so that she could put the parka on fully. The men remained completely still while she did so. The girl then moved sideways across the room to the poker table, poured herself a glass of the whisky and tossed it back in one gulp. Luke Joblin looked slightly pained.
'These people who held you captive,' said Thomas. 'Did you get a look at them?'
'Yes.'
'Do you know their names?'
'No.' The girl relented, and soon the words were tumbling from her lips. 'They weren't the ones who brought me here frst, though. They were an older couple, David and Harriett Carpenter, if those were even their real names. They showed me some ID when we frst met, but what do I know about IDs? As soon as we got to the outskirts of this shithole, they handed me over to another couple, younger than them. They were the ones who kept me in their damn basement. I know their faces. They didn't even bother to keep them hidden from me. That's how I knew they were going to kill me in the end. Others came too. I caught them looking at me through the slit in the door. I pretended to be asleep, but I saw some of their faces as well.'
Thomas shook his head in disbelief, and sat down heavily. Ben Pearson looked to the woods, just as the girl had done, waiting for fgures to appear out of the gloom, hellbent on dragging her back to captivity. Luke Joblin watched the young woman, his expression unreadable. Calder Ayton's attention was drawn to the wrinkles on his hands. He traced them with the tips of his index fngers – frst the left, then the right – as though surprised to fnd this evidence of his aging. No further words were spoken, no more reassurances given. This was Morland's business now.
Annie walked over to the register, where she could keep an eye on the parking lot outside the store. Blue lights shone in the distance. The police were on their way. She watched the four men, but they seemed stunned into inaction. She was in no danger from them.
An unmarked Crown Vic pulled into the lot, a fashing blue light on its dashboard. Although Ben had killed the outside spots when he closed the store, there were motion-activated lights set above the porch. Those lights now illuminated the lot, bathing Chief Morland in their glow as he stepped from the car.
'I feel sick,' said Annie. 'I need to go to the bathroom.'
'The chief has just arrived, honey,' said Thomas.
'It's the whisky,' said the girl. 'It's done something to my stomach.'
She bent over, as if in pain.
'I need to puke or shit, I don't know which.'
Ben didn't want her to do either in his place of business so he directed her to a door at the rear of the store. It led into his own private quarters, where he sometimes stayed the night, particularly if he was work
ing late in the gunsmithery. His house was less than a mile away, but since the death of his wife it felt too big and empty for him. He preferred the store. That was his place now.
The Wolf in Winter Page 3