by Jen Blood
“How are you still alive?” I asked Wolf. “Don’t you have a belly full of lead?”
“I was wearing a vest. A little buckshot caught my shoulder, but it’s nothing.”
“Bullshit,” Solomon said.
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Wolf said. I got the sense they’d been having this argument for a while.
“Where is Maisie?” Lisette interrupted.
“We thought she’d be with you,” Solomon said. “Those guys didn’t get her too?”
“She disappeared in the woods when Elias and Johnny showed up,” I said.
“We need to go back to Jacob’s,” Lisette said. “I thought she’d be with you. If she isn’t, she could be in the woods... She could be waiting for me.”
I thought of her scream just before she’d vanished. It hadn’t sounded like someone who’d willingly gone into hiding.
“We looked there,” Wolf said. “If she was still there, she would’ve come out after Johnny and Elias left. Someone else must have come.”
“I’m calling the cops,” I said. “They can put out an alert for Maisie, get people looking for her.”
I expected Wolf to protest. Instead, he deferred to Lisette. “It’s up to you,” I heard him say quietly. “What do you want to do?”
She hesitated. “Do you think they can help?”
In my opinion, that depended on who actually had her now. In the back of my head, I kept thinking of Deng’s body on the forest floor. He hadn’t been there long... Did that mean Foster had still been in the woods when we got there? What if Johnny and Elias were only there to deal with us, and Foster was there for his real target? Maisie was the one piece of tangible proof that linked him to all this. A simple genetic test and his whole life went up in smoke.
“You have the number for your guy in the Portland PD?” Wolf asked me.
“Yeah. I’ve got it.”
“Give him a call.” A second later, I felt his warm breath on my neck as he spoke to me quietly. “What happened at the farmhouse...”
“I don’t know what happened at the farmhouse,” I pointed out. “Beyond Elias and Johnny shooting you, then taking Lisette and me and kicking the snot out of me... I didn’t see what happened after.”
“Good,” he said. “We went to Deng’s cabin in Newry, found him dead, and got jumped by Elias. He shot me. Took you and Lizzie. You two got away. You don’t know where he went after that.”
“And Johnny?” I asked quietly.
He didn’t answer for a few seconds. Then: “Just tell them that. What I just said.”
◊◊◊◊◊
Thibodeau’s phone had almost gone to voicemail when he picked up. He sounded beat, and I knew the news I was about to give him wouldn’t be welcome.
“I need to report a murder,” I began. “And a missing person.”
He sighed. “Shit. Hang on, let me get a pen.”
I told Thibodeau that Wolf wasn’t interested in hanging around the crime scene in Newry, and gave him Wolf’s version of the events that had taken place, focusing on the bullets as I saw them: Deng was dead, and Maisie was missing. Thibodeau advised us to head back to Portland if we were well enough to drive; he’d meet us at the hospital.
“Wolf doesn’t want to see a doctor,” I said.
“He got shot, right?” Thibodeau said. I looked back over my shoulder at Wolf. He was leaning back with his eyes closed, his arm around Lisette. He didn’t look good, but he looked more content than I’d seen him since this whole thing began.
“Yeah,” I said. “He got shot.”
“Take him to the goddamn hospital then,” he said. “You already told me Elias shot him, and the circumstances surrounding him doing it. Unless you’re not telling me everything, there’s no reason he shouldn’t see a doctor.”
“We’re about two hours out.”
“Call me once you hit town. I’ll meet you in the ER.”
I hung up and handed Solomon back her phone, since Elias had taken mine back at the Deng cabin.
“I told you I’m not going to a doctor,” Wolf said.
“Stop being such a baby about it,” Solomon said. “The cops will be there. They’ll take your statement. We already told you we’re not saying anything about where Elias took us, or that Johnny was with him. You’re the victim in this, you moron.”
She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back in her seat. Wolf grunted, but he didn’t seem able to come up with an argument beyond that.
I had a hard time sleeping on the ride back, though Wolf was out soon after the fight and Lisette was quiet beside him. When the silence had become awkward in the front seat, I shifted my focus to Solomon.
“Have you heard anything about Buzz? How’s he doing?”
“He’s awake,” she said without looking at me. “Just like we thought, he said Elias was the one who went after him. He was trying to get an address for Jacob Deng, and figure out where Maisie and Lisette were.”
“Did Wolf tell you what happened?” I asked. “How did you find us, anyway?”
“Called Ben Morrison.” She glanced at me, then away quickly. “After I came to, I mean. Because it turns out some piece of monkey shit drugged me.”
“I’m sorry about that—”
“Whatever. It’s done.” She still wouldn’t look at me. “Morrison gave me Jacob Deng’s address, and I convinced Hector we should go after you.”
“You were supposed to keep her away from all this,” I said to Hector.
He glared at me. “Are you kidding me? She ran away three times, and then she kneed me in the balls. I was either gonna murder her myself or bring her here. I figured this would be your preference.”
I was beginning to question that. “Thank you,” I said to Solomon. She turned her nose up at me, and kept her focus straight ahead.
“We found Wolf at the cabin—half dead, but still ready to do some damage,” she continued. “He had a good idea where Johnny might be, so we made some calls and confirmed his theory. I wanted to call Thibodeau right then. Wolf said no.”
“So where the hell are we, exactly?” I asked.
“Just outside Rangeley. The house belongs to a friend of Johnny’s. I still can’t figure out what happened to Maisie, though.”
I glanced toward the backseat. Wolf was asleep, but Lisette sat staring out the window with her hands knotted in her lap. That delusion she’d had before about Maisie’s safety was fading fast; I could almost see the fear chewing its way through the shock. “I say it’s Foster. Deng was dead... Elias and Johnny said that Foster’s the one who killed both him and Charlene. Which means he must have been there somewhere.”
“Any idea what we’re supposed to do about that?” Solomon asked. “We don’t have a clue what he might have done with her.”
“I’ll talk to Thibodeau when we hit town. Maybe he can start going through Foster’s financials, or get a warrant to search his place.”
“Based on what?” she asked, lowering her voice marginally. “The only connection we’ve got to any of this is Lisette’s word—which goes against a pretty intricate lie she’s been telling for almost ten years. And Mary’s gone, and Davies sure the hell won’t back anyone up.”
“How do you know that, though?” Hector asked, to my surprise. “He went out on a limb for the Dsenganis, right? If all this shit really went down, he’s probably not Foster’s biggest fan. Maybe he’s ready to do something about it—especially with all these people dying.”
“You didn’t see the look on his face when we surprised him at church the other day,” I said. “The guy’s terrified of Foster. He’s got too much to lose.”
“What about the photos?” Solomon suggested.
“Of Foster and Davies with Sefu Keita? Foster’s all about cultural immersion. All those photos can be explained fairly easily; he’ll spin it so he comes off looking like the king of diplomacy.”
Neither Hector nor Solomon had any suggestions after that. Most of the rest of the dr
ive, we traveled in a heavy, troubled silence.
◊◊◊◊◊
We were back in Portland by midnight that Monday, not even twenty-four hours after Wolf and I had left the city together. As Thibodeau had requested, I called him once we hit the city limits. At 12:17, Hector dropped us at Maine Medical Center. Thibodeau and a couple of uniforms were waiting to welcome us when we came into the ER.
“Jesus,” the detective said as soon as he saw my face. He shook his head. “Tell me something: do you always piss people off this much when you do a story, or is this new?”
“It’s happened once or twice,” I conceded. I fingered my split lip and bruised cheek gingerly. “Maybe never quite to this extent, though.”
It was a slow night at the hospital, and doctors were able to get Wolf in immediately. Between the bloody shirt and the deathly pallor, their haste was understandable.
“He’ll be fine,” Thibodeau said. “Looks a hell of a lot better than your boss did when he came here, and he pulled through all right.”
He studied Lisette, Solomon, and me for a moment before his gaze settled on me again. “I know you’re beat, but I need to ask some questions. Maisie’s already been gone a few hours—the clock’s ticking if we stand a shot at getting her back.”
“Yeah, of course,” I agreed.
We went back to the same exam room Thibodeau had questioned me in when Buzz had come through. I thought back, trying to figure out how long ago that had been.
Three days.
Three very long days.
Thibodeau went through the standard questions: What happened? Who was involved? Did I know who killed Jacob Deng?
When I told him of my suspicions about Rick Foster’s involvement, he groaned. “Here we go.”
“He hired that private dick from Mass—Elias,” I said, defensiveness creeping in.
“The private dick who’s now in the wind,” Thibodeau said. He sat on a wheeled stool beside a side table where cotton balls and tongue depressors were stored in clear plastic bottles. I hadn’t even realized they still used cotton balls and tongue depressors. “I don’t suppose you have any evidence of that, do you? Maybe a signed contract with Foster’s thumbprint beside it?”
“I’m working on it.”
“What else can you tell me about the body in the woods up in Newry?”
“Name’s Jacob Deng,” I said, and spelled the last name for him. “He was married to Charlene Dsengani in Darfur. You want to know more, talk to Bobby Davies. He’s got a hell of a story.”
“I bring Davies in tonight and the mayor will have my badge. It’s Foster’s fundraiser tomorrow—which Davies is hosting. Word is, Foster will use the time to raise awareness about the two Africans murdered here in Maine. I bring Davies in and it looks like we’re trying to shut him up.”
“You don’t bring him in and there’s a good chance you’ve got another murder on your hands. I still say he’s the one to talk to if you want to find Maisie Dsengani.”
He shifted in his seat and kneaded the back of his neck. “You say, or you know? Because I need something other than just the gut instinct of a disgraced reporter at a second-rate weekly if I’m going to convince a judge who probably already has Foster’s nose jammed up his ass.”
“I don’t have any proof,” I admitted. I told him Lisette’s story of the night in Darfur, finishing up with the fact that Maisie was Foster’s daughter.
“And now Maisie’s gone,” he said, “so there’s no way we can verify any of this.”
“Exactly. Who do you suppose has the most to gain from her disappearing?”
“And Lisette will corroborate this?”
“She will,” I said without a second’s thought. She damned well better.
“What about Mary Dsengani?” he asked. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with her, but she’s not answering my calls. Do you know if she’ll testify to the same story?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know how to reach her at this point.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Figures. It’s not like we’ve caught a lot of breaks since this thing started.”
Chapter 24
Wolf refused to spend the night in the hospital, and then took it a step further by telling Thibodeau to go to hell when he offered to put him in protective custody for the night. Instead, he said he and Lisette would take care of themselves. I had no such delusions about Solomon and me.
“Wherever you want us,” I said. “As long as there’s a bed, I don’t care.”
It was better than a bed, actually. The safe house was a little ranch-style home in Scarborough, about ten minutes outside Portland. It was a good-sized lot with woods on either side, but neighbors within view. Thibodeau himself brought us there, unlocked the door, and ushered us inside. It was surprisingly homey.
“Nice place,” Solomon said. “Who’s your decorator? I could use some tips.”
“Rachel,” he said. “And her sister. They do some interior design on the side. I got ’em the gig.” We stood in the entrance of an open-floor-plan living room. He strode into the kitchen, the rooms separated by a breakfast bar, and turned on the light. “Kitchen. Cupboards are stocked with nonperishables. I did some shopping before you got here, so there’s food in the fridge. No caviar, but there’s cold beer and there’s Jameson’s under the sink.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Mmm. Come on.”
He did a lightning-fast tour around the rest of the place, stopping at two bedrooms that flanked the hallway on the other side of the living room.
“I don’t know what your sleeping arrangements are, but do what you’re comfortable with. Big Brother’s not watching here, unless they installed cameras and forgot to tell me about it.”
“What about phone?” I asked. “Or internet?”
“You can dial 911 on the phone in the kitchen. Otherwise, it’s not hooked up. And no internet. The whole point of this is to keep you two off the radar. We can’t do that if you’re calling all your buddies to tell them about this swank flophouse you’re staying in.”
“We’ll try to keep that in mind,” Solomon said. “And how long are we supposed to stay here like this?”
“I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” he said. “I’m still working on getting a warrant for Foster—for all I know, I could be out of a job by noon. Search and Rescue’s canvasing Newry, and I’m gonna head up there to see if there’s anything more I can do. Amber Alert’s already been issued, special reports are up on all the local news stations. If that kid shows her face anywhere in New England, someone will recognize her.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing more we can do?” Solomon asked.
“Just get some rest,” Thibodeau said. “Looks like you both could use it. I’ll have a uniform do regular drive-bys overnight to make sure you’re not getting in any trouble.”
We both thanked him for his time and effort and all the long hours he’d put in so far for a story that could very well mean the end of his career. As long as it didn’t mean the end of Maisie Dsengani’s life, though, I don’t think he cared.
After he left, Solomon went to the kitchen and raided the pantry. I followed her, watching as she looked through every cupboard, then the refrigerator. When she was done, she leaned back against the counter in defeat.
“No M&Ms?” I guessed.
“Not one.”
“There’s whiskey,” I said.
“That’s your drug of choice—or one of them. It’s not mine.”
I moved past her and took out a package of instant hot cocoa I’d spotted while she was raiding the place.
“Desperate times,” I said.
She wrinkled her nose in distaste, but nodded.
While I found mugs and boiled water, she sat at the table with a notebook and pen and wrote. I set the hot chocolate in front of her a few minutes later and poured a shot of whiskey for myself, then grabbed a beer on the way past the fridge.
“Working on the story?�
�� I asked.
She nodded without looking up.
“What’s your angle?”
“Just the facts for now—what we know. The tie between Charlene and Jacob; their story in Darfur. How they died. The significance of the ritual, at least from what I’ve been able to gather so far. Elias and Johnny’s role.”
“And Foster?”
“The trip he and Davies took to Sudan in 1986. The photos we have. The story Lisette’s alleged, which can’t be substantiated.”
“Not without Maisie or Mary,” I agreed. “And without Maisie, there won’t be any proof anyway. Just their word against Davies and Foster, unless Davies rolls over.”
She looked at me briefly. “You expect that to happen before hell freezes over and monkeys start singing opera, or after?”
I shrugged. Exhaustion was starting to seep in. “It’s a long shot,” I admitted.
“You’re tired,” she said, reading me. “Pick whatever room you want, I’ll take the other. Get some sleep.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You should get some rest yourself.”
“I will.” Again without looking at me, maddeningly professional. The night was warm, but at the moment the kitchen was damned near frosty.
“So, that’s it?” I said. “We’re not talking about any of this? It’s just done—whatever was happening between us, we just pretend it never happened.”
When she finally looked up, her eyes flashed with anger. “You drugged me, you prick. You left me with some thug you don’t even know, knowing full well all the shit Elias pulled that night, and you took off. So...yeah. You want to talk, we can talk. But as far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” she said, her voice rising. All the fury she’d been hanging onto for the past twenty-four hours hit the surface at once. “Talk to me about your plan? Take me with you? Not go? Call the cops? I can think of a dozen options other than you slipping a ruffie in my tea and taking off.”