He went inside. Where he had entered, the barn was open right to the sagging roof. Some sunlight filtered through the slits between the wallboards, dust mites dazzling in the streams. About halfway across, a lower level, with its own ceiling, had been built into the structure. An open door beckoned him forward.
He got to the door, stepped through the opening. The room was dark, and he looked for a light switch, finding one about a foot to the left of the door. He flicked it up.
It was a workshop. Along one wall, a wood bench and a set of cabinets that looked as though they had been taken from the kitchen of an old house and rehung there. Various tools were scattered across the top of the bench. The floor was dirt that had been packed down over several decades.
The room smelled of hay and mould and dirt and shit.
A few feet away, in the middle of the room, was a single bed.
It was an old, rusted metal bed that could be folded up and rolled away. Lying atop it was what Duckworth was willing to bet was the original mattress. It was uncovered, blue and white striped, with several small rips where the stuffing was attempting to escape. As he got closer, he could see that it was covered in stains that probably ranged from various bodily fluids to oil, varnish, coffee and booze.
Some of the stains looked like blood.
What particularly caught his attention were the four short lengths of rope attached to each corner of the bed.
Next to the bed, at one end, stood a red folding chair made of metal and plastic. Its newness made it stand out.
Every bit as interesting as the four lengths of rope was what Duckworth found sitting on the chair. It was a small item, with an electrical cord at one end. He noticed an extension cord on the floor that led to an outlet above the workbench.
He hadn’t seen a lot of these devices in his lifetime, but he’d seen one at Mike’s in the last day, so he now knew a tattoo gun when he saw one.
THIRTY-FOUR
CAL
THE easiest way to get to the Cape from Kingston was to head back north toward Albany until we hit I-90, take it east all the way to 495, about half an hour this side of Boston, then work our way southeast. When I looked it up on my phone, I figured it would take us the better part of four hours.
Jeremy didn’t have much to say, and I didn’t try all that hard to draw him out. He seemed to be doing a lot of thinking.
At one of our pit stops along the interstate, I studied the directions to the East Sandwich beach house Madeline Plimpton had sent me in an email. I entered them into the GPS gadget that normally sat in the glove box, but which was now to take a prominent position atop the dashboard, with the aid of a suction cup device.
“You should have a nav system built right into the dash,” Jeremy said, coming out of his self-imposed vow of silence.
“I don’t think they knew what a nav system was when they built this car. I’m just happy it has a radio.”
“How long are we going to this place for?” he asked, not for the first time.
“We’re taking things a day at a time, pal,” I said.
I was pretty good with my trip estimate. Three hours and fifty-eight minutes after we’d left the restaurant in Kingston, we were turning off Old King’s Highway, also known as 6A, onto Ploughed Neck Road, heading for North Shore Boulevard. Grey shingled beach houses dotted the horizon. We turned onto North Shore and Jeremy helped me look for the number Ms. Plimpton had given me.
“There it is,” he said.
I hit the brake and cranked the wheel to turn into the driveway. The tires crunched on a mix of gravel and seashells. We parked at the back of a two-story house with a set of steps going up the side. I found a key under a mat where Ms. Plimpton had told me in her email the rental agent would leave it. While I opened the first-floor door, Jeremy disappeared up the outside flight of open-backed stairs.
The first floor consisted of two bedrooms, a decent-sized kitchen, a living room and a bathroom. There was the usual Cape Cod kitsch one might expect. Ship models on shelves and atop the fireplace mantel, paintings of the sea, a fisherman’s net artfully hung on one wall. Bookshelves were jammed with old paperbacks and board games. There was a circular metal staircase at the other end that led up to the second floor, where I found another bedroom and a sitting area with sliding glass doors that opened onto a spacious deck.
That was where I found Jeremy. He’d accessed it from the set of steps that ran up the outside of the house.
I unlocked and slid open the doors and felt the cool breeze from Cape Cod Bay blow over my face. About sixty feet of tall grasses separated the house from the beach, and beyond that, blue water that seemed to go on forever.
“The ocean is beautiful,” Jeremy said, hands on the railing taking in the view.
“Not technically the ocean,” I said, “but definitely beautiful. The Atlantic’s on the other side of the Cape.” I made my arm into an L, like I was trying to show off my muscles. “If this is the Cape,” I said, and pointed to where my arm met my shoulder, “we’re about here. All this is the bay, and out here is the ocean.”
He nodded. He pointed into the distance, slightly to the right. “That looks like land there.”
“Yeah. Way, way up there is Provincetown. You can almost see it.”
We looked up and down the beach at the neighboring houses. “Doesn’t look like anybody is up,” I said. “I don’t think we have to worry about being spotted around here.”
He nodded.
“Have a look around inside,” I said. “You get first pick of bedroom. Then I think we should go into town and get a few groceries. We don’t need to go out for all our meals. There’s a pretty good kitchen.”
“Okay.”
He went inside to check the place out while I went back to the car to bring in our stuff. I made up a list of things we needed at the store, calling out to Jeremy as I wrote.
“What do you want to make for dinner?”
“Huh?” he shouted from the upper floor.
“We’ll take turns making meals. I’ll do tonight. You do tomorrow.”
Silence. Then, “I could do hot dogs.”
“Something better than that.”
Another brief silence. “I guess spaghetti?”
“Great. Tomato sauce?”
“Yeah. And meatballs?”
“Got it.”
I checked the cupboards to see if there were any basics left behind by previous guests. We were good for salt and pepper and sugar, and there was even some coffee for the coffee maker. I now knew we could survive anything.
Jeremy came down the spiral metal staircase to find me sitting at the kitchen table. “Can I have the upstairs bedroom?”
The first-floor bedrooms, and the kitchen, only offered a view of the grass between the house and the beach. From upstairs, you could see the bay.
“Sure,” I said.
“Do you have cookies on the list?”
“No. You want some?”
“Oreos.”
“Done.”
I finished the list, folded it and tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans. “Let’s head into town.”
“Okay.”
We got in the Honda and I backed us onto North Shore Boulevard. Then I put the car in neutral and applied the parking brake.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
“What?”
“Why don’t you drive? I’ve been driving all day.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Take the wheel.”
“I can’t,” he protested.
“Why not?”
“They took away my license for, like, forever.” He glanced down between the seats. “Anyway, I can’t drive a stick.”
“Okay,” I said. “But some day, you’ll get that license back, and you don’t want to lose your skills. As for the stick, that’s no big deal. I can teach you in seconds.”
I could see fear in his face again.
“I don’t know.”
“Look,” I
said, pointing down the road. “It’s deserted. There’s no one around. It’s the perfect place for a lesson.”
He bit his lip, still thinking it over. “I’ve never really been into cars. I mean, I liked it when I could drive one, but I’m not some guy who wants to go tearing around a race track or anything.”
I wasn’t going to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. “Okay.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “If I’m not into cars, why’d I want to mess around with that Porsche?”
I said nothing.
“I was just goofing around. In fact, it was Sian who said, like, wow, what a neat car. So I kind of went along, like I was interested. It’s not like I’m blaming her or anything. I’m just explaining.”
“Sure,” I said.
I put the Honda in first and was easing off the clutch and giving it some gas when Jeremy said, “Okay.”
I stopped the car. “Okay?”
He shrugged. “I guess I could give it a try.”
“Great.” We opened our doors. He walked around the front of the car as I walked around the back. Having traded seats, we closed our respective doors. I buckled my seat belt and waited for Jeremy to buckle his.
“Do you know the principle of driving a standard?” I asked him.
“Not really. I mean, I’ve watched Charlene do it. I think she’s the only one I know who even knows how to drive one. She told me that in Europe and England and stuff, that’s pretty much what everyone drives, but hardly anyone does here.”
“Okay. First thing we do is get comfortable with the gearshift. Shove down the clutch with your left foot, yeah, that’s right, and leave it there. Now, grab the gearshift, pull it ever so slightly to you and forward. Good, that’s first. Straight back and toward you, that’s second.”
He moved the stick back and forth, getting the feel of it.
“Straight up the middle, that’s third. Back is fourth, up to the right is fifth. Yeah, that’s good.”
“What about reverse?”
“We’ll worry about reverse later. Now, how to shift gears.” I raised my palms, moving them back and forth in an alternating fashion. “So my left hand, that’s your left foot. All it worries about is the clutch. My right hand is your right foot, and it handles the gas and the brake.”
“How do you heel-toe? I’ve heard about that.”
“When you’re ready for the Indy 500, we’ll talk about heel-toe. Right now, we just want to get to the grocery store. So, to put it in gear, you push in the clutch with your left foot, and hold back with your right.” I made the motions with my hands.
He still had the clutch depressed from when I showed him how to move the gearshift around. “Got it.”
“Now put it in first.”
He put it in first.
“Now you’re going to slowly ease off the clutch at the same time as you give the car some gas.”
“Both at the same time?”
“That’s how it’s done. Haven’t you ever watched Charlene do this in her car?”
“If I’m looking at her legs, it’s not for that reason.”
I grinned at him. “I hear ya. Give it a try.”
Jeremy took a deep breath. He let the clutch out too quickly before giving the car some gas. It bucked and stalled.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“It’s okay. So press down the clutch, turn back the key and start us up again.”
He got the engine going. I told him to repeat the procedure, and again the car bucked suddenly and died.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t.”
“When my dad was teaching me stick,” I said, “I nearly destroyed the car before I got it right. It’s hard at first, but once you get the hang of it, you never forget.”
“Like riding a bike?” he asked.
“Like that,” I said.
Another deep breath. He started the car again. And again he let off the clutch too quickly and the car died.
“I’m wasting our time,” he said.
“You got someplace to be?” I asked.
So he started the car again. Let out the clutch more slowly, feathered the gas. The car bucked, but it did not stall. We were moving.
“I did it!” he said.
The car, still in first, was whining loudly. It was screaming to go to the next gear.
“You did,” I agreed. “Now you have to get it in second.”
“Oh, fuck,” Jeremy said. He looked terrified.
“It’s okay. This part’s easier because we’re moving. Clutch in, foot off the gas.” I glanced over, saw that his feet were in the right position. “Now pull the stick straight back and toward you.”
He tried, but he let the clutch out too quickly and there was a horrible grinding sound.
“Jesus!” he shouted.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, just push the clutch back in and we’ll try it again. Okay. Clutch stays in, pull the shifter straight back. That’s it. Now ease out the clutch and give it some gas.”
The car bucked, but less like a bronco this time. We continued to move forward. There was sweat on Jeremy’s upper lip. To be honest, I was soaking under the arms. I’d never been a great passenger, even with good drivers.
“Ready for third?”
Jeremy took several short breaths. “Okay.”
“Same deal. Clutch in, foot off the gas, stick straight up to the middle. Got it. Now, clutch out, give it some gas.”
That time, he was pretty smooth. I looked ahead and saw that we were soon going to run out of road.
“Okay, we’re going to stop. So, light on the brake with your right foot. Not hard, or we’ll stall. That’s it. Now clutch in all the way, harder on the brake.”
The car came to a stop.
“There,” I said. “Now—”
The car suddenly lurched forward, tossing my head back into the headrest. We moved ahead only a couple of feet before the car died.
“What did I do?” Jeremy asked, a look of horror on his face.
I laughed. “It’s okay. You let out the clutch without putting it in neutral.”
He put his head back and closed his eyes. “Shit buckets,” he said. “That was torture. I can’t do any more.”
“Okay, that’s our lesson for today. I’ll drive us into town. You shouldn’t be on the main road anyway, not till you have your license back. But we’ll do this again tomorrow.”
He shot me a look. “Are you kidding? Do we have to?”
“Why not? Something like this takes practice. Before long, you’ll have the hang of it.” I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You did good, Scott.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “Who’s Scott?”
I felt stunned. “Sorry,” I said. “My head was someplace else there for a second.”
When we got to the grocery store, I gave Jeremy the list.
“What’s this?”
“Grab a cart, find that stuff.”
He didn’t have to tell me he’d never shopped for groceries before. It showed on his face. But after surviving his driving lesson, maybe he felt this was a challenge he could handle.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I want to make a phone call.”
“What if someone recognizes me?”
A good point. I went to the trunk, popped it, found him a baseball cap with a Toronto Blue Jays logo on the front. “Put that on, pull it down low.”
“Where did you get this?”
“Just wear it.”
I sent him on his way. Once he’d freed a cart from the string of them stored just outside the store, and gone inside, I got out my phone. I dug into my pocket for a business card I’d been given the day before, looked at the number, and entered it into my cell.
A woman answered. “Broadhurst Developments. How may I help you?”
“I need to speak with Galen,” I said.
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,” the woman said.
I la
ughed. “That’s what he tells you to say no matter what, right? Look, it’s a friend of his. Tell him it’s Cal Weaver. It’s important.”
“Hold, please.”
There were several seconds of silence. Then, “Hello?”
“Galen Broadhurst?” I said.
“Yeah. This is Weaver?”
“That’s right.”
“The detective I met yesterday?”
“You got it.”
“What’s up? My secretary said this was important.”
“I might have made it sound a little more urgent than it actually is. But given why I’m calling, I thought you might want to take the call.”
“What?” He sounded wary.
I laughed. “It’s nothing bad. It’s about your car.”
“What about my car?”
“You said you were thinking of selling it.”
“Well, maybe.”
“You said it’d probably go for around fifty thousand. I just wondered how firm you were on that.”
“You’re seriously interested?”
“All my life I’ve wanted something like that, but I’ve always found a way to talk myself out of it. But you said it’s just had an overhaul, so I’m guessing it’s in good shape, although I’m sure you’d understand if I wanted to have a mechanic take a look at it.”
“Yeah, of course. That’s just smart.”
“Can you tell me a little more about the car again?”
“Well, it’s a 1978. It’s got just over forty thousand original miles on it. I’ve got all the receipts for the work that’s been done on it over the years. It’s a Targa, so it’s got the removable roof panels. All Porsche parts on any of the work that’s been done. Tires have almost no wear on them.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It’s immaculate. I guess I’m surprised you’d be in the market for it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” and now it was Broadhurst’s turn to laugh, “that shitbox you were driving didn’t exactly suggest to me that you’re a car nut.”
“Pretty hard to do surveillance work in a Porsche,” I said. “I know a sports car isn’t meant to be luxurious, but does it have air?”
“No A/C,” he said. “When it’s hot out, you take the roof off, turn it more or less into a convertible.”
Parting Shot Page 23