Before the Devil Fell

by Neil Olson

  “Happy to help,” Muriel said, perfunctorily. “But you really didn’t need me.”

  “We did,” he assured her. “I did.”

  She stroked his face and he leaned in to kiss her cheek, just catching her lips. She didn’t move, and he was about to lean in again when a memory came. Christmas of his junior year of college. The three of them tipsy after too much wine with dinner. Some bad movie on television and Abby asleep in front of it. Muriel and Will in the kitchen, laughing about nothing. Then kissing deeply, up against the refrigerator. Something he had wanted to do for years, which she must have known. A sad smile was on her face as he pulled away.

  That was nice, kiddo. But that’s not how it is between us.

  Not then and not now. He stepped back.

  “Tell Abby I’ll come by later,” she said, pushing the door and stepping inside. “And if you need me for anything, you let me know. Got it?”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  He was being stalked. Will couldn’t know for sure if it was Jimmy Duffy in the police car that kept showing up in his rearview mirror. The vehicle kept its distance, and if Will slowed down it would turn off and vanish. But how many cops were there on the local force? A dozen? How many had a reason for following him? He did not mention it to Sam, or to anyone. But he would look for his chance to have it out with the angry little man. He left his mother’s car with his old friend Tony Pascarelli, and stepped over the low concrete barrier separating the automotive repair shop from the liquor store, eyes scanning the street along this alley of shops. Florist, coffee shop, post office, convenience store. Searching for the blue lights on top of an idling cruiser. Seeing nothing, he pushed open the glass door of The Cask & Flagon and went in.

  The spectacles, forward-leaning posture, and especially the faded red Nantucket pants immediately identified Charlie Winthrop, standing at the counter.

  “No, no, just a small dinner party with friends,” Charlie was saying. “First chance we’ve had since Benji went back to school.”

  “Very nice,” said Saul Markowitz, behind the register. The Cask and Flagon was Saul’s store, and though he had people working for him, the silver-haired, acerbic fellow seemed always to be on duty. “How’s he liking Harvard?”

  “Oh God, not the H word!” exclaimed Charlie. “No, no, Benji’s at Princeton, of course.”

  “Of course,” Saul concurred, unfazed by his faux pas.

  “My daughter now,” Charlie went on. “Annie is, in fact, contemplating matriculation at that temple of arrogance down there in Cambridge.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Sorry to say, yes. It’s enough to make her poor papa weep. Ah, young William.”

  “Hello, Mr. Winthrop,” Will replied, having failed to sneak past.

  “‘Mr. Winthrop,’” the man laughed, pumping Will’s hand furiously. “Charlie! Everyone calls me Charlie. Look at you, you’re all... Now how is your mother?”

  “Good. She’s been home two days, getting back to normal.”

  “That’s great news. Just fantastic news.”

  Despite being a shameless snob, Charlie was friendly with Abby and had always been nice to Will. He even forgave the younger man for not going to Princeton. Amherst is a fine school, Charlie had assured him. Whatever anyone says.

  “Tell her I’ll stop by soon.”

  Charlie grabbed his six-pack and bottle, waved a parting salute and was out the door in a hurry. He was always in a hurry, but Will figured it was probably just his metabolism.

  “Young William,” Saul deadpanned.

  “Saul,” Will replied. “Everyone in town knows his son goes to Princeton.”

  The thinnest of smiles appeared on the wine merchant’s face.

  “Kendall-Jackson,” Saul said. “And a six-pack of Corona. Big spender.”

  “I thought you liked Charlie.”

  “I like him fine,” Saul said. “But these cheap WASPs are going to put me out of business. Glad your mother’s doing better.”

  “Yeah, she’s walking around the house without stumbling. We’ll get her outside anytime now.”

  “Haven’t seen her in here for a while.”

  “You kidding? She can’t afford you—she shops at Kappy’s.”

  “Not the K word,” Saul moaned.

  “I need a good spaghetti-with-red-sauce wine.”

  Saul squinted his eyes, but paused barely a moment.

  “Palazzo Della Torre. Second aisle, middle of the Italians. Only nineteen bucks, you better get two.”

  Will did as he was told, then swung over to the whiskey aisle. A bent old crone was perched in front of the shelves, and he had to lean around her to get a bottle of Maker’s Mark. He figured he should replace the one he and Sam had killed. The crone began to move aside, then froze. He expected her to speak, or at least to look at him. But she only stared at a pricey bottle of The Macallan. Slack, liver-spotted face showing nothing. He felt a sudden chill. Sensing she was the source, he stepped away, but the chill stayed with him.

  He barely made it to the register without dropping the three bottles. Saul rang them up swiftly, not noticing his distress.

  “Sox going to do it?” Saul asked.

  The Red Sox had lost two in a row to Oakland and looked likely to be bounced from the postseason in a hurry.

  “I guess three in a row is possible,” Will ventured. “No?”

  “A curse is a curse,” Saul replied.

  “So it’s hopeless?”

  “Here it is,” Saul said, placing his hands flat on the counter and looking serious. “They need to take a wooden stake made from Babe Ruth’s bat. Okay? Stick it in Bill Buckner’s heart, and bury him under home plate in Yankee Stadium.”

  “That’s, um, elaborate,” Will replied. “I didn’t know you were a pagan.”

  “I try to adopt the customs of the local population.”

  Saul glanced to the side, and so did Will. The crone stood ten feet away, staring at him. He realized now that he knew her, but the cold analysis in her watery blue eyes froze his memory. He could not think straight. Her gaze seemed to fall not on his face, but on the edges of his body, all the way around. As if she saw something revealing there. There was a thin but elaborate silver chain around her neck. When she clutched it to bring forth whatever hung from the end, Will thought Saul was going to dive below the counter. But all that emerged was her reading glasses.

  “Who wrote these tags, Saul,” the old woman rumbled in a wet-lunged voice, ignoring Will now. She put the glasses on her face. “I can’t read anything.”

  While Markowitz went to assist her, Will picked up his bag and fled the store.

  Outside, he took in big breaths of cool air, listening to the soft clinking of the bottles in his arms. Trying to remember Muriel’s words. He was projecting fear and mistrust on every encounter. And yet Saul had felt something, as well.

  When he got back to the garage, the Pascarelli brothers had the hood open and were bent over the engine.

  “Like a thump, or a grind, or what?” Tony was asking.

  “More like a tap-tap-tap,” Ernie answered. “You don’t hear it?”

  “Okay,” said Will, “since when does the taillight connect to the engine?”

  “This car hasn’t been serviced in more than a year,” Tony replied, not looking up.

  “It drives fine,” Will said, knowing he was in a losing fight. “All I asked you to do is fix the taillight.”

  “Told you he’d say that,” Ernie noted with disgust, pushing himself up and wandering off to find some other project.

  “What’s his problem?” Will asked.

  “Nothing,” Tony shrugged, looking at him now. “Just tired of cheap pricks who don’t take care of their cars.”

  “Tony—”

  “I know, I know, it’s your
mother’s. But the oil was so low I’m surprised the engine didn’t seize. And now Ernie’s hearing a knocking sound.”

  “Tapping, I think he said.”

  “That’s right,” Tony agreed. “Tap, tap.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “I don’t even hear it. But Ernie has sharper ears than me.”

  Ernie Pascarelli was the best mechanic around, and handled a wide range of makes and models. But somehow a two-hundred-dollar job always ended costing five, or eight. Abigail never got her cars serviced. Sometimes Muriel did a quick fix, or else Will brought them to the Pascarelli’s shop, and he preferred dealing with Tony.

  “What do you need to do?” he asked.

  “Maybe nothing,” Tony decided, wiping his hands on a filthy rag. “If it’s not giving you problems. But keep your ears open. What the hell are you looking at?”

  Will realized he had been scanning the street again. He turned his eyes to Tony, who gazed back with puzzled amusement. They were the same age, had been all through school together, from elementary to high school. Along with Sam, Christine, Brendan Duffy, Danny Larcom. So many old friends, so long ago now.

  “Just making sure Jimmy Duffy isn’t lurking somewhere,” he said finally.

  “Jimmy?” Tony laughed. “Why, you banging his wife?”

  “Ex-wife. And no, I’m not,” said Will, realizing he should have reversed that. “So he’s done this to other guys?”

  “I only heard of one. Some, like, housepainter from Gloucester. Pretentious shit.”

  “A pretentious housepainter?”

  “He was an artist or something. Anyway, that was a year ago. I didn’t know he was still doing that. I would have said something to him when he came by.”

  “What, he came by here?” Will asked.

  “Comes by a lot. Well, he used to. Him, Brendan, me and Ernie used to play poker Fridays. Not big money. A few bucks, a few beers, with the game on.”

  “How’s Brendan doing?”

  “You didn’t know?” Tony looked surprised, then shook his head. “In Walpole. Beat a guy pretty badly. Some bar in Southie. Put him in the hospital.”

  “Damn,” Will said quietly. Brendan always had a temper, and he was a big man.

  “Yeah,” Tony agreed, gazing at his blackened fingernails. “Wasn’t the first time either. Those Duffys. You know their mom died years ago. Old man’s got cancer too. Kevin keeps reenlisting, now he’s in Iraq. Brendan in prison. The sister, Marie, married some guy in New Hampshire, won’t speak to her brothers. Thinks they’re bad influences on her children.”

  “Oh man, Tony,” groaned Will. “This is a sad tale.”

  “All I’m saying is Jimmy’s in a bad way. Don’t make too much of what he says.”

  “Did he ask about me?”

  “Yeah,” Tony answered. “Matter of fact, he did.”

  “Really? What did he ask?”

  Tony glanced up at him with a sly grin.

  “Asked if you’d gotten your mother’s taillight fixed yet.”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Night was coming down. Darkness after sunset took hold more swiftly in these weeks following the autumnal equinox. It was not safe to take his eyes from the twisty road, yet Will was certain he had spotted his stalker. A hundred yards back and closing. Will accelerated, but the police cruiser kept on until it was right behind. No siren, but the blue lights flashed once. Will waited for a straightaway, then pulled onto the shoulder.

  Jimmy looked more agitated than angry as he came up to the window.

  “What did I do this time?” Will asked, keeping his voice even.

  “Nothing,” Jimmy replied. “We have to talk.”

  “Look, she’s been my friend since before—”

  “It’s not about Sam,” the cop said impatiently.

  “No? What’s it about?”

  “Stuff that’s been going on,” said Jimmy evasively.

  “If this is your idea of talking...”

  “Not here. Out in the middle of the road.”

  “Where then?” Will asked. “The station? If you wanted to talk, why didn’t you come by the house?”

  “I did,” Jimmy claimed. “A couple of times. You weren’t there.”

  “I’m there every night. You’re telling me you can find me on these godforsaken roads but not in my mother’s house? What the hell kind of cop are you?”

  “You’re pushing it, Conner.”

  “No, you’re pushing it. This is harassment, and I’m not taking it.” He put his hand on the key in the ignition. Then dropped it. “I’m sorry about Brendan. I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know,” Jimmy echoed. “He was your friend, right?”

  “We were friendly. Didn’t keep in touch. I’m sorry about the stuff with your sister too. I guess it’s a bad time for you.”

  Jimmy’s mouth was working with no words issuing forth. The way it had that night a week ago.

  “Fuck you,” Jimmy rasped. “This ain’t about me.”

  “Okay,” Will replied. “So if we’re clear that there was no cause for the stop...”

  Jimmy slammed his hands on the car door and leaned in. Instinctively falling back on intimidation. Will could smell his sour breath.

  “Every time you come here, bad shit happens,” Jimmy declared. “You think nobody has noticed? Well, I have. And I’m not the only one.”

  Will gave him a long look, but Jimmy didn’t budge. Like he was some TV cop, awaiting an admission of guilt. Will started the engine. Then he hit the button that rolled the window up. Jimmy only pulled his fingers out at the last moment. Fury on his face. Looking like he would shatter the glass with his forehead. Will gave him several moments to try, then put the car in gear and pulled away.

  The thing to do now was turn off somewhere quickly, or get home as fast as he could. Will did neither. He drove slowly, waiting for the cruiser to appear in his rearview mirror once more. When it did, he felt his facial muscles pull. It took a few moments to identify the action as a smile. There was no mirth in him. It was someone else’s smile. It disturbed him, yet his mind was elsewhere. Working on the next step.

  Right turn onto Orchard Road. The cruiser followed. Will bent toward the freshly cleaned windshield, peering through the gathering gloom. Old Forest Lane was unmarked, so he had to be alert. There, that break in the tightly packed trees. He turned hard onto the narrow road, small branches brushing the car. Jimmy missed the turn and Will slowed to see if he would back up and pursue. It was a bad road, no longer in use. Both vehicles would take a beating, but the patrol car did not belong to Jimmy.

  Nevertheless, here came the cruiser again, swinging onto Old Forest Lane, headlights casting a ghostly glow over the interior of Will’s car. Will’s hands on the wheel looked strange to him. Too large. He sped up. Broken tarmac gave way to rutted dirt, and the car began to rattle and buck. An invisible pothole bounced him off the seat, banging his head on the roof. The impact made him vaguely dizzy, but also felt good somehow. The clarity of pain. It was not that late, but the woods were very dark. After shaping a turn, Will stopped abruptly and killed the engine. The police car was not visible yet, and he opened the door and got out. The ground smelled damp and mulchy. A familiar and pleasant scent. Will had spent a lot of time here when he was young. Fifty yards farther was the clearing where high school kids used to make bonfires and have parties. Maybe they still did. Across the road was swamp. Difficult to negotiate by day, impossible by night. Behind him, through some narrow trees, a rocky shelf rose almost straight up. There were paths, or you could just haul yourself, hand-over-hand. Will had done it many times, but not for years.

  He heard the cruiser’s engine, saw the lights shaping the turn. Jimmy would not be able to get around his car. And driving in reverse all the way to Orchard Road would be a challenge.
Will felt that nasty smile on his face again, felt an anxious flutter of mischief in his stomach. In his whole body. He stepped off the road into the trees.

  Headlights lit up his mother’s car, the driver’s door hanging open. He could hear Jimmy’s curses through the police car’s windows. The cruiser stopped, engine idling, lights still on. Jimmy sprang out and went to the other vehicle. Searching around inside. As if Will might be hiding behind the seats? Or maybe looking for evidence. Drugs, paraphernalia, something to justify a bust. Had he left the keys in the ignition? No, here they were in his pocket.

  “Conner,” Jimmy called, facing the trees where Will stood. Thirty feet away. “Where are you?”

  Will turned and reached for the stony slope, scraping at dead leaves and moss before he got a solid grip. The incline was shallow enough to push himself up without much difficulty. But he made a lot of noise, and could hear Jimmy ducking through the trees.

  “What are you doing?” Jimmy said, as Will rose away from him. “Get down here. You’re being an idiot.”

  Anger was giving way to something else in Jimmy’s voice. Caution, uncertainty. Just the same, a moment later Will could hear the cop scrambling up the stony slope behind him. Two men playing at boys. Or maybe it was the other way around. When he got to a broad ledge about thirty feet up, Will felt the adrenaline surge abandoning him. He sat down suddenly on the spongy soil. Drew his legs up and put his forehead against his knees. There was a pressure in his head. A flickering spasm in his eyelid and a picture forming there. Bright light and dry heat. A desert landscape and another rock face. Climbing, struggling to reach the top, where a dusky-faced man smiled down at him. That’s right, brother, just a few more feet. Then we rest, and speak to the sky.

  “Will,” Jimmy said, near at hand. Will looked up to see the compact shadow of the cop rising over the rim of the ledge. Jimmy was silhouetted against twilight sky. Seated in shadows, Will must have been invisible.

  “I’m here.”

  Jimmy took a few wary steps in his direction and crouched. Still not able to see him clearly.

  “What the hell are you up to? Driving out here.”