He began to weep.
CHAPTER 9
The house on Briarwood Lane had been in David’s family since the early 1900s. It had been built in 1887 by a local doctor by the name of Early, and above the door was a sign placed there by the historical society that announced it as THE DR. JOS. EARLY HOUSE. David had never liked the sign, but his parents had told him there was a tax break involved or some such. He never paid it much attention after that.
The old Victorian was a quarter of a mile from the Mystic River. Less than half a mile from the location of the accident. Its façade was both classic and quirky, with a restored turret to the left of a pair of high-gabled windows that looked down from the third floor.Though it was surrounded by less than half an acre—which for a city like Medford was substantial—the house was enormous and sprawling, much like those on either side of it and across the street. It was a creature of its times.
There were parlors on either side of the first floor, both with fireplaces, built-in cabinets, and ornate woodwork. The central staircase was grand. In the rear were a small formal living room, a vast dining room with tall windows that let in a great deal of sunlight, a small kitchen with outdated appliances and a back staircase for the doctor’s help, and a small pantry and mudroom that opened onto the backyard.
The second floor featured three large bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a library that had been part of the house’s original design. On the third floor were two more bedrooms and what had always been called “the turret room,” a small space with steps leading up to a spot eight feet in diameter, just enough room for a desk and chair, and a couple of lamps to read by.
Though he did not visit the turret room often, it was David’s favorite room in the house. He would go there to read, or just to look out the windows on the street below. If a melancholy mood took him, the turret room was almost certainly his destination. When it snowed, he liked to sit up there in silence and watch the flakes fall. Even as a small boy, it had been a place he and his sister, Amy, had felt happy and safe. Their private sanctuary.
After Janine had left him, there had been many nights David had fallen asleep up in that room, lost in whatever book he had escaped into at the time.
When he woke up Sunday morning, just after nine o’clock, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, draped the bedspread over his shoulders, and went up to the turret room. He had not heated the third floor in years, but the heat rose from below, warming it enough that though the morning was chilly, the spread was sufficient to keep his teeth from chattering.
The chair at the desk was a high-backed leather thing with rivets. His father had used it in the late seventies and then abandoned it to the house, and David had been in love with it ever since. The smell and feel of the leather, even the way it seemed to absorb and retain the temperature in the house, it all reminded him of the most innocent of times.
He slid into the chair and placed his hand on the biography of Teddy Roosevelt he had been dipping into from time to time.Though he had no intention of reading from it now, he pretended to himself that it was why he had come up to that room.
Instead, he stared out the windows of the turret at the houses across the street, their faces dark, still sleeping; at the trees behind them, far older than the homes, reaching for the sky and falling short; at the clouds that were pasted in shattered pieces across the heavens. The rain had stopped about four that morning. He had been awake then, as he had been off and on through the night. Now the blue sky shone through breaks in the clouds, a struggle to reclaim what the storm had stolen the day before, to make the storm only a memory.
A door slammed. David leaned forward and glanced down to see Mrs. Dodolan across the street picking up the heavy Sunday Globe from her front steps. As she turned to go back inside, a fiftyish man with white hair but in great shape jogged by at a brisk pace, careful to avoid the large puddles that remained.
For more than an hour, David sat holding the book on his lap and stared out at his world. It looked much the same as it had when he was eight years old.
But he did not feel quite so safe anymore.
The paramedics had taken him to the hospital by ambulance. David might have argued, but his car was wreckage and so he could not drive himself. A nurse cleaned up the many scratches he had, but none of them was so serious as to require stitches. He had some serious aches and pains, but according to the staff at Lawrence Memorial, no concussion. The seat belt had saved his life. When a doctor finally looked him over, it took five minutes for him to be discharged.
The last thing he wanted to do was worry anyone, so he took a taxi home. By two o’clock he was asleep, as if the accident had never happened.
Yet it was not an accident.That was the part of it that had haunted his dreams. There were no ghosts in his dreamscape, no familiar faces at all, in fact. Just the rending of metal and the world turning upside down and the river coming closer. He dreamed he was drowning, and beneath the water was a face.
Smiling.
It was an image that woke him up several times, one he escaped only after the rain had stopped. Then, at last, he slept without dreams for a handful of hours. When he woke, the faces returned. Ralph Weiss. Maggie Russell. Steve Themeli, driving him off the road.
A dead boy had tried to kill him.
Impossible, but there it was.
Shortly after ten thirty, David watched a police car cruise slowly up Briarwood Lane and pull into his driveway. The front door was a long way down—too many stairs—but he dragged himself reluctantly from the chair and started down, leaving the bedspread behind. At the second-floor landing he realized that he still held the Teddy Roosevelt book in his hands, and he clutched it to him like a child’s stuffed bear.
The doorbell rang as he went down to the first floor. Just as he was about to reach for the knob, the policeman on the other side knocked and David jumped a bit, startled. His heart sped and he took a long, shuddering breath, and wondered how long it would be before he stopped being afraid.
With a sigh, he hauled open the door. On the front porch stood a young police officer in uniform, trim and fit in an almost military fashion. Beside him, and obviously in charge, was a man in dark pants and an expensive-looking leather jacket. He wore a tie, but David had the idea that was only because someone in charge had told him he ought to. The man had the build of an old-time boxer, burly but not fat. His hair was a little too long, and there were bags under his eyes.
“Mr. Bairstow?”
David nodded.
The older man stuck out his hand. “I’m Detective Kindzierski. I hoped I could take a few minutes to talk about your accident last night.”
“I told the officers at the hospital. It wasn’t an accident.”
When he spoke, David thought his voice sounded dull, as though he were drugged, or were trying to talk underwater.
Detective Kindzierski’s eyes sparkled.“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s been a long night.”
David stepped aside and the two cops entered. He knew, vaguely, that he ought to offer them something, coffee or tea. But he simply did not have the energy. Instead, he led them into the parlor on the right and gestured for them both to sit. The detective did. The uniformed officer stood at the door as though at attention.
“You can call me Gary, by the way. Or just ‘Detective.’ The name’s a pain in the ass, I can tell you. Half the time I think the reason I’m not married is because no woman would want that name, even as a hyphenate.”
Kindzierski sat on an antique sofa and grinned up at him. “Then I remember that I’m kind of an asshole and impossible to live with, and I figure that’s a more logical explanation.”
The uniform chuckled softly, the first sign of animation he’d given other than walking.The detective shot him an admonishing glance.
“That’s Officer Simmons, by the way. He’s my ride.”
Simmons’s smile disappeared.
David nodded at the uniformed man, then sat, book still i
n his hands, in a wooden rocking chair that had once belonged to Grandpa Edgar. It gave him a perverse kind of pleasure, at times, sitting in that chair and knowing the old man would have cringed at the thought.
“What more can I tell you, Detective?”
With a nod, Kindzierski reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pad and pen.
“First, you should know that your story is as verified as we can get it. Nobody saw you take a drink as far as we can tell, no alcohol in your system, your car clearly shows signs of the impact of having been hit by another car. In your statement this morning, you said that you were sure the other driver ran you off the road on purpose, and that you got a good look at the guy.”
A flash of memory went through him, a vague jumble of images from the crash, the ambulance ride, talking to the cops in the hospital.
“You said,” Kindzierski continued, “that the driver was a kid named Stephen Themeli, a former student of yours. But you and me both know Themeli’s dead. Want to elaborate on that?”
The detective frowned and leaned forward as though David were going to give confession. David grimaced, then worried that the half smile might come off as a little crazy. Kindzierski did not seem to be passing judgment, just doing his job.
“I ... that isn’t what I said, exactly,” he said.
Kindzierski raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No. I said he looked a great deal like Themeli, enough so that if you want to find him, you could actually use an old picture of Steve and try to find a close match.”
“Weird that the officer who took the statement wrote it down without that distinction,” Kindzierski noted.
David shrugged. “I was pretty shaken up. Not to mention tired. I might not have been completely clear.”
“All right. We’ll look into that. Meanwhile, there’s something else.”
The detective’s voice had dropped an octave, and the change in his tone was revelatory. He had not come to talk about the accident. Not really.
“Yes?” David asked.
Kindzierski leaned back in the chair and studied him thoughtfully. “Last night, the officer who took your statement asked if you knew of anyone who might have a grudge against you, a reason to hurt you.”
“I saw the driver,” David interrupted.
The detective waved the statement away. “If he did this on purpose, it isn’t likely it was just for fun. If you don’t know him, chances are he was hired, or at least did it as a favor to someone.The only name you could come up with was Spencer Hahn.”
With a nod, he offered a small shrug. Officer Simmons cracked his knuckles loudly and David flinched. He let out a long breath.
“Spencer and I had it out a couple of days ago. He’s a low-life asshole who used to go out with the woman I’m seeing. And if you need testimony on just how much of an asshole, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Kindzierski said. “Thing is, I spoke to Miss Hartschorn this morning. I asked her not to call you, but she wanted me to tell you she’d be over as soon as she’s showered and dressed.”
David glared at him. “You told her about the accident?”
“Sorry.” But it was obvious he was not. “I know you’d rather have told her yourself, but I have an investigation to conduct. Let me cut to the chase, here, Mr. Bairstow.”
Mr. Bairstow. The way he said it reminded David of Ralph Weiss, and he shivered again, and forced himself not to think about what he had seen the night before.
“Please do, Detective Kindzierski.”
Immediately, David regretted his tone, but it was too late to undo it.
Kindzierski drew a short breath. His expression was grave. “Last night, around the same time you and Miss Hartschorn left the Cayenne Grill, Spencer Hahn was stabbed to death in his car in a parking lot directly across the street.”
David actually pulled away from the detective slightly, flinching back in the rocking chair and setting it in motion. His voice failed him and he turned to glance at Officer Simmons, who fixed him with an accusatory stare, his mouth set in a grim line. Slowly, David began to shake his head.
“Oh, wait,” he said, voice a rasp. “Now just wait a minute.”
“Relax,” Kindzierksi said, and held up a hand. “You’ve got to understand, you and Miss Hartschorn would have been my primary suspects. With what happened with her baby, and Hahn’s lawsuit—something that automatically makes him a lowlife in my book, by the way, no testimony necessary—both of you have motive. You and the victim had a fistfight in the parking lot of a Catholic school.”
“Holy shit,” David whispered.
“Whoa, there, Mr. Bairstow. No need for the divine manure just yet. See, I’ve got two witnesses who saw Hahn’s murderer. Maybe not well enough to pick him out of a lineup, but enough for me to know it wasn’t you. Guy was old, shorter than you, had a beard.”
Confused, David shook his head. “If I’m not a suspect, what does his death have to do with me?”
Kindzierski raised his eyebrows. He slid back on the couch and steepled his fingers under his chin in consideration. After a moment’s hesitation, he smiled without humor.
“Hahn used to be involved with Janine Hartschorn.You’re currently—and were formerly—involved with her as well. An hour after his murder, possibly even less, someone tried to kill you. I’m just wondering if you know of anybody else in Miss Hartschorn’s life who might want you both out of the way.”
David stared at him.
Kindzierski grinned. “You can say ‘holy shit’ now if you want.”
“Holy shit.”
“There you go. So, any thoughts?”
“Jesus,” David whispered. “Not a one.”
Kindzierski stood, straightened his pants, and slipped the pad and pen back into his jacket. He had not written anything at all on that pad while talking to David. Officer Simmons stepped out into the corridor as Kindzierski offered David his hand.
“That’s exactly what Miss Hartschorn said. Thanks for your cooperation. We may contact you again, particuarly if we find the guy who tried to do you in. Meanwhile, do you have a cellular phone?”
David set the book he’d been holding on the mantelpiece and shook his hand. The detective’s grip was firm.
“Never had a need for one.”
“Not a bad idea, if someone really is trying to make trouble for you,” Kindzierski explained. He produced a business card as if from nowhere, then walked out into the corridor.
David gave the card a cursory glance, then followed. Simmons was already on the front porch. At the door, Kindzierski turned to glance at him again. For a moment David wondered if they had met before. The expression on his face, the hand gesture as he noted that he had one last question.Then he knew.
Det. Gary Kindzierski had seen one too many episodes of Columbo .
“One last thing, Mr. Bairstow. You know we could subpoena phone records. You’re certain Miss Hartschorn didn’t call you this morning after I’d been to see her?”
“Very certain,” David said, a bit irked now, but pleased to find himself able to feel annoyance. Happy not to be numb anymore. “You can ask her yourself, though. She’s here.”
Kindzierski glanced out the door, saw Janine’s car pulling up to the curb, and nodded. “So she is. Thanks for your time, sir.”
David went out on the porch and watched the two policemen walk to their car. Kindzierski waved to Janine, whose expression was stricken as she hurried up the driveway toward the house, clad in blue jeans and a dark green sweater. The clouds had cleared off quite a bit, and the sun shone down on her face and hair.Though she had showered, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore no makeup.
Her wave back to the detective was little more than an acknowledgment of his presence.Then she was rushing across the lawn and up the front steps to the porch.
“I was going to call,” he said as she came to him.
Janine threw her arms around him, hugged
him tightly, then pushed him away so that she might examine his injuries. Satisfied that he was all right, she glared at him.
“Next time I tell you to stay over, you stay over,” she snapped angrily.
Then she kissed him, deep and long, and her lips tasted of tears and joy, of fear and dread.
David did not bother to watch as the police car drove off.
“About Spencer—” David began.
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to talk about him.”
Together they walked back into the house. In the foyer, at the foot of the grand staircase, Janine gazed at him again, reaching up to push her fingers through his hair.
“Do you think ... I mean, do you really think there’s any connection?”
He ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek in a gentle caress. “No. I really don’t.”
“Then why?”
He stiffened. Once more, images from the night before flashed through him. Jill’s resemblance to Maggie Russell had to be coincidence. He had talked and laughed with her. But what of Ralph Weiss? Twice he had seen that apparition.And what of the driver of that car, the guy who tried to kill him? That was no apparition, but a flesh-and-blood person behind the wheel. It could not have been Steve Themeli.
Yet, somehow, he believed that it was.
A shudder passed through him as he reached down to take Janine’s hand in his. He kissed her fingers.
“I don’t know why,” he rasped. “But I’m okay, Janine. I’m all right.”
As though she were deflating, Janine let a long breath out and seemed somehow to diminish slightly, to become her own self again. She went and sat at the bottom of the steps. Her relief was palpable, and there was even a tiny, tired smile on her face as she looked around the foyer.
“I missed this place,” she said. “I didn’t realize how much until just now when I walked in.”
A thought skittered across David’s mind, and before he could stop himself, the words came out.
The Ferryman Page 15