Over the next two weeks Amos patiently worked down the list of names, making sure to talk to someone from each house. At every door, porch, or dock, he would introduce himself and say, I’m hoping you might be able to help me. I’m trying to get some information on the two Jet Skis that run down my wife and killed her. Do you remember seeing them that day?
He got a lot of sympathetic noes, a few lunches, a couple of beers, and a dinner offer from a sweet blond divorcée who lived on Powder Mill Road—she said, You’re such a good man, Amos—but nothing helpful. Abe Goshen, who was on his kayak that day, said he remembered seeing two fellas roar back to the beach and get their Jet Skis on a trailer attached to a big black Chevy pickup truck with Massachusetts plates, and that was that.
He also kept up working on Paul Sytek’s property, cutting up lengths of aged oak, and Paul was patient when Amos didn’t put in too many hours, since Paul knew what Amos was up to. Paul said he was getting along in years and couldn’t move much, but he was right happy with what Amos was doing.
On the fifteenth day of knocking on doors, Ralph Moran answered at the Cooper place, a nice fella who had retired here to do photo work of the mountains, foliage, loons, moose, and other nature stuff. The Cooper place was a simple cottage that had big wide windows up front, and Amos guessed that’s why the photographer had purchased it. Ralph had a thick beard and wavy brown hair, and he said, “Well, yeah, I remember those two fellas.”
“Where was they?”
Ralph crossed his arms. “Not on the lake.”
“Excuse me?”
Ralph motioned with his head. “They was at Pat’s Convenience Grocer, the day of . . . when it happened. They was gassing up their Jet Skis, buying beer, goofing around, making a damn nuisance of themselves.”
“I see. Was Pat working that day?”
“Oh, yeah, he was.”
“Did you tell Chief Makem about this?”
“No, but Pat, I ran into him a couple of days later, and he said it had all been taken care of.”
“I see.” Amos extended his hand, which Ralph shook. “I’m in your debt, Ralph. Tell you what, this winter I can plow out your driveway for free.”
Ralph blushed. “Ah, hell, Amos, you don’t have to do that.”
“Sure I do.” And Amos left.
That evening he parked across from Pat’s Convenience Grocer on Route 16. It had four gas pumps with a metal roof over the pumps, and the place sold beer, wine, soda, and lots of other stuff. It was a good place for tourists to hit before getting to the lake.
Amos checked his watch. It was near eight p.m., right when Pat Towler closed up. He got out and walked across the road, through the empty parking lot, and right into the store. The door jingled-jangled with bells on top, and Pat was behind the counter, surrounded by racks of cigarettes and state lottery tickets. Newspaper racks were to the right, carrying the weekly Leah News and newspapers from away, like the New York Times. There were shelves with narrow aisles, carrying canned goods and paper towels and such, and coolers on the far walls held beer and sodas.
“Hey, Amos, good to see you,” Pat said. “Hope you’re hangin’ in there okay.”
Pat was about Amos’s age but plump and balding, always wearing black slacks and blue shirts with his store name stitched in white over the left breast pocket.
Amos went up to the counter. “Hey, Pat, I was wonderin’ if I could have a moment.”
“Sure, as long as it don’t get me past closing time too much. What’s up?”
“I was wonderin’ if Chief Makem talked to you about his investigation.”
Pat nodded. “Yep. Him and a state police detective. Told ’em I didn’t know anything that could help them. Sorry.”
Amos said, “Thanks for giving me a moment.” He turned and said, “Hey, do you have any of those mini Hershey’s bars, the ones with almonds? Boy, they sure make a good late-night snack.”
Pat went around the counter. “I think we might have some—”
Amos went behind Pat and kicked hard, knocking his legs out from underneath him. Pat fell hard on his back, going “Oomph!” and Amos moved quickly, closing the deadbolt on the door, flipping the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and then reaching over the counter to slap at the nearest light switches. Most of the lights in the store shut off. Pat was rolled over on his side, trying to get up, and Amos kicked him hard in the ribs. Pat yelped and Amos sat down on his chest, making Pat gasp.
“Now I’ll make this quick, Pat, ’cause you’ve always been nice to me and sent me a fine card after Jennifer got killed,” Amos said, looking down at the man’s red face. “So tell me about those two fellas from away who bought gas the day they run down my wife.”
Pat squirmed and started to deny stuff, and Amos gave him two healthy slaps to the face. “Now that’s not going to work, Pat, so tell me what you know. Now.”
Pat was snuffling snot through his nose. “They was a couple of wild bucks, they was. I think they was already drunk. I had to put one of them in his place for goofing around the tittie magazines out back.”
“So why didn’t you tell this to the chief?”
More blubbering. “One of the bucks drove up the next day. Said to me it was all an accident, told me his lawyer said something about me having a verbal confidentiality agreement with him. I didn’t know much about that ’cept he offered me a thousand bucks to keep my mouth shut. C’mon, Amos . . . it was an accident . . . and this has been a lousy summer . . . I can use the money . . .”
Amos said, “Those bucks paid with a credit card?”
Pat tried to nod with his head flat against the tile floor.
“Then you and me, we’re getting up, and you’re giving me that buck’s name and address.”
A few minutes later, sniffling, his face red, Pat passed over the man’s name and address on the back of a used lottery ticket. “You gotta see it from my point of view, Amos. That guy from away scared me.”
Amos took the ticket from Pat’s trembling hand. “No offense, Pat, you should be more scared of me.”
So two hours later on the day he purchased the map, Amos was in a city called Chelsea, northeast of Boston. He was parked illegally on Napoli Street, next to a fire hydrant, because it was the only open space. He was breathing hard and his legs were quivering. Never in his life had he been in traffic like this, not ever. He had heard stories about the madness of Massachusetts drivers and the odd way their roads were set up, but the reality was much worse. The other drivers raced ten or twenty miles above the speed limit, saw yellow lights as an invitation to speed through intersections, and YIELD was obviously meant for the other guy. The road signs made no sense—how could a highway be both I-95 South and Route 128 West?—and as he got deeper into Chelsea, lots of the intersections had no signs whatsoever.
But finally he was on the street where Tony Conrad lived, Tony Conrad who had paid for gas for his truck and his Jet Skis. How could anybody live like this? The homes were all two-story and were set on lots so tiny it looked like he could stand in the front yard, stretch both arms, and touch his neighbors’ fences. Oh, yeah, fences . . . for nearly every house on this street had a chain-link fence, no garage—what did they do when it snowed?—and almost every house had a barred front door and barred windows.
Imagine that, living in fear of your neighbors.
A red car quickly drove by, low-slung, with bass speakers in the rear thumping so hard it made his windshield quiver. He waited until the car turned the corner and then shifted his truck into drive.
Time to get to work.
He found a parking spot at a nightclub two blocks away. He walked briskly along the cracked and bumpy sidewalks, glancing left and right, left and right, all the way back to Tony Conrad’s house. He felt alone, out of place, and underneath his barn coat he had his knife in a leather scabbard, and at his back his 9mm Sig Sauer P229 pistol. Carrying this pistol in Massachusetts was highly illegal.
Amos didn’t care.
From most of
the houses came a flickering blue glow from the television sets or loud music, all mixing in with the constant roar of traffic. Maybe all this noise and tight quarters explained why Massachusetts drivers acted so recklessly, either on a road or on a lake, racing fast on their Jet Skis and leaving the scene of an accident.
Maybe.
He strolled by 10 Napoli Street, saw a black Chevrolet pickup truck in the narrow driveway, backed in so its front bumper was facing out. He caught a glimpse of a Red Sox game from a television inside the house. He reached the end of the block, took a deep breath, and then walked back.
It was on the walk back that he saw the covered shape in the rear yard, near a toolshed.
He went up through the little front lawn, ducked around the side, and was in the tiny backyard. There was a tall wooden fence at the rear, the toolshed, and the tarpaulin-covered shape. He spotted wheels underneath the shape. A trailer. Amos went to the rear of the shape, tugged up the tarpaulin.
Two Jet Skis.
He took out a small flashlight, switched it on. The first Jet Ski was red, and as he pulled the tarpaulin further, he found the second one, dark blue with yellow lightning bolts. He knelt and examined them closely. The red Jet Ski looked fine. The dark blue one with lightning bolts had a series of scrapes and gouges along one side, and there were smears of light-blue paint.
The same color as Jennifer’s kayak.
His chest was cold and very tight.
He put the tarpaulin back and stood up.
A man’s voice called out to him. “Hey!”
Amos put his hands in his coat pockets, mouth dry, knowing how exposed he was, and started walking quickly out of the backyard.
A spotlight on the side of the house flashed on, illuminating him and everything about with a stark light. A side door slammed, footsteps echoed on the wooden steps.
“Hey!”
Men came out of the house, quickly blocking him. He looked behind him. The tall wooden fence and other chain-link fences. No escape.
There were five men, three women, bustling around, staring at him. A man with a prominent nose and short black hair strolled right up. In the glare of the spotlight, Amos instantly recognized him: the operator of the blue Jet Ski who had run down and killed Jennifer.
“Hey, what are you doing here, hunh?”
Amos looked at the men backing him up, thought through all the options, shrugged, and said, “Sorry, I was taking a leak.”
Another man said, “Christ, Tony, did you just hear that?”
“Yeah,” the man with the nose said. “I sure did.”
Tony Conrad, then. Right before him.
Tony stepped closer. Amos could smell beer and garlic on his breath. “Who the hell are you to piss in my backyard?”
“Nobody,” Amos said. “I just had to go.”
“Why my backyard, then?”
“It was dark,” Amos said. “I have a shy bladder.”
A nearby girl laughed. Tony poked Amos’s chest. “That’s so much crap. Who sent you? Hunh? The DeMint brothers? They send you here?”
“I don’t know anybody named DeMint,” Amos said, knowing he was strong and well armed, knowing it wouldn’t work here and now. “I’m from New Hampshire.”
One of the men laughed, and Tony laughed this time as well. “Stupid clodhopper. What are you doing in Chelsea anyway?”
“I got lost.”
“I guess the hell you did,” Tony said, backing away. “Sam, Paul, Gus . . . show this out-of-towner what happens to someone who pisses in my backyard.”
Amos took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and made sure to fall to the ground and moan loudly when the first punch was thrown.
A long time later he was in his truck, lights off, engine running, the heater gently blowing air over him, letting the pain flow through him. When the guys started whaling on him, Amos had made sure to cross his legs to protect his private parts and to cover the sides of his head with his arms, shielding his ears and eyes. He yelped a lot, even when it didn’t sting so much, so they thought they was hurting him something awful. At some point they got bored or tired, and they went back into the house, laughing.
Now he rested, waiting. When the pain had drifted away some, he gingerly checked everything out, determined nothing was broken, nothing was bleeding much. Just some bruises and scrapes.
All right, then. The warm heater air felt good.
Eventually he turned everything off and slept in the front seat, best he could.
Next morning when he went back to Napoli Street, a couple of folks had left to go to work, leaving a few empty spots. He parked his truck behind a Volvo that hid him pretty well. Earlier he had gotten a takeout breakfast from a nearby McDonald’s and he waited. And waited.
Funny, it was almost like hunting deer, hunting a human. You had to know its territory, its turf, and its habits, and you had to get into a zone, where you were looking and waiting and listening for that flash of white among the tree trunks, the snap of a branch, the rustle of something moving slowly through leaves.
Amos sipped his coffee. Course, it was easier to hunt a human. They didn’t possess the same sense of smell and sight a deer had, where the slightest motion or noise would make a deer lift its white tail and fly quickly through the woods. And a human was so big and lumbering and slow, well, in some ways it t’weren’t fair, not that Amos minded.
Tony got out of his house, turned, and briefly talked to a robe-wrapped woman by the door, then went to his truck, got in, and drove off.
Amos started his own truck and started following him.
It took less than an hour for Amos to make his move. At the first traffic light he stopped two car lengths behind Tony, took out a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment, tore off four three-foot lengths of tape, which he then placed on each arm and leg. Following Tony was easier than he imagined. Back in Leah it would be impossible to do this without being noticed in about five minutes or so, ’cause the roads were so empty. But here there were stop signs, traffic lights, traffic circles, and all the squabbling traffic to keep him hidden.
Tony stopped at a store to get a newspaper, another store for coffee, and then he met up with some guys in a parking lot in front of a closed-up supermarket. The four of them stood in a circle and there was a lot of talking and waving hands.
Then there was a round of handshakes, Tony got in his truck, and Amos followed him to a tiny town park, where he took one of two empty parking spaces and got out, again talking and waving his arms, except this time it was on a cell phone. Amos cautiously parked his truck next to Tony’s, left the engine running, and got out. Tony had his back to him. Amos walked up, tapped him on the shoulder. Tony turned around, and before there was a hint of recognition on his face, Amos punched him hard in the throat. Done well—while missing the chin and the upper ribs—you could drop a guy and leave him literally speechless for nearly a half hour.
Amos did it well. Tony fell back on the thin lawn, and Amos worked quickly, binding his legs and arms with the duct tape. Then he went back to his truck, worked the limp form of Tony into the passenger’s seat of his Ford, fastened the seat belt, and then got in himself.
He quietly backed out and joined the crowded morning traffic.
They were nearly in New Hampshire when Tony finally got his voice back, and they had been in the Granite State for about ten minutes when Tony stopped yelling, screaming, and cursing at Amos.
Tony took a deep, rattling breath. “You’re working for the DeMint brothers, aren’t you?”
“Like I told you last night, I don’t know anybody named DeMint.”
“Shit, yes . . . you’re the guy we tuned up last night, for pissing in my backyard.”
“Have to apologize for that,” Amos said, feeling relaxed, driving on back-country roads that were so familiar and friendly. “That was a lie. I wasn’t urinating on your property.”
“Then . . . what the hell were you doing?”
“Checking out your Jet
Skis.”
“Why the hell were you checking out my Jet Skis?”
Amos glanced over at him. “Really? You need to ask that question? I’m from New Hampshire and I’m checking out your Jet Skis.”
Tony pondered that and then spoke carefully. “Are you a cop?”
“No,” Amos said. “I’m a husband.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Tony said, “Look, man, I’m sorry. All right? It was an accident. I panicked, I didn’t know what to do, I know it was bad, leaving the scene of an accident . . . but I was scared.”
Amos said, “I saw you speed away after you run down my wife. That didn’t look like you was panicking. And you coming by to give a thousand dollars to Pat Towler, to keep his mouth shut, well, that was on purpose, and you sure weren’t scared, were you?”
Tony tried to move in his seat, not able to do much with the seat belt and harness across him, the duct tape tight against his wrists and ankles.
“What . . . what are you going to do?”
Amos said, “You killed my wife. What do you think?”
They were about a half hour away from Leah when Tony said, “Can we reach an understanding? A . . . settlement?”
“What do you have in mind?” Amos asked.
“Some . . . compensation, for what I did. Money exchanged, you go your way, I go mine, and it’s settled.”
“Sounds interesting. How much money were you thinking?”
“You first.”
“Nope,” Amos said. “Not playing games with you. If you were serious about making an offer, you’d do that straightaway.”
“Maybe . . . maybe I’m concerned you might be insulted by whatever number I mentioned.”
“There’s a thought,” Amos said.
A while later Tony changed tactics. “When I was talking to that store owner, what’s-his-name, he told me a bit about your wife. No offense, really, mister, but he told me hardly anybody in your town liked her. That she was a real bitch, and that she was taking advantage of you, kicking you out of your lake house, making you live in a shack, run all sorts of errands.”
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