She turned and took another sip. "Not at all."
"If you could just wait for a moment."
"Sure."
I left her and then went upstairs, to my bedroom, where I stripped everything off and put on my terrycloth bathrobe. In the vanity in the bathroom, I grabbed a trash bag and stuffed the clothing and deck shoes Raymond Drake had purchased for me. I went back downstairs and Miss Wynn was leaning against the counter, finishing the orange juice, and if I was trying to get a rise out of her, I failed. She just looked at me with a bit of interest and I gently dropped the trash bag on the floor.
"If you don't mind, in your travels south, could you drop those clothes off at a Salvation Army or Goodwill location?"
"Not at all," she said, putting the empty glass down on my counter.
I looked at her and she looked at me and she said, "Rough time?"
I thought about saying something witty but instead I said, "Yeah, pretty rough."
She shook her head. "Hope it improves."
"Me, too."
I looked at the smile and red hair, and I said, "You know, this is going to sound funny, but have you been up here lately?"
"To Tyler?"
"Yes."
"Nope. Except last year, for that surfing fiasco. Why?"
"I…I just have the oddest feeling you and I have met before."
She folded her arms. "Any other guy talking to me in his kitchen, wearing just a bathrobe, I'd think that was a pickup line. Nope. Must have been somebody else."
"Must have."
Miss Wynn picked up the trash bag with one hand and headed to the door. I walked with her and when she opened up the door, reached into a pocket of her short leather jacket and said, "Here. Take this."
"This" was a white business card, which had two phone numbers and where I learned that Miss Wynn's first name was Annie. "Thanks," I said.
"Office and home numbers are there," she said. "If you ever need any more help, or any more advice from a law student, give me a call."
I gave her my best smile. "So far, Miss Wynn, you're the best thing that's happened to me all day."
"Annie.”
"All right, Annie."
I watched her as she went out to the BMW, and after she got in and tossed the trash bag next to her, she gave me a happy wave, which I returned as the BMW went back up the driveway.
The phone call I had been expecting all day came right at dusk, after I had spent the day lazing about, which had been preceded by a long shower that ended only when I had run out of hot water. I had also eaten three meals during the day, just enjoying the fact that I could eat anything and everything I wanted, whenever the mood struck me. The message was quick and to the point and sounded like it was being made from a phone booth, and I left and was out the door within five minutes.
I drove down to the Tyler Beach State Park, which is at the every end of Tyler Beach, next to the boat channel running out of Tyler Harbor and out to the Atlantic Ocean. It was dark by the time I got there, and a steady mist was falling. The park --- which during summer is packed with RVs and campers, for it has good day rates for tourists at the beach --- was practically deserted as I drove down the cracked asphalt into the parking lot. There were two open pavilions where picnickers did their meal duty in the summer, and my headlights caught somebody sitting on one of the picnic tables, at the south end of the pavilion.
Outside the cold mist was heavy enough to moisten my hair as I walked over to the pavilion, my hands in my coat pocket. There were no lights about, just the faint illumination coming from a streetlight, out in the far parking lot. I stepped up onto the concrete pad under the pavilion, as the person sitting there turned and looked at me.
"Hey," said Detective Diane Woods.
"Hey, yourself," I said, getting up and sitting down next to her on the wooden table. A breeze was coming in off the ocean, making me shiver, but I wasn't going to leave this place, not until everything was through.
"You okay?" she asked. "Hanging in there."
"You know why I cut you off, up there in Sanford?"
"For a number of reasons," I said. "From the investigation to your career. And all good reasons."
"So you're not angry?" she asked.
I took my hands out of my coat, rubbed them on my pants legs.
"I think I should be asking you that question."
She sighed. "So far, your participation in that little misadventure, and my connection to you, is either conveniently or fortunately being ignored. Detectives from the Maine staties and the New Hampshire staties are much more intrigued about your friend Felix's participation. They're looking into whether Felix has some connection with Ray Ericson, if Felix has been involved with Ray's criminal enterprises, if Felix was there on the orders of somebody from Boston or Providence. So that's where the focus of that little raid yesterday is being placed."
"I can imagine."
"They know the two of us have a relationship, but there's no discussion of anything improper going on. Lucky for the two of us."
"I guess."
And she turned to me, voice sharp, "And having said all of that, my friend, what in hell do you think you were doing, jeopardizing your life getting caught in crap like this, not to mention my career and my livelihood? What in hell were you thinking?"
I folded my arms. "You can figure it out, I'm sure."
"Oh, yes, I certainly can do that. Noble Lewis Cole, out committing vengeance, seeking absolute truth and justice. Not depending on our boring little criminal justice system. No sir. Lewis has to do it on his own. And how does he do that? By hooking up with a local mobster, a guy with some serious actions on his head, and by finding the lead suspect in a homicide that I'm investigating. And what do the two of you do when you locate this lead suspect? Do you turn him in? Do you drop a dime? Do you?"
Out beyond the waters, I thought I could make out the lights of Cape Anne in Massachusetts. I burrowed my head some in my upturned coat collar. "Nope. We did things on our own. That's what we did."
"'Things on our own,''' she quoted back to me. "That's a polite way of saying the two of you were torturing him. Am I right?"
I kept quiet. Diane went on. "That's what the SWAT guys told us when they cleared the room. That Ray Ericson was bound on the couch, and that you and Felix were there. And between the two of you was a frying pan with hot olive oil. That's what you were doing. Torturing him to find out whether he killed his brother, your buddy. True?”
“We were doing what we had to."
"You were, were you? And who the hell chose you?"
"My friendship with Jon chose me. That's what happened." "Oh, come on, Lewis, that's so much bullshit. And you know it." I paused, trying to think of how I could say it, and then I said,
"Maybe it is. And I'm probably going to regret saying this, but in a state cemetery in Massachusetts lies the body of a man who raped and assaulted your Kara. And who died mysteriously in a prison in Massachusetts."
I wasn't sure how Diane was going to react, and she reacted by saying low and carefully, "That was different. And don't you dare try to make a comparison."
"No comparison," I said. "Each is different, and each of us did what we thought was right."
We sat there in the near darkness, both of us looking out of the wide and deep waters of the Atlantic, and Diane moved her legs about and said, "You feel bad about what happened?"
"Which part? The torture part or the getting arrested part, or the nearly ruining your life part?"
She gently nudged me with an elbow. "All of the above, I guess."
“Well, I'm doing all right."
Another pause, and I said, "Diane?"
"Yes?"
"What more is going on?"
She seemed to think about that, and then she said, "I think I'm going to make you feel worse, that's what."
"Oh. Well, go on then."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"Okay," she said, "and I don't nee
d to remind you that this is confidential, all off the record. All right?"
"Understood."
"Good. Your man Ray. He's no longer a suspect in his brother's murder."
My hands went back into my coat pocket. "Go on."
"You see, we thought we had it nailed. A neighbor woman saw a guy that looked like Ray leave the house, right about the time the medical examiner said Jon had been killed. Pretty open and shut, right?"
"That's what I thought."
A long sigh. "Yeah, you and me and everybody else. Tell me, old Lewis, what are you going to be doing this weekend at your home?"
"Hunh?"
"Just before you go to sleep on Saturday night, are you going to be doing anything particular in your house?"
"I don't know, am I?"
"Sure you are. It's when we change the clocks to daylight savings time. You know, spring forward, fall back? We're all going to be moving our clocks ahead one hour. Everyone, of course, except for our witness. You see, the poor dear got confused and had already changed her clock. The time Ray was at the house was an hour later than she thought. And according to the medical examiner, poor Jon had already been dead for about that long. He claims he got there and went in and found his brother dead. It looks like he was telling the truth."
"Damn."
"Yeah, I said something like that, but a bit more forcefully. So sorry about that, Lewis, and I hope that lawyer who got you out of jail up in Maine gets ready for something else. I have an idea Ray Ericson might have a bone to pick with you and Felix before this is allover."
I couldn't think of what to say, so I said, "Damn."
Another soft nudge from Diane. "Look. I've got to get going. Kara is trying to unpack, one box at a time, and I promised to help. You be good, okay? And for Christ's sake, stay out of my business."
"You got it."
I was surprised, then, by the soft touch of her hand on my cheek. She said, "You want to go out and help somebody, stop trying to help the dead. Go help the living."
"In what way?"
"Paula Quinn. Your friend needs you right now."
“What's going on?"
Another soft touch of the hand. "You find out yourself, and you help her, okay? Good night, Lewis."
"Good night, Diane," I said, watching her walk around to the rear of the pavilion, where her car had been hidden, and I stayed on the cold picnic table as she drove away, heading back to her warm condo and her companion, and when I thought enough time had passed, I got off the table and made my own way home.
It turned out to be a restless night, filled with periods of half dozing, when random dreams and thoughts would go slouching through my mind, like the defeated troops of some great army, struggling to find its way home, struggling to find some semblance of order and peace. I thought about Jon and our meetings and our friendship, I thought about his brother Ray and what Felix and I had done to him, and I thought about all the miles driven to see a college professor, an Indian activist, and an angry old amateur historian. I thought, too, of that dark night in the antique shop and the man who attacked me, and of the time my Ford Explorer went off the road in Durham.
Lots of thoughts, lots of nagging. I turned over and over again in bed, trying to get comfortable, failing every time. There was a point when I read and reread a copy of American Heritage magazine, to try to get my mind focused on something else, but that didn't work either.
And for a few moments, here and there, I thought about the red-haired woman who had driven me home, and a red-haired woman, years ago, whom I loved dearly and who was now dead.
Was that why I had earlier thought I had met Miss Wynn before?
Didn't make sense. And so I tried to sleep.
The next phone call came at seven a.m. sharp, and I rolled over in bed and grabbed the phone and grunted something into the receiver.
"Lewis?" came the slightly distorted voice.
"Yeah," I managed to say, rubbing at the sleep crusts in my eyes.
"Hey, it's Felix. How are you doing?"
I sat up in bed. “Where the hell are you?"
"In jail, where else?" Now I could see why his voice was distorted. There were voices in the background, the murmurs of other men, no doubt waiting in line to use the pay phone.
I said, "How's your hand?"
"It's been better. Look, this is charming and everything, but I don't have much time. I need to know how you're doing."
I rubbed at my eyes again. “I’m doing okay."
"No you're not," he said. "I know how the Lewis Cole mind works, and right now, it's filled with guilt. Am I right?"
"Felix, we were after the wrong guy," I said. "From a very good source, he didn't have anything to do with his brother's death. He was innocent."
"Then I guess he shouldn't have been acting guilty, right?"
"Felix... "
"Hey, don't get all mushy and sentimental over Ray Ericson, considering what he's done in his life. And what we were doing was trying to get information. Okay, so it turns out he was telling us the truth. We had to make sure. And besides, you weren't really going to have me take his pants down, right?"
I didn't say anything.
"Lewis, you're not answering me."
"Because I don't have much of an answer. I don't know what I would have done."
"Then you're an awfully poor judge of your own character, my friend. I don't care what you thought you were going to do, I'm positive about this. If those cops hadn't shown up when they did, you and I would have been out of that house within ten minutes, Ray Ericson would have been counting up some money for his troubles and cursing us for stopping by, and that would have been that. Damn cops. Always getting in the way."
"Speaking of getting in the way, what's your status?"
A brief laugh. "Still a prisoner, bail still up in the air, but don't worry, I'll be out of here soon enough. Okay? Look, the line behind me for this phone is getting pretty long and ---"
"One more thing."
"Make it snappy."
"When we were in your rental car, just before walking up to the house, you said something to me. Something important. But I can't remember it."
"Shit, Lewis, we were talking about a lot of things. About how we were going to approach the house. About what we had to do. About looking at the whole picture."
"There, right there."
"Hunh?"
"The last thing you mentioned," I said, now swinging my legs out of bed, sitting up, things clicking. "What did you say?"
"Cripes, I don't know. Something about having to look at the whole picture, everything that's out there. That's what I said."
Cissy Manning, my dear love, with her bright scarlet hair, dead, all these years.
And Miss Wynn, who took me home and offered me so much. And... damn it. There it was. Right there.
"Thanks," I said. "Thanks a lot, Felix. It's going to help a lot."
“Well, if you say so. You take care of yourself and don't fret about what we did to Ray. All right?"
"Sure."
"Good. Now, I've got to make another phone call, and see if these fine gentlemen behind me will grant me that boon."
Felix hung up, and so did I, and suddenly I felt better. Something had just snapped into place.
Time for a shower, breakfast, and to hit the road. I got up and did just that.
Chapter Eighteen
Just like the last time, I met up with Paula Quinn as she was sitting on the hood of her new Toyota Camry at the end of a driveway off of busy Route 1. And just like the last time, I got out of my Explorer and walked up to her, and she turned and gave me a look as I approached.
But everything else was different,
The fake Tudor English home of a New Hampshire poet named Donald Burnett was no longer there. At first I thought that Paula had pulled her plan off, but I saw how wrong I was when I got closer and saw the pile of timbers and wood and shingles and broken glass that had once been a house, and which Paula so desp
erately had wanted to turn into a home.
I sat on the cold hood of the car and put my arm around her, brought her close.
"Damn it to hell, I'm so sorry," I said.
"Not your fault," she said, voice quavering.
“Then whose fault is it?"
She wiped at her eyes and her voice got calmer, got stronger.
"Oh, a whole number of people, I guess, starting with the greedheads who sit on the board of selectmen. You remember, there was this deal, right? Buy the house for one dollar, get it the hell off the property, and Sy Hartmann from Lawrence could build his convenience store or QuickStop or whatever the hell they're calling it nowadays. That had been the deal." Then her voice lowered, to an anguished whisper. "Damn it, that had been the deal."
"What happened?"
"Sy sweetened the pot, though everybody denies it. He said he couldn't afford to wait for a buyer --- namely me --- to get the financing and get a moving company located and do everything else to get this house safely out of here. Claimed that bad weather would come and he didn't want to spend extra to have to build his place when the snows start up. So he offered a deal, making a donation to a local youth charity, in exchange for the selectmen changing the deadline as to when I could get the house out of here."
"A youth charity?"
"Yeah," she said, and I could see the tears trickling down her face, though her voice remained clear and calm. "A goddamn youth charity, and guess whose wives serve on the board of directors for this little charitable effort? Nothing like a little pork slung their way to move government along."
I gave her shoulders another squeeze. "When did they start tearing it down?"
"Yesterday afternoon. The fuckers. I'm sorry... it's just, well, you know, they almost arrested me here, you know that? I was putting up a protest, I was about ready to throw myself in front of the bulldozer, when a couple of Tyler's finest showed up and tried to calm me down."
She wiped at her eyes but the tears kept on rolling. "Then... I made a deal. Give me fifteen minutes inside the house and I'd stop fighting."
"What did you do with the fifteen minutes?"
"Oh, took a little last stand, I guess. I took my camera and went through the rooms and took all these photographs, thinking that one of these days, when Philistines aren't ruling the town, there would be a need or something for evidence of what was once here. When a poet with the heart of an Englishman lived here. Before progress came along and ripped this piece of history out of the town, and replaced it with a gas station."
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