I’d met Alison not long after Paulie Finnegan died, when I was scrabbling to figure out my place in the Maine newspaper world without my mentor. She was on the rebound after a relationship crashed and burned on the long-distance highway—her longtime boyfriend moved to New York to go to grad school and promptly forgot about her. After a month or two of offering each other the balm of excellent sex, we drifted when our immediate needs changed.
Laughing our way through two beers, we caught up on personal news. Our flirting was tentative at first, then more certain. I reined myself in before we moved too far down that path and steered the conversation toward what she knew that I needed to know.
“Child protection work is a great job and a terrible job. Great because you’re doing important work. No doubt about that. But at the same time terrible, because it’s the very definition of shoveling sand against an incoming tide. When you help sort out one family, you feel great. For about five minutes. Then someone hands you a dozen more reports that need investigation. And sometimes people don’t stay sorted out. Drunks go back to the booze, druggies to the dope, bad boyfriends come back around. It’s endless.”
She didn’t know O’Rourke when she worked for DHHS, but she knew why he’d kept a close eye when Trix moved in with Angel Marie.
“Predators look for easy prey,” she said. “Single moms are lonely and overwhelmed. When a man comes along and offers them some loving and is nice to their kids, they’re so friggin’ grateful that they let their guard down. Next thing they know, their five-year-old’s confessing the boyfriend encouraged her to sip his coffee brandy then asked her to touch him.”
“Not all men who take up with single mothers do that.”
“That’s the sad part. In the course of making sure the new boyfriend’s not a creep, DHHS breaks up some promising relationships with stable guys. The men who stay in the face of the interrogation—like the guy you interviewed—deserve a lot of credit. But until it’s clear Mom has found herself a good guy, DHHS has to assume otherwise.”
“Do the assumptions work the same way with a widowed dad?”
“You mean the guy who killed O’Rourke?”
“Allegedly killed O’Rourke.”
“Whatever. Why was DHHS involved in that family’s life?”
“Dad struggled after his wife died of cancer, had an OUI, beer cans piled up in the trash.”
“Any extended family around?”
“Yep, right down the street. Willing and able to help, especially the grandmother.”
“Had to be something else going on, or they would have written a service plan that involved the relatives.”
“It seems on the day he died, O’Rourke decided on his own to remove the girl. At the last minute he called the sheriff’s department for backup. When an accident slowed them down, he wound up there by himself.”
“Maybe they do things differently in the rural counties.” Alison said. “But the only time a caseworker can decide on the fly to remove a child is if they actually witness abuse happening, and even then, SOP is to call the cops. But like I say, it’s probably more complicated in the booniewacks.”
When I told her most of the locals I’d met didn’t like O’Rourke, she offered a knowing smile. “People who care about being popular don’t do child protection work,” she said. “You need rock-solid emotional armor to see the terrible things that adults do to kids, and to protect you against the brickbats from those who think they know better.”
“But what if he was a bad guy? Could he hide inside the system?”
“You mean if he did a bad job, or was a bad person?”
“Bad person. Child molester.”
She put both hands up, palms facing me. “Is this theoretical or real?”
“A source—not from Machias, but another community where he worked—has made an allegation along those lines.”
“To the cops?”
“No, to me.” I paused. “Anonymously.”
“Do you believe this source?”
“No, and I won’t unless there’s solid corroboration. It sounds farfetched.”
“It is farfetched, but I’m not surprised that someone called you to make that accusation. The families I worked with were screwed up in a hundred different ways, but if there was any overriding characteristic it was the penchant for lying. All day long I dealt with people who lied. It didn’t matter whether they were defending themselves or reporting someone else’s sins. They just made shit up. It was reflexive.”
“Glad you got out of it?”
“Yes and no, but mostly yes. Talking about it brings back the hollow feeling in my stomach that was a constant then. Fear that I wouldn’t be able to sift the nuggets of truth from the river of lies. That I’d screw up, miss something, and a kid would be hurt.”
“If I remember right, you were well acquainted with insomnia.”
“A problem I don’t have anymore,” Alison said. “These days I sleep like a baby.”
She excused herself to go to the restroom and our conversation lightened up after she returned, reverting to the easy banter that had been our traditional foreplay. After a terrific dinner at a tapas place, we walked arm in arm the six blocks to Alison’s snug condo.
Picking up our physical connection was easy and sweet. It was a new year, time to move forward, leave the loss of the past year behind. My body did fine with that notion, but a dream that included Megan’s smiling face woke me shortly before 2:00 a.m., and I knew I’d be the one with insomnia if I stayed.
Alison woke up halfway while I was getting dressed and offered a last kiss before diving back beneath the comforter.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
I crawled into bed when I got home and woke again at six forty-five, when the thin January light filtered past my window shades. After supervising Lou’s morning business, I shoe-skated down the icy sidewalk to the Rambler. Christie looked sideways from her post in front of the grill, our eyes catching before the door closed behind me. Her face smiled, and her voice was bright, but it was an act.
“You’re early for a Sunday.”
I straddled a green leatherette-covered stool. “I’m planning to head back to Machias soon.”
Christie spun off to deliver omelets to a couple sitting at the corner table, picked up a spoon someone had dropped on the floor, then slid back behind the counter and ran her eyes around the room as she refastened the clip that held her black hair off her face, tucking a few silvering strands behind her right ear.
“You doing okay?” Christie filled my coffee mug to the rim.
“I’m fine. But I’m worried about you.”
“Because of something my son told you?”
I waved my hand. “Your son is fine. Sixteen years old and frighteningly normal. He knows he’s been giving you the deep freeze. I told him to cut the shit and he promised he would.”
Christie smiled a real smile then, as though I’d solved her biggest worry. I felt like a heel for my deceptive answer, but it would have to do until Theo found out if his dad was stand-up enough to meet his son.
“There’s got to be more to it than teenage angst.”
“I’m nobody’s go-between,” I said. “Your son loves you, and he knows he should talk to you about what’s on his mind. And it’s not terrible. Really.”
She put her hand on top of mine for half a beat. “Thank you.” Speaking in a low voice she reported she’d told Arn the night before that she needed to see him early in the week. They’d made a plan for Monday evening.
“You sound ready.”
“As much as I’ll ever be.”
She put a bowl of oatmeal in front of me and I added maple syrup before splashing on some milk. Then I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my Twitter feed, not wanting to get drawn into more conversation about
Theo. By the time she returned with the coffeepot, I’d checked the car rental place’s website and found it opened at eight.
I promised Christie I’d rent a Sherman tank, or perhaps something with bulletproof glass. “I need to get back to Machias and check in with a couple of people who might have ideas about who’s after me.”
“Who might know?”
“Marcus Cohen for one. He was asking questions on cross examination last week that made it clear he doesn’t buy the party line. Maybe Claude LeClair. If there’s gossip around town about who’s harassing me, he’ll have heard it. Barber shops are rumor central.”
While I finished my coffee she turned back to the grill and filled a few orders, then walked me out to the Rambler’s front stoop where I wished her luck with the Arn adieu and thanked her again for looking after Lou.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get to Machias.”
“Take care of yourself,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Rufe offered to loan me his truck for my return trip to Washington County but I didn’t want to run the risk of my stalker harming his precious wheels. He drove me to the car rental place, where I was confronted with a choice: sensible or paranoid? Did I want a gas-sipping little Corolla? Or a four wheel drive gas hog that’d provide me with a sense of security?
I was sure the roads between Portland and Machias were plowed down to asphalt, but for all I knew another storm could be on the horizon. With Rufe’s encouragement, I went with a macho Jeep model that had more airbags than I could count. Not only would I be traveling incognito, my ass would be protected in the event of a blizzard or a lunatic on my bumper.
I wheeled home and packed clean clothes. Lou had a mournful look on her face and I didn’t want to leave her so early in the day. But I had a long drive ahead, so I slipped into Christie’s house and settled Lou in the kitchen without waking Theo, and left Riverside before the clock struck ten.
When I got to Bangor and was making the turn toward the coast, I began to argue with myself about whether to call Emma, or drop in to see if she was okay. After a couple of miles debating the pros and cons I found her home number on my cell phone. She answered after three rings, out of breath.
“It’s Joe,” I said. “I’m heading back to the scene of the crime. You planning to take off soon? Want an escort?”
I heard a voice in the background.
“I’m kind of busy right now. Go on ahead.”
Again there was noise in the background.
“You okay? Want me to swing in on my way by?”
“No need. Really. I’ll be in Machias before dark. We’ll have supper, okay?”
“Sure you’re all right?”
Her laugh was full-throated and unforced. “Yes, indeedy. I haven’t had any unwanted company, so don’t worry about me.”
“All right, then,” I said. “See you in Machias.”
I turned on the radio and tried to lose myself in the music and the sunshine. As I approached the turnoff to Emma’s house I wrestled with the impulse to flick on my blinker, go check in despite her assurances. Then I thought about the voice in the background, and her consistent rebuffs of my advances. I’d look like a complete idiot if she was spending her Sunday snuggling on the couch with a boyfriend. So I kept the Jeep’s snazzy dashboard compass pointed east, where Ellsworth’s Miracle Mile promised a big cup of coffee before my next foray over the Black Woods Road.
At the Subaru dealership my car was sitting in the exact spot where the tow truck left it. A teenage boy was using a snow broom to clean off cars while a middle-aged guy wearing a tweed cap plowed the open portion of the lot. He introduced himself as the dealership’s manager.
“My car was towed in here Thursday night after I ran off the road.” I pointed to my silver Outback on the edge of the parking lot. “I’m not sure about the extent of the damage.”
“The service guy mentioned yesterday that we had a mystery wagon on the lot.” He worked a toothpick with his teeth. “Will she start?”
We walked together to my car. The engine stuttered to life the second time I turned the key but stalled ten seconds later. I gave him the quick skinny, omitting the part about being forced off the road by a crazed guy behind the wheel of a big Ford. He nodded as I spoke, a sympathetic look on his broad face.
“Mechanics will be back tomorrow. I’ll ask someone to take a look first thing.”
Settling back into the Jeep’s leather seat, I found a jazz station on satellite radio and headed for the Black Woods Road. On Sunday afternoon it was as benign as a bunny slope. Snowbanks towered on both sides of the road unsullied by dirt and automotive exhaust, creating the impression they’d cushion an inattentive driver who veered too far to the right. Spruce boughs studded with ice crystals sparkled in the cold sunshine as I swung up and down the curving hills at a lazy pace.
It wasn’t as easy as I thought it’d be to pinpoint the place I was forced off the road. With no car in my mirror, I lowered my speed and finally spotted the break in the snow bank on what was now my left-hand side, covered with fresh plow-up, visible only if you knew where to look. As I glanced off to where my car had gone airborne, an involuntary shiver ran through my body. I didn’t want to think about how close I’d come to following my mother’s taillights to the great beyond.
* * *
My stomach was grumbling when I rolled into Machias so I was pleased to see a multi-colored banner whipping in the wind outside the Java Nook, signaling that it was open for business. I checked email on my phone while waiting for the rosy-cheeked woman behind the counter to ring up some other customers. A message bearing the subject line Need to Talk to U arrived as I was scanning more mundane entries.
Joe—we met in the hallway at the courthouse last Monday. My supervisor ran you off (so sorry ’bout that.) I have something important to tell you if you can keep it private.
There was no signature but I remembered her name was Leslie. The email address—initials and a number—originated from a web-based email account, not the DHHS system. I stepped out of line and wrote back right away, hoping she’d still be looking at her screen.
L. Happy to meet. When? Where? Off the record is okay.
Two beats later—as fast as if we’d been texting—came the reply.
Are you in Machias?
Yes
Outside the gate at Roque Bluffs State Park. I’m driving a gray Chevy Tahoe.
Be there in 15 minutes.
’k.
It ran through my mind as I drove toward Roque Bluffs that the emails might not be from Leslie the DHHS caseworker at all. It could be the asshole who ran me off the road, thinking I was stupid enough to be lured into a trap. But it was broad daylight and I knew what the woman I was supposed to be meeting looked like. Still, it made sense to have a backup plan, but there was no way I could call Leah and fill her in on what I was about to do.
Rufe answered on the second ring.
“I’m in Machias, safe and sound. The macho Jeep made all the difference.”
“Glad to know it, buddy.”
“I need a favor. I’m on my way to meet somebody I’ve seen only once. It’s probably on the up and up, but after last week’s bullshit, you never know. I’m going to put the phone on speaker and leave the line open while I check it out. If you hear me yell your name, call the state police.”
“Sounds a little dicey.”
“Under control,” I said. “Being a smart boy, that’s all.”
I filled him in on the details as I drove south on the well-marked route to Roque Bluffs. As I approached the closed-for-the-season state park I could see the snowbanks had been pushed back to create a tiny parking area in front of the gate. Three veh
icles were snugged in, one a Tahoe. When I pulled up alongside I spotted Leslie’s blue-and-green striped scarf.
“I think I’m all set Rufe.”
“Standing by till you confirm.”
The pretty DHHS caseworker turned to look at me. She appeared to be alone. I powered down the Jeep’s passenger side window.
“There’s no place for me to pull in. Hop in and we’ll ride while we talk, okay?”
She bit her lip while she assessed the Jeep, then opened the Tahoe’s door. I closed the window and glanced in my side mirror to make sure no one was coming up on me from that side.
Paranoia strikes deep.
“Over and out, Rufe. It’s her, and she’s alone.”
“Okay, but keep your eyes open, dude.”
Leslie locked her Tahoe with a click on the key fob and scooted through the Jeep’s passenger door. “There’s a turnaround right beyond the bend,” she said. “Not much road beyond that.”
I swung into what looked to be the spot where school buses reversed direction.
“I shouldn’t be doing this, but I couldn’t live with myself if I kept quiet.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing.”
“If Yvonne finds out she’ll fire my ass.”
“Does she live around here?”
“Other side of the county. But she’s got spies.” She smiled then, but it was a jangly smile. “My boyfriend—his name’s Jed Raney—is a dispatcher for the Sheriff’s Department.” She tucked her shaking hands beneath her thighs. “He was working May 22, the day Frank was killed.”
“I see.”
She jerked her thumb sideways when we approached a four-way intersection, telling me to turn right.
“Reassure me again that nobody will know I’m the one telling you this.”
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