I suppose I must have slept, though I would have been hard pressed to say when.
When I got up and did my morning bathroom routine, I sat on the edge of the bed, yawning and going through a duffel bag at my feet, trying to determine what to wear for the day. I was running out of clean clothes. I set a kettle of hot water on the hot plate for a cup of tea, and then I went to the window to check the weather outside, and when I looked down at the street, there was Doug Miles, standing all alone, outside of the Brick Yard Pub.
I went away from the window and burned my fingers, trying to get the kettle off the hot plate, and then I went back, sitting on a kitchen chair, looking at Doug through a pair of binoculars. He had on jeans, work boots, and a dull orange parka, and he stood alone, kicking his feet and breathing into his hands. He looked cold. He also looked up and down the street, and it was easy to see that he was waiting for someone.
Someone important, I hoped.
I quickly got dressed and I also tossed a few supplies in my duffel bag, and taking a gamble, I left the room and ran down the wooden stairs, making a hell of a racket, and then I walked across the rooming house's parking lot. I got into the Ford Explorer and switched on the engine and hunkered down, keeping an eye on Doug.
He was still there.
I left the radio off. No distractions.
Doug looked up and down the street, breathing again into his hands.
"Pretty impatient," I whispered. "Must be someone important enough to get you here alone by the pub. Someone who wants to see you, Dougie. Okay, then, who is it?"
The parking lot was empty, so he hadn't driven here, Dropped off? Or maybe he had spent the night in the Lincoln House. That would be funny in a perverse sense, if old Doug had cooped up last night and was the one with the loud television, someone with a sense of humor could have a lot of fun with that-
Doug stopped fidgeting. He put his hands in his pockets. A black Trans Am rolled by, and then glided to a stop. It looked like there was one guy in the car, the driver. Doug went around to the driver's side and started talking. Still hunched down, I lifted up my binoculars and tried to sneak a glance. Not much. Doug was shaking his head, talking a lot, moving his hands back and forth. I couldn't make out much of the guy in the car. Doug was blocking my view. Then Doug threw his hands up in the air and walked around to the other side of the car and got in.
I put the Ford into drive, and as I got out to the street, I was nearly rammed by the Trans Am as it went back into town. I held on to the steering wheel and took a deep breath, and then pulled out onto the road. Doug was still chatting, and hadn't seen me.
Some luck.
I followed the Trans Am back into the center of town, and I was still lucky this morning, for traffic was light and I was able to keep one or two cars between me and the Trans Am. I was also high up enough to see what was going on, but the car had tinted windows, and all I could tell was that there were still two people inside.
After two turns, it quickly became obvious where they were going.
Back to Doug's home.
After the Trans Am turned into the driveway to Doug's house, I drove up the adjacent road, back to my usual haunt. I raced through the knee-deep snow, carrying my duffel bag. No camp stool this time, so I hunkered down and watched as the two of them went in Doug still arguing, it looked like.
I stayed out in the woods for long minutes, wishing I had the gumption and the available technology to have bugged Doug's home Damn it, Paula and I had been bugged by Mike Ahern, and he was chasing after an arsonist. Didn't someone possibly connected to a rape merit the same attention?
Nothing much seemed to be going on at the house.
If not a bug, then maybe I should contact the UNH adult ed classes. Maybe it was time to take a course in lip reading.
Or something. Anything was better than living in a rooming house or shivering out in the snow.
I raised the binoculars again and the front door opened. A man strolled out, moving quite casually, going back to his Trans Am. He had a thick brown mustache and day-old stubble of beard, with thick, wide shoulders. His brown hair was done up in a tiny ponytail, and he had on pale blue jeans, white hooded sweatshirt, and a dungaree vest.
He got into the Trans Am and backed out, and in the quiet of the woods I made out the rumble of the heavy-duty engine.
Something started to tickle at me. Something about the car, something about the visitor, something...
I brought the binoculars back up. Funny how Doug hadn't seen the guy to his car, hadn't even come to the door. And then I remembered, all too well, the voice of a now-dead man. Muscle car, he had said. Muscle car.
I scanned the building. Nothing, nothing going on at all.
I looked to the garage door. Doug's car wasn't in the driveway. It must be inside.
I stood up, holding the binoculars fast in my hands, and I started running back to my rented Ford.
Smoke, gray smoke, was seeping out of the garage door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Riding hard into the driveway of Doug's house, I bounced around as the Ford braked sloppily to a halt. I dove out and raced across the snow, slipping some, and I barreled through the front door. The odor was thick and it wasn't smoke, not quite right, but it was something bad. The living room was a mess as always and I spared the clutter a half-second glance as I moved to the right, to a door that led to the garage. It was locked and I had to heave against it twice before I broke through. The smell of exhaust was quite thick and it hurt my eyes. I coughed and went in, making sure I left the door open.
Doug's Colt was running and Doug was inside, slumped across the front seat. I tried the car door. It was locked. Damn. I didn't bother testing the other doors. This guy had been good.
I looked around and in a clutter of tools in the comer I found an ax handle, and in two quick smashes I had the driver's-side window broken. I reached in and unlocked the door and grabbed Doug around his shoulders.
"Doug!" I yelled. "Doug! Can you hear me?"
His head lolled around his shoulders, and there was a mat of blood and hair over his left ear. His lips were blue. I was probably way too late, but there were motions that had to be made.
After turning off the engine I grabbed him around his shoulders and pulled him out of the car. One of his feet caught on the brake pedal and I swore, sweating and with a headache coming on from the exhaust, and I yanked the foot free. I picked him up and dragged him out of the garage and through the living room and outside, then I dumped him in the snow. I suppose I should have taken the time to call for an ambulance, but I knew that seconds counted, seconds that were quickly melting away, and I got to work.
I tilted his head back and checked that his airway was clean, and I tried to find a pulse along the side of his neck.
No such luck.
I slapped his cheeks. "Doug!"
I stripped off his sweater and exposed his pale skin and bony ·hest. I felt up his ribs with shaking fingers, finding the breastbone, und the little place just below it. I tilted his head back again and was going to give him the first of two mouth-to-mouth blasts before starting CPR when he scared the shit out of me by coughing.
“Doug?" I asked, but there was still no answer, just a frenzy of coughing. I rolled him onto his side and his breathing got a bit easier, and then he gagged and threw up into the dirty snow. The sharp odor of bile made my own stomach do a few loop-de-loops and I wiped his face down with a handkerchief. He started shivering und whispered, "Christ, can I get inside? I'm freezing.... "
"You need to see a doctor," I said.
"Later," he said, his voice slurred. "I gotta get inside 'fore I freeze."
"Doug --- "
"Get me in, will ya!"
So I did.
A few minutes later he was on his couch and I was sitting across from him. He had a blanket wrapped around his thin shoulders and was holding a glass of water with one hand and a soiled handkerchief to the wound on his head with anoth
er. The door to the garage was shut and I insisted on keeping the front door open, to keep the air coming in. Even with the fresh air, though, the room reeked of exhaust and soiled clothing. He drank the water ill a few shuddering gulps and I said, "What's his name, Doug?"
"Who?" he said, not looking at me. His hands were trembling.
"Who's the guy, Doug? The bad guy that just tried to kill you, and the very bad guy who raped your sister. Why are you protecting him?"
"You're crazy!" he said, weaving a bit on the couch. "It's not what you think... He's, he's ---"
"He's the man that was with you that night, wasn't he?" I said, interrupting him. "Kara's landlord ---now conveniently dead --- said there were two men at her apartment that night, and that one of them was driving a muscle car. Kara also said the rapist was wearing a mustache. And you've got a piece of sculpture over there," and I pointed to the crowded shelf, "that came from her apartment that night."
He refused to look at me, hands still trembling. I went over, moving the chair closer so I was in his space. "Come on, Doug," I said harshly. "Give it up! The guy just tried to kill you! What did he do, tap you on the side of the head and put you in there?"
Tears started streaming down his face and he just nodded. "I guess he decided you were an embarrassment, something that was getting in the way of business. Am I right?"
Another tearful nod.
"You're in a deep hole and I'm the only exit," I said. "You may have this bad guy after your behind, but if I make a phone call to Diane Woods, then there's no way out. You'll be hunted by people from both sides of the fence, and neither option looks good. Let me tell you one more thing --- Diane is not in the mood for working within the criminal justice system. So you better start talking."
A mournful voice: "Jesus, I can't --- "
"You better start, and start right now, Doug. Or I'm leaving and I'm making that phone call, and your friend will find out soon enough that you're not breathing carbon monoxide anymore. What's it going to be?"
Then Doug burst into tears.
I had been putting on a good act of the rough and tough guy who won't take no for an answer, and I had to force myself not to walk away or start making "there, there" noises when the crying eased down to sobbing. He let the empty water glass fall to the floor and started using the bloodstained handkerchief to wipe at the snot and saliva as he continued to weep.
"Oh, shit, I'm so screwed up it's not to be believed," he said.
"Man, what I did to Kara ... you shouldn't have gotten me out of that garage… I deserved to stay there... "
"Go on," I said. "Where did it start?"
Another round of sniffles. "A few months ago ... I was working in Boston at one of the docks, real rough work, and I wasn't liking it, not at all. ... Some guy asked me if I'd come work for a friend of his .... That's how I got in. Doing some light shit, nothing heavy."
"What's his name?"
"Seymour. Nick Seymour."
Nick.
A man bundled in clothes, with mustache and ponytail, walking out of a house in North Tyler a couple of weeks ago.
Nick.
Damn you, Felix.
"Go ahead," I said, trying to stay focused, not trying to let the sudden blossom of anger inside of me take hold. That could wait. Concentrate on what was going on here and now. Everything else could wait.
"It wasn't anything fancy," he said. "I was just a gofer, you know? Drive here and wait for Nick. pick up so-and-so at the airport. Help break into a house out in Marblehead or Salem. Good work, too. I got paid all right and it beat working out on the docks all winter, that's for Christ sure. Then Nick began to trust me."
"So far, so good," I said, moving even closer. "Then what happened?"
He crossed his arms, soiled handkerchief clenched in one fist.
"Don't want to talk about it."
"I don't care what you want," I said. "I can still make that phone call, Doug. I'm your only way out."
He nodded, tears trembling down his cheeks, and he refused to look at me as he continued, "I still can't believe it happened. God, if I could take it all back I should have never started...."
"Started what?"
He coughed and wiped at his nose. "Along the way, doing shit for Nick and his guys, I started to get into the Andes magic a little, you know? Nice white stuff for topping out after a job... Sometimes Nick would pay me in cash and in blow.... He had the best... I always looked forward to it."
Another hacking cough. "Then I really got to crave it. ... Man, you would not believe how much I wanted that white stuff.... Then, back after Christmas, Nick gave me package to hold on to. Said he had to make a delivery in a week and wanted it out of his house. He was getting nervous, you know? He didn't tell me much, but I knew from talking with the other guys that Nick's been working on a major score for this month. But he didn't want anything to screw it up, so he had me hold the package for him. ... So there it was, right in the kitchen, behind the cereal boxes, just sitting there..."
Doug brought up the handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and chin. "Christ, I was just doing nothing, sitting around. It had been snowing off and on and I couldn't go anywhere, and I was getting jumpy, and I said, shit, let's see what's in the package... Man, it was heaven ... pure Andes flake. I just wanted a little taste, something to make the day go by, that's all... Then a couple of my friends stopped by and we started partying, and I didn't think a little bit more would be missed, I figured I could cut it a little with baby powder, who'd notice, and the partying really went on, some great-lookin' babes, and we tooted a bit more and a bit more .... "
"All of it?" I asked.
A weak nod. "Nick came by the next day and I was passed out on the floor. The package was empty. Nick woke me up by throwing some water on me and then he was kneeling on my chest I couldn't breathe. He had a knife to my throat and his eyes were kinda funny, and he said, 'Tell me why I shouldn't slit your worth less throat right now.' "
"What else?"
Doug closed his eyes for a minute. "I peed myself, that's what else. He was cursing me and swearing and spitting at me. Told me how I had fucked up. How the blow in that package was part of the negotiations he was dealing with... How I had pissed away six months of work in one night. He was getting ready to do it, ready to cut me... I was crying and beggin' him to stop... I said I would do anything, anything at all to get him off my chest and let me live. And that's when it happened... "
Though Doug was living and breathing in front of me, and a competent genetic scientist could search our cells and find similar DNA structures, I wasn't convinced he was human. Some psychiatrists and social workers would probably call me damn arrogant or something, and at that point, I didn't care.
"You gave him your sister," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
A furtive nod.
"Why? Why would that make any difference?"
He folded his arms tight against his chest, rocked back and forth a bit. "I got to know Nick, got to know what he liked .... He had a… a taste, something that involved hurting. That's all that mattered to him. Being in control and hurting. That's what he enjoyed. I saw a couple of hookers after he was done with them... He always had to pay extra, but that's what he liked. He knew my sister was a dyke, and that got him going, that he would be doing it with a broad that hated men... That got him going, and he got off my chest, and we went over there that night..."
Then he pulled the handkerchief to his mouth and bawled again. "God, I couldn't help it. ... He made me come with him and we went upstairs and I had the key to her place, one I copied from my parents last year. ... He went in and did it and I could hear her screaming and I stood there and I was in the living room, and I don't know, I had to have something in my hands. So I grabbed that damn dragon sculpture... I just held it and stared out the windows, and then Nick came back, grinning, zipping up his pants, and he said, 'Whaddya say, Dougie ... you want a piece, too?'"
That was enough. I stood up and walked ou
t of the house and stood in the snow, staring up at the cloudy sky. I was staring up, hoping that some flakes would begin falling, and quickly, for in looking up at the gray sky, I was working too hard at imagining what it must have been like that night in Kara's place, and to hear the voice after such an assault and know your brother was behind it.
"Snow," I murmured. "Damn it, start snowing..."
A while later I was back inside. Doug had put on a gray sweatshirt and I said, "I want Nick's home address, where he hangs out, and his business interests."
"Christ ---"
"That wasn't a request, Doug. Start talking."
"You don't know ---"
"But I do know this," I said. "He just tried to kill you an hour or so ago, so don't tell me you can't do it. You want to keep on breathing, start talking."
He sat in the couch, hands in his lap, then looked down at the floor and said, 'When we was kids, Kara would always look out for me. Mom and Dad, they weren't much parents. Kara would put me to bed and make me lunch and make sure I did my homework. When the parents got to drinking and started fighting and yelling at each other, we'd hide upstairs and pretend not to hear them. We pretended we were far away and happy."
Doug looked up, face red and puffy, eyes still moist. "Will you for God's sake look what I've done?"
"No, I won't," I said. "I just want those addresses."
He sobbed and then started talking.
Hours later I was in my rented Ford in a parking lot near the Merrimack River, having a quick dinner in the front seat, half-listening to the radio. I had gone back to my rented room and had emptied everything out, and had also picked up some extra supplies. Now I was eating a chicken sandwich, not really tasting what was going into my mouth, just looking out at the lights of Salisbury, watching the cold waters of the river surge out into the Atlantic. At my side, among my possessions, was a handwritten list that I had made back at Doug's house, of various places that Nick Seymour might be at. Most were bars or roadhouses, and it took some time for me to find them, for they were scattered along the narrow back roads of the Massachusetts North Shore. It had been a strange journey, of traveling into a world that I didn't belong to, of Ilion and women working and living out there on the margins, drinking and partying and smoking after another mind-numbing day of work, and feeling that little gnawing fear in the pit of your stomach that the next day will bring nothing new, nothing wonderful, just the same dull stupor of being trapped and knowing of no way out.
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