Woody spent the rest of the day talking to people but learned nothing more than he had learned from the first people he had talked to. To each he’d also asked, “D’you have any idea why Clouston would suddenly take off?” None could provide an answer, nor had they known he was leaving. In fact, his work had begun to pile up.
Woody had told Bonaldo to look into Clouston’s history and family background. This Bonaldo delegated to others. By late afternoon, he had learned that Clouston grew up in Haslett, Michigan, and attended the University of Michigan, where he got a master’s in medical technology and worked two years toward a Ph.D. His mother, who still lived in Haslett, said her son called about four times a year and also sent money. Though she “didn’t really need it,” she was glad to have it. She said Ben had first meant to be a doctor but then decided he didn’t want “a bunch of needy patients yammering after him,” and he didn’t want to spend time doing a residency. She said she hadn’t seen her son for about five years, but she knew he was busy, and as long as he was happy that was all that mattered.
Clouston also had an older brother who was a CPA in Seattle. They talked about three times a year, at Christmas and on their respective birthdays. Once he had visited Ben in Albany, where he was working in a lab—a business and pleasure trip. Ben had seemed great. The brother was seven years older and had left for college when Ben was eleven. Before that they’d gone to a bunch of University of Michigan football games over a three-year period. “I know he missed it after I was gone. He really loved the Wolverines.”
• • •
Whole-Hog Hopper knew he wasn’t much of a cop; that is, the knowledge was a flicker in the back of his mind. But he never let it bother him. “I got to eat, don’t I?” He said this so often he could have had it printed on a T-shirt. His question argued that his need to put food on the table took precedence over ethical considerations, such as how well he was doing his job as a cop. But the question also brought to mind Whole-Hog’s love of snacks. Just as philosophers are smitten with philosophy, so was Whole-Hog smitten with hunger pangs. He weighed three hundred twenty pounds, but he thought it looked good on him. It made him look like an offensive lineman, like the Patriots’ Wesley Britt, who also weighed three hundred twenty pounds, though Britt was eight inches taller.
In general, Whole-Hog was the cop who stood in the street and directed traffic around utility workers and pavement repair teams. He was big; he could easily be seen; if a car hit him, it probably wouldn’t hurt. Whole-Hog knew this, and while it didn’t give him a sense of purpose, it defined his place in the department. He was also a cousin of Laura Bonaldo’s, a connection that became significant when Bonaldo was named acting chief. That’s why Whole-Hog got pissed when Bonaldo put him on the team checking out the island in Hancock Pond. Whole-Hog knew it was a punishment for fucking up when he was meant to be watching Peggy Summers. And yes, there’d been previous cases. He wouldn’t deny it. But sitting in the patrol car, watching someone’s front door for signs of activity, well, it made him hungry.
The trouble with being out in the country was there was no fast food. This was even truer of the island in Hancock Pond, where a body of water separated him from the shore. Whole-Hog didn’t like water, except for bathing purposes and perhaps a little drinking. He felt its positive effects were exaggerated.
The best he could say about the island was it wasn’t Great Swamp, which was thousands of acres of slop. That meant getting wet and sinking in the mud, and the trouble with weighing three hundred twenty pounds was it meant he sank deeper. “I could sink to fuckin’ China,” he told his wife. And his wife thought, The sooner the better.
So Whole-Hog was glad he wasn’t over in the swamp with the dogs, chasing that nutcase. Like you had no choice where you walked in the swamp; you had to follow the frigging dog. Carl Krause might not even be in the swamp anymore, for Pete’s sake, but they’d keep slogging around in the slop until the dogs gave up. Frigging dogs never mind slop; that was something Whole-Hog didn’t like about dogs.
So even though Whole-Hog was pissed to be on the island, he wasn’t as pissed as he would have been slopping through the swamp. And here on the island one of the troopers, Jason somebody, had already found a little figure made out of straw and twigs, about six inches tall, with its arms sticking out. No telling what it meant—a doll, probably. It’d been near the ashes of a big bonfire. A detective said that somebody had probably meant to burn it, but either it had been forgotten or somebody had thrown it at the fire and missed, which sounded like a lot of hooey. Anyway, the trooper who found the little figure got a bunch of pats on the back.
Then another trooper, Whole-Hog couldn’t recall his name, found these weird prints. They looked like goat prints, but they were bigger than a goat’s and they couldn’t be a goat’s because they were only the rear hooves and what kind of goat goes prancing around on its hind legs? And it had been a heavy sucker, because the hooves had sunk in the ground. Whole-Hog couldn’t make sense of it, but it’d bothered the detective bad enough to get him on the horn to his boss, and soon he said the CIU was on its way, along with other crime scene guys. But the thing was, the trooper who’d found the prints got a bunch of pats on the back as well.
So Whole-Hog kept his eyes peeled, because if these guys found stuff and he didn’t, then Bonaldo would think he was fucking up again, which he wasn’t, and it was like those two troopers meant to make Whole-Hog look bad, which was something that had happened before.
The island was shaped like a rabbit’s head with two ears, two peninsulas about two hundred yards long. The remnants of the bonfire had been found where the rabbit’s nose would be. But Whole-Hog didn’t know this; he knew only that through the trees on both sides he saw the water, and farther ahead, where the strip narrowed, he saw more water. He was poking along and kicking his feet through the leaves, hoping to find more of those little dolls; and he paid so much attention to his feet that he wasn’t paying attention to what lay in front of him until he almost ran into it. It scared the living shit out of him.
“Hey, over here,” he shouted. “I found somethin’!”
Leaning against a tree was a corpse with his legs stretched out straight, a dead guy whose glasses had slipped down his nose and whose eyes were shut like he was snoozing. His ears were set so close to his head that Whole-Hog had to check twice to make sure they hadn’t been loped off.
But most important—and even Whole-Hog knew this was important—there was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
SIXTEEN
CARL HAD BEEN HURT. His back legs and shoulders were teeth-slashed and bitten, his pants bloody, his jacket torn. It was pitch-dark in the forest. He stumbled into trees and was jabbed by branches. Briars ripped his hands and face. Then he fell forward into the water. He lay on his back as the cold numbed him. It felt good. The sky was clear; the moon had yet to rise. The stars were brighter than he had seen them before. The Milky Way was a white splash. He heard no noise; the coyotes were gone. He lay on his back until he nearly lost consciousness, but he couldn’t let that happen. He rolled over and stood up; the water reached his waist. He sloshed through it, wading along the shore, sometimes falling. He knew they would come with a dog. North of him was Great Swamp field headquarters, a cluster of buildings and garages—maybe a mile, maybe two miles away. He kept to the water but kept going north.
After half an hour Carl left the water and pushed his way through the trees, stumbling, falling, getting up again. He packed mud on his legs to stop the bleeding. Again the brambles tore at him. It made him laugh, how the forest was trying to hold him back. After another half-hour, he saw the outside lights of the field headquarters far ahead through the trees. He stumbled, falling onto his stomach; then he moved forward on all fours. He was a wolf. At these times he felt his best; he felt strong. At other times he couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing. He would stop and look around in the dark. It was like being blind. At these times he had been frightened
. He had sat down against a tree, his arms wrapped around his knees. He had whimpered. He hadn’t known what was true or not true. He recalled things far in his past, not big things or sentimental things. He recalled walking along a sidewalk on a summer morning in Oswego and how white the houses had looked. He recalled the green smells and the smell of the lake. But then his mind changed; he became strong again. He struck at himself, struck his weakness. He crawled forward again. Nothing was as strong as he was.
He found a utility shed and broke into it. The shed smelled of paint and turpentine. He felt his way around it on his hands and knees. He sniffed and touched things. When he found a pile of canvas drop cloths, he pulled them around him. He slept a little then.
When he woke, his fear came back. They were looking for him. The dogs would find his trail. Carl jumped to his feet and bumped an aluminum ladder hanging on the wall that clanged and jostled on its hooks. He made his way to the door and pushed it open. It was maybe a half-hour before sunrise—a gray sky with no stars visible. His clothes were still wet, and he was cold again. Leaving the door open, he began to rummage through the shed.
After ten minutes, he had found coveralls, rubber boots, and a Yankees cap. He put on the cap, rolled the boots up in the coveralls, and left the shed. Who was he now? He was Carl of the single claw. The ones who hunted him thought they had him on the run. They’d see who was hunting whom. They would hear his steps behind them. How fast they’d turn, but not fast enough. He had tasted coyote blood; now he wanted something sweeter.
He retraced his steps back to the water. He could see now, though the sun was still below the horizon. He waded through the water back the way he’d come. There were tangles of sticks and vines, fallen branches, clumps of wet leaves, a beaver house of sticks and mud. At times the water reached past his waist and he nearly fell. He held the coveralls and boots over his head. After a mile or so he made his way to the bank. When the water was a foot deep, he set the coveralls on a fallen trunk and took off his clothes. He kept the T-shirt. He soaked it in the water, wrung it out, and soaked it again. He twisted it until no more drops fell. Then he set it on the coveralls. He’d been cold before, now it was worse. Naked except for the Yankees cap, he wadded up his clothes, shoes, and jacket, and wedged them beneath the fallen tree trunk under the water. He put on the wet T-shirt, coveralls, and boots, and climbed onto the bank. Once in the woods, he found a trail. He turned south and began to run in order to warm himself. He felt good again. The boots were too big and flopped on his feet.
He reached Worden Pond and walked along the edge through the brush until he saw the old boathouse. When he was thirty yards away, he stripped off his boots, coveralls, and T-shirt, and reentered the water, naked again. He kept to the edge, but when he reached the boathouse, he worked his way around to the front. Boards were rotten, and some had fallen. He ducked down in the water and came up inside. The coveralls were only a little wet; he’d held them above him as much as he could. The rising sun shot splinters of light through the cracks in the boards, dappling the surface of the water. Carl climbed up on the rotting floor and got dressed again. He swept together the dead leaves and splinters of rotten wood, and made a bed, a nest. He’d sleep a little; he’d wait till dark.
• • •
When Detective Lajoie left Peggy Summers, she drove to the area detectives’ office and got busy. First she set things moving to get Peggy out of her parents’ house. She had already called Hotel Viking in Newport; the cop rate for a Mansion Suite was $200 a night. A bargain, she was told. The pedicure was another fifty. Detective Lajoie decided not to tell Captain Brotman right away. She’d wait till she dug up something good, and the first thing on her list was the girl, Marge or Margery. If she lived in Wakefield, then she went to South Kingstown High School; that was Detective Lajoie’s best chance. Maybe, a faint maybe, she went to Narragansett High School, but Detective Lajoie couldn’t fuss about faint maybes.
South Kingstown High School was on Columbia Street in a residential area and three miles from Great Swamp as the crow flies. Lajoie went straight to the main office and said she needed to see the principal. The receptionist—dark-haired, twenty-three, plump—said Dr. Jacobs wasn’t seeing visitors today.
“Is he in his office?”
“Yes, but he can’t see anyone. He’s got a ton of paperwork.” The receptionist couldn’t take her eyes off Detective Lajoie’s emerald-green pantsuit. She squinted as if it hurt her eyes.
Lajoie, in the minds of her fellow detectives, had two modes of behavior: compassionately benign and brutal. She leaned across the counter to whisper, and the receptionist leaned forward to hear. “Look, you silly-faced bitch, I need to see him this fucking second, or else.”
The receptionist yanked back, her mouth in a perfect O. “I’ll call security.”
“Honey, I am security.” She showed the receptionist her ID. “I’ll get the whole South Kingstown Police Department to come down on you, unless you do what I say.”
Two minutes later Detective Lajoie stood in the principal’s office. His desk was covered with papers. “You frightened Ms. Henry,” he said.
Detective Lajoie shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. You got a student here by the name of Marge or Margery, sixteen or seventeen years old, lives in Wakefield with her father. She may have dropped out. I need her last name and address.”
The principal took off his glasses, polished them, and then returned them to his nose. “I’m afraid that would be in violation of our privacy code.”
Detective Lajoie leaned forward and picked up the telephone. “How do I get an outside line?”
Just as a breeze can ruffle the surface of a pond, so a nervous tremor flitted across the principal’s features. “And your intentions?”
“I’m going to shut down your fucking school.”
Seventeen-year-old Margery Kelly lived with her father, Phillip, on Jennifer Lane. Detective Lajoie retrieved her Mazda 6 and drove over. She’d been in the school twenty minutes. The South Kingstown High School Rebels, they were called. Rebels, ha! South Kingstown Pussies was more like it.
Phil Kelly didn’t want to talk to the detective but was afraid to say no. Thin, fidgety, and forty-five, with a smattering of mouse-colored hair, he thought the detective’s emerald-green pantsuit was too bright. It felt as if she were purposefully poking pins in his eyes. “Would you like a glass of orange juice or water? I’m afraid I don’t drink coffee.”
They sat in Kelly’s living room, which was shabby but clean. The only picture on the wall was a framed black-and-white photograph of Kelly’s parents standing in front of a tree. They, too, had a timid look. In a glass case was a display of twenty German beer mugs. Kelly and Detective Lajoie sat across from each other in matching faux-leather armchairs. The detective was in her compassionately benign mode, with a smile that suggested sympathy marbled with sadness. Kelly had already told her that “Maggie” had moved out at the end of August, taking the baby with her. The baby’s name was Connor.
“Maggie never said who the father was, and I believe she lied about when the baby was due. I was visiting my mother in Danbury when Connor was born. A midwife came to the house. When I got home, there he was. A beautiful boy with bright blue eyes. I always took care of him when Maggie went out, and I gave him his bottle. Formula, of course.” Kelly had a high tenor voice; he worked for Sovereign Bank, doing data entry.
“Do you know where she went?”
“New York or Philly—she’s called from both places. Said the baby was doing fine. She even sent me money, a few hundred dollars to help with the heating oil.”
“What sort of work’s she doing?”
“Waitressing, I believe. She wasn’t quite clear about it.” Kelly began to fidget with a loose thread on the sleeve of his cardigan.
“A restaurant?”
“I believe so.”
“Had she worked at restaurants before?”
“No, this was her first.”
“And h
ow much money did she send?”
Kelly tugged at the loose thread. “Five hundred dollars.”
“When did she send it?”
“Toward the end of September.”
“That’s good for waitressing, supporting herself and a baby. And she’s too young to work in a bar.” Detective Lajoie intensified her expression of sympathy and mild sadness. “Mr. Kelly, I hate to ask this, d’you think your daughter might be involved in prostitution?”
Kelly looked stricken. It was the only answer Detective Lajoie needed.
• • •
Carl left the boathouse at four-thirty, when the sun was low in the sky. He hadn’t slept much. He’d been cold, and his wounds hurt. One was getting infected. He could feel its heat. Several times he heard the distant barking of dogs. His mood swung between anger and fear, but mostly he’d been angry, picturing his enemies and what he’d do to them. He would hang Hercel and Lucy like he’d hung the cat. He would take bites out of them. He’d bury them where they’d never be found. He’d drag them into the swamp, shove them beneath a submerged log, and watch the bubbles rise to the surface till they stopped. The pleasure he got from such images was almost a sexual pleasure. As for the old man, Carl wanted his rifle for business he had to settle in town. And if the chance arose, he’d shoot that colored cop. He would peel away that black skin and make himself a pair of socks. These plans kept Carl busy much of the day. He even had plans for the sheepdog.
He worked his way toward the southeast. Crows were busy in the trees; he knew they were telling the coyotes where to find him. He felt the hatred of everything. Even the trees hated him. He liked being hated. It made him strong. He thought back far into his past and saw the faces of people who’d done him harm. He imagined sticking them with his claw; he imagined biting. Still, and very briefly, came moments of panic when he would ask what he was doing. In those moments, he felt like a tiny thing; he wanted to lie down and curl into a ball. They didn’t last long.
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