*
That night I got one of the silent calls. For some reason I felt compelled to try to wait Benoit out and see if I could get a rise out of him. I waited on the phone for about 30 seconds. When I was sure he wasn’t going say anything I picked up a magazine from the dining room table and began reading aloud an article about the Mexican trade deficit and its effect on the North American economy.
I’ll have to hand it to him: Benoit was much more interested in current events than I would have given him credit for. He listened for about five minutes. When I finished the article he was still silent. So I hung up the phone.
Chapter Twelve
The next night I found myself back at the Holiday Inn downing a Laphroaig or two. When I had woken up that morning I found myself unable to get out of bed. I suppose that the previous weeks had finally caught up with me. I’d been pulled back and forth from sanity to insanity, to anger, to despair, to fear, to any emotion you could think of.
I’d had it and was considering simply giving up.
The possibility of going back to the City occurred to me as I started my second whiskey but I immediately discarded it. It would be worse than Bardstown and I had to admit that I’d begun to like living in the suburbs. So, maybe it would be another suburb, maybe north of Albany. I’d started over again in Bardstown; I could do it somewhere else, somewhere where absolutely no one knew me and the living would be even cheaper.
I told myself for the millionth time that there was nothing I could do for Eileen and Megan; if I moved and they couldn’t find me, it wouldn’t make a difference. There certainly wasn’t anything I could do to Benoit. And the murders?
Well that kept coming around in my head. It seemed like, if there was a chance that I could help prevent another one, I should. But the world was conspiring against me, trying to prove that I was basically helpless. I wondered again what a nice middle class boy like me was supposed to do about things like murder, child abuse, and violence. I’d grown up in a nice quiet neighborhood where none of these things happened, or at least I never saw them. Now I was faced with the horrible reality that there were some things that couldn’t be solved in America; a country where every wrong was supposed to be rightable.
I shook my head, half in disgust and half to clear the cobwebs.
“What’s the matter? That should be good booze if I remember right.”
The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. So I turned around, and wished I hadn’t.
“Hello, Mike,” Benoit said, taking the seat next to mine. I felt my burgeoning buzz dissipate quickly. Despite my fear, I felt anger clouding my head. “Why don’t you just go on back to your little house of horrors?”
He laughed. “You don’t like me. Well, I can’t blame you completely. Maybe it’s because the last couple of times we’ve spoken, I’ve been unforgivably drunk. I’m sober now so you can’t just write me off.” He smiled sweetly.
“I came here to drink. I really don’t care what you do."
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”
“I don’t want anything from you. You don’t like me so why don’t you go?”
“I thought we should talk,” He raised his hand and got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have a gin and tonic. Give my friend here whatever he’s drinking. I’ve heard you like single malts.”
“Good trick.”
“Thanks.”
We waited in silence for the drinks to come. Benoit seemed quite contented and relaxed which I took to mean that he was hoping the silence would increase my discomfort. It worked.
When the drinks came he stared into his. “Take a sip. I know you like that stuff. My cousin drinks it all the time, but I think it tastes like bad medicine.”
I sipped, hoping it would make him go away faster. He sipped his own drink and seemed to be preparing himself to say something. “Okay. Now we’ve gone through the amenities. It’s come to my attention that you’ve been saying things about me to the wrong people. I don’t appreciate that.”
“Saying what?”
“I don’t want to play games with you. Let’s say I have friends in certain agencies. And you’ve been accusing me of all kinds of things, violent things. A man in my position doesn’t need that kind of attention.”
“Oh? I’ve gotten the impression that you have enough friends to protect you from just about anything. Why are you worried?”
“I don’t like people lying about me, first of all. And you never know who’s going to hear these accusations. Maybe someone I want to do business with. Maybe a lady I want to get to know. Maybe some asshole journalist will decide to make a name at my expense. I don’t know. It’s just bad policy. I wasn’t too happy with you in the first place. Now I’m less happy. I’m not the kind of man you want unhappy with you.”
“Why don’t you come out and make a real threat if you’re going to make one. Or are you afraid someone might hear you?”
He laughed. “That’s good. Yes, I’m concerned about someone hearing me just like I’m concerned about you shooting off your mouth.”
“So you’re going to do something bad to me?”
“Pal, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. No, I just figure that you’re going to go on being a pain. You won’t let it go. So, since I expect trouble from you I want you to know you’ll get it back. Wherever you look, I’ll be behind you. Wherever you go, I’ll be there. You’ll never know where I am or what I’ll do. That’s the price of having a big mouth.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“I hope so. I’ll probably go on making it for a while. I want you to mind your P’s and Q’s. My mother used to say that.” He smiled.
I thought about him having a mother and the idea amused me. I could see her buying him his first set of brass knuckles, maybe his first switchblade. How cute. “Sure. Maybe you’ll do something like you did when you came to my house. Of course no one knew about that, did they? You know what, I don’t think you have to worry about anyone making trouble for you because you can’t help but make it for yourself. That’s because you don’t think, you just go off like a little child.”
He looked away and made a sour lemon face. “You’re very good, Mike, you know how to talk. That’s good.”
He leaned over to take some money off of the bar. His mouth was suddenly near my ear. “Watch your ass boy. I might just have to kick it.” With that his fist shot out and clipped me in the kidney. It happened so fast that I doubt anyone else noticed. It was quick and, I’d have to say, professional.
I doubled over, my head on the bar. It occurred to me, through the pain, that he might have been an enforcer at one point in his career; it fit.
“Have a nice night, Mike.” he said as he stood up. I waited until he left and then gulped down the rest of my drink. When I realized that the pain wasn’t subsiding quickly enough, I ordered another.
*
The next day I came home from a shopping trip to find that chez Moosehead had been broken into and trashed. There’s nothing like having a raging hangover and finding that your place has been robbed. I walked aimlessly through the wreckage, not sure I wanted to find out the extent of the damage or what I might have lost.
When I checked my sock drawer and found the money I’d put there, I began to get a little suspicious. I walked around the house a little more alertly this time, looking for some confirmation of my theory. I found it in the bathroom. A note taped to the mirror saying, “Mind your Ps and Qs.” Benoit had made good on his promise.
I sat on my couch for a while, debating whether I should let the whole thing go. In the end I decided that it would be better for me if the police knew about everything that happened to me. It could only strengthen the tie to Benoit if something happened.
I was about to dial 911 and make a simple robbery report when there was a knock at my door. To my surprise it was Wills, looking very uncomfortable and very disgusted. “You reported a robbery,” he said simply. I saw two
men behind him; detectives by their suits. All of them had their guns drawn.
I gestured toward my living room. “You can see for yourself. Why didn’t they just send a patrol car?”
He grimaced. “Seems like I’ve been chosen to deal with you.”
I almost said, because you’ve been very uninterested in pursuing this and Benoit likes it that way. What I did say was, “And why is that?”
“Let’s say it’s become a sensitive issue. It needs a detective’s touch.”
“Yeah. Honestly I just walked in here. I didn’t report a robbery."
The trio stopped scanning the place long enough to look at me and look uncharacteristically amazed. “You didn’t?” Wills asked.
“No. I didn’t.”
He regained his composure. “Is anything missing?”
“Not that I can see, which makes it interesting. For instance, I have about $700 in my sock drawer. Now the drawer was opened, but the money is still there. My CDs are all here and the semi-valuable silverware set is also intact. Why do you think someone would break into a house and take nothing of value?”
Wills's face didn’t move. “Kids maybe?”
“Yes, that is a workable theory.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe they were interrupted or it was just for fun,” one of Wills's companions suggested.
“Why do you think that?” I asked, not hiding my frustration.
The man gestured toward the breakfront. “The money is still here.”
“Yeah.” I thought about what he said. “So what does all this mean in terms of solving this crime?”
All three smiled momentarily. “We can bring a crime scene unit in here, but I doubt we’ll find anything.”
I snorted. “Fingerprints? DNA? Is someone going to come over here and do something constructive? Or is this just a rubber stamp?”
Wills's face darkened. “This isn’t TV. And it isn’t a murder. It looks like someone tossed your place for fun. We don’t have any stolen articles to look for. It would be very hard to find a thief under those circumstances. I will get it logged and we’ll have a patrol car in the area. That’s all we can do.”
His tone was without any emotion and I realized that this was a prepared speech. Something in his eyes told me that even though he wasn’t very fond of me, he still didn’t like being a puppet.
“I suppose you’d like to at least take a look around.”
“That would be standard procedure.”
He and his colleagues walked through my house and my backyard and my front yard, looking, nodding, and occasionally writing in pads they carried.
Inside of fifteen minutes he was walking to the door. “I’ll contact you if we find anything. If I were you, I’d look into getting a better lock. Maybe even an alarm.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem. You have my number.”
I avoided the obvious sarcastic remark that was playing in my mind. “Yes.”
One of his colleagues came in from the backyard carrying a paperback book in a surgically gloved hand. They conferred for a moment before Wills turned to me. “Does this mean anything to you?” He showed me a paperback copy of Kafka’s The Trial, turning to the title page. At the top of the page were the words I am, written in a sloppy hand.
I stared at the page looking for some significance. “It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Are you sure?" he prodded.
I looked down at the book. “I read this in school, But I don’t know what I am means.”
Wills nodded; I’m not sure he believed me. “Well I guess we’ll get back to the station now.”
I smirked. “Thanks so much for coming by.”
He shrugged and left with the other two. I began the annoying task of picking up the place. I spent the whole time with an eye toward something being missing. Something in me told me there would be something. After three hours I gave up.
It was a few hours later that I looked at the pile of postcards I’d left on the mantle. I picked them up absently and noticed immediately one was missing. It was the one from the Pesquot Glass Works, the one with the words 4-5-1 written on it.
*
Somewhere around 10 that night I noticed the answering machine light blinking as I went to the kitchen for some ice; in all the fuss I’d missed it.
There was one message. A female voice I'd never heard before said, You’ve been seen and the police have already been called. They’ll be there in a few minutes. The voice sounded angry and authoritative. I played it five times, trying to find some clue in the message.
I hadn’t called the police, but someone had and the same thing had happened when Benoit attacked me. Maybe it was one of my neighbors who was shy about taking a bow for what they’d done. I knew it was unlikely that any of my neighbors could have seen anything of either the robbery or the attack.
Was Benoit thumbing his nose at me and the police, showing his disdain for everyone, letting us all know he was committing crimes and couldn’t be stopped? I tried to imagine him enduring the indignity of being arrested twice, being booked, and being put in a cell with people he thought were beneath him. I imagined him taking an anger management class and being forced to go to each one. Then I tried to imagine him laughing it all off as he envisioned some greater plan that he’d concocted.
It didn’t really make much sense; everything I knew about him told me that he lived in the moment and reacted in the moment. That left me wondering who had called the police.
*
I woke up at 11:30 the next day, unable to sleep anymore. In the shower I ran over the possibilities. The only clues I had were the women who were abducted; there had to be a connection. The best place to look for a connection was in the police files, but I discarded that thought immediately. I could see Wills's reaction to a request for police files. That left one source: the newspapers.
I drank a couple of cups of coffee and ate some coffee cake that I’d bought a few days before. McDonald's didn’t seem an option; it would have involved too much time. I was strangely anxious to get about my work which surprised me after weeks of apathy and drunkenness. In a half an hour I was in my car and headed to the library. I parked near the back of the parking lot in some misguided notion that it would make me harder to see if Benoit had someone follow me.
I opened the glove compartment, looking for a pad and a pen in case I needed it. There was a replica of Megan’s Billy Bear that I’d bought on a whim when she was still with me, alone and neglected since some time when I’d put him in there and forgotten him. I’d bought it and never given it to her. I stared at it and shook my head. The sense of sadness felt like a ton of bricks on my back.
Enough of that. I had things to do which might not help either Eileen or Megan, but I knew they’d approve. I took the pad and pen and walked across the parking lot.
The library was thankfully close to being empty and the librarian had guided me to the search machine within minutes. I remembered my days as a child when I’d had to have known which newspaper article I wanted and what issue of what periodical it was in. Now all I had to do was type in a few words and it would bring me an abstract of every article within the last five years that contained those words. Then it was simply a matter of printing the articles
There were more articles that I cared to browse through so, in the end, I picked a few of them that seemed promising. Sally Brodman was mentioned in most of the articles as she’d been the first woman to disappear. I struck out with her; I was looking for any mention of relatives or friends. Sally, it seemed, had emigrated from Canada to marry her husband; there was no mention of anyone connected with her. I wondered who might have cared about her disappearance and what they must be thinking now.
Cassie Jenz turned out to be a better prospect and that made me happy. She had a sister in Pauling who had been quoted in the article. She had mentioned Cassie’s husband as a possible suspect, something that I’m sure had created no end o
f backlash. I wrote down her name in my pad.
Petra Johnson was mentioned in a few of the articles, but only her husband had been quoted in any of them. Though he’d expressed concern for the safe return of his wife and daughter, he’d been more vocal about libel laws and the type of legal pressure he’d bring to bear on anyone who might consider blaming him for Petra’s disappearance.
Felice Hammon’s mother was quoted in two of the articles. Oddly, she seemed quite supportive of her daughter’s husband, implying that Felice might have made a few wild accusations against her husband in the heat of anger. I wrote down her name and wondered what kind of reception I’d get from her.
That left me one promising possibility and one weak one. Better than nothing.
*
Felice Hammon’s mother came first for the simple reason that she was home and that she was willing to talk to me in person; I got the feeling that it was something she liked to do. Cassie Jenz’s sister Penny was away for a couple of days so that was that.
Jane Hammon wasn’t quite what I expected. That I should have expected anything was ridiculous. Due to her support of her daughter’s husband, I’d formulated a profile of her as a repressed religious woman with an overblown sense of morality. What she actually turned out to be was an aging hippie, complete with incense and more candles than I had ever seen in one room. As I walked through the front door, I got the immediate impression that Jane was trying to impress me in some way. It didn’t occur to me till later that the way she wanted to impress me was sexually.
She motioned me to a couch and offered me herb tea, which I declined; I’d always been an Oolong man myself. She made some small talk and I realized that her skirt was a tad short. Though she wore it well for a woman in her fifties, it made me decidedly uncomfortable. She smiled at me in what I considered to be an attempt to seem coquettish. It seemed out of place considering her daughter was very likely dead.
“So why are you here, Mike?”
Now that I was where I wanted to be, it didn’t seem like it would be so easy to go through with it. “I’m just going to tell you the story. I don’t see any point in being subtle.”
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