by D. A. Keeley
“What, exactly, did he say?”
“Just what I told you before, ‘Near the river, Sunday night.’ ”
“Nothing else?”
“That’s what I heard. He turned away when I walked in.”
“Did he say ‘BC Bud’?”
“Maybe.”
“You told me the shipment was BC Bud.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“One week.”
“I might have assumed it was BC Bud.”
“Assumed it?”
“I might have. My memory, you know, ain’t great.”
“Jesus Christ, Kenny. What’s the guy’s name?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“You played cards with him all night and never caught his name?”
“I only actually played one hand, then I left. I bet everything on a bluff. Lost.”
She didn’t doubt that.
“Seen him around town since?” she said.
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“Wore a suit.”
“And?”
“It was dark blue.”
“White guy? Black guy?”
“This is northern Maine.”
She exhaled. Ignorance was frustrating. “So he’s white, Kenny. Beard?”
“No.”
“Height?”
“I don’t know. Tall, I guess.”
“Hair?”
“Brown.”
“Eyes?”
“I got no idea what color his eyes were. I don’t look at people’s eyes. I learned that walking the yard in Warren.”
“Prison isn’t supposed to be easy. Who else was at the poker game?”
“Can’t remember. Sorry.”
“No problem,” she said. “I mean, if that’s all you have, it’s all you have. But I won’t be able to help you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Kenny, does your parole officer know you still smoke dope?”
A vein near his right temple danced.
Casually, she said, “Your PO make you pee in a cup every week?”
Silence.
“Judging from that dime bag I found in your van, my guess is no. Be a shame if the weekly tests started, wouldn’t it?”
“It was just four guys, Peyton. No drug dealers. Nothing like that.”
“Then why’d you say BC Bud?”
“I told you, I just assumed that.”
“Who else was there, Kenny?”
He looked at his watch. She knew he was late. It was 10:25. Only half a dozen farmers and the Picards remained.
“You know what happens if you fail a drug test, Kenny?”
“I only know two of them.”
“So how can you be sure the guy in the suit wasn’t a drug dealer?”
Radke slumped forward, staring at his half-empty coffee cup as if he were looking for answers.
She knew she had him.
And when he gave her the two names, she knew why Tyler Timms had left so soon, and why Radke had been looking over his shoulder at the Picards.
FOUR
TEN MINUTES LATER, KENNY Radke was gone.
Peyton was alone again in her booth, crossword puzzle complete, staring at framed photos of antique yellow-and-green John Deere tractors that lined the walls, listening to a handful of men at the counter speaking of the potato crop and complaining about this year’s russet prices.
She’d heard similar conversations as a girl, when she’d come here with her father. Akin to commercial fishing for those in Down East Maine, farming was a way of life in Aroostook County—and a difficult one, at that. Maine potato farmers were often hit hard when Canadian counterparts received government subsidies allowing for lower prices. Her father, a small independent farmer who had no large commercial contracts to fall back on, had been among the hardest hit.
Peyton’s younger sister, Elise Hurley, arrived at Gary’s Diner right on time—fifteen minutes late.
Peyton waved, but Elise was staring at the linoleum floor, somehow balancing one-year-old Max, a diaper bag, a sippy cup, her purse, and even a magazine.
“You ought to be a circus juggler,” Peyton said, when her younger sister arrived at the booth. “I don’t carry anything that can’t be clipped to my service belt.”
“But you’ve got everything from your gun to pepper spray and a nunchuk on that belt,” Elise said.
“We call it a baton.” Peyton took her nephew, Max, from Elise. “Everything okay? You look stressed.”
“Sure. I’m fine.” Elise slid into the place vacated by Radke and tried to hide a sigh by looking through the stenciling of GARY’S DINER, out the window, at Main Street.
Standard garb at Gary’s ran to checkered flannel shirts, boots, and grubby John Deere caps. Elise, however, resembled a suburban Boston stay-at-home mom—lavender sweater, khaki pants, and shoes Peyton had seen (and wanted) in a Talbot’s catalogue. Peyton hadn’t ordered them; they’d only accumulate dust in her mother’s cluttered guest-room closet while she and Tommy stayed there and searched for their own place.
Donna returned and smiled at Max. “Your taste in men has improved, Peyton. Coffee, Elise?”
“Black, please. And can I get a high chair?”
When Donna left, Elise turned to Peyton. “What was that about? You have a date?”
“No,” Peyton said, “I was working. And don’t sound so eager for me to date. You sound like Mom.”
“I just want you to have a life away from work,” Elise said. “That’s all.”
“Me, too.”
Donna brought the high chair, and Peyton put Max in it and set some Cheerios before him.
“Ellie, your eyes are bloodshot.”
“Allergies.”
“Bullshit,” Peyton said. “Why were you crying?”
Elise looked out the window again. “You just got off the midnight shift, right? Tough schedule for a single mom?”
“Can be.” Peyton waited.
“Don’t get me wrong, P. I love that you’re a Border Patrol agent. It’s so exciting—the gun, the chases, the arrests.”
“ … the twisted ankles.” Peyton extended her leg, rolling her ankle counterclockwise. “And I’m not getting any sleep until after this late breakfast.”
“Still. It’s exciting,” Elise said.
“You and Jonathan have a fight?”
“Nothing serious.”
Donna returned with Elise’s coffee and Peyton’s refill, then went to freshen cups at the counter.
Elise blew on her coffee. “How’s the house shopping? Mom says Jeff is helping you.”
“So we’re moving on to my marriage?” Peyton said. “I should say badly failed marriage.”
Elise smiled. “See how easy that was?”
“Glad I don’t have to interrogate you. Yes, Jeff has offered. I haven’t returned his call.”
“Don’t blame you. The asshole abandoned you and Tommy in El Paso of all places.”
Peyton stirred creamer into her coffee. “Yeah, but … ”
“But what, P?”
“Jeff left, yes. But first he tried to convince me to put in for a transfer back here. I probably could’ve gotten one, even three years ago. But at the time, I didn’t want to leave because the southern border is where the action is.”
“Are you saying his leaving was a two-way street? The asshole abandoned you.” Elise looked at Max, who was eating Cheerios. “Pardon my French.”
“He is the happiest baby in the world,” Peyton said. “Does the kid ever cry?”
“Come by at seven tonight. And, sis, let yourself off the hook. I mean, what are you saying? That it was your fault Jeff left you?”
Peyton drank her coffee. What was she saying? She’d been married at twenty-four, had Tommy two years later. Then, having just been promoted three years ago, she’d felt betrayed when Jeff had asked her to effectively give up her career, requesting that she put in for a transfer to northe
rn Maine. She’d thought they’d settled into a life in El Paso. Tommy was four; Jeff was selling for ReMax, and her career was on the rise. (Her recent BORSTAR appointment was largely due to her work in El Paso, after all, not her four months in Garrett.)
Two weeks after Jeff asked her to move, he walked out. Six years of marriage, over. When she’d come home to find him packing, she’d tried to reason with him, pointing out that his real-estate career was mobile. When he said his decision was final, she told him what she really thought: that he was just “looking for the silver spoon” by taking over his parents’ well-established real-estate business in Garrett, which she still believed.
Now seven-year-old Tommy was the focus of her life. She’d been shot at only once—in El Paso, six months ago—and had put in for her transfer the next morning. Eight weeks later, she’d arrived home. She’d come back for Tommy—yes, he needed a mother; but he also needed a father. So, had her divorce been a two-way street?
Aren’t they all?
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” she said. “But don’t worry about me. I can fend for myself. Something’s bothering you, Ellie.”
“You’ve always been the strong one.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just that you’ve always been true to yourself. I respect that because I never have been.”
“What are you talking about?”
Elise dug through her purse, found Kleenex, and blew her nose.
“You’re crying.”
“Must be hormones.” Her younger sister forced a smile.
“Are you pregnant?”
“No, and you sound like my husband when you ask that. But, no, not pregnant. Jonathan suggested we adopt, but Max is all I can handle, especially right now.”
“What do you mean? What’s happening ‘right now’?”
Elise looked down at the tabletop and shook her head.
Peyton knew couples who had babies in an effort to save a sputtering marriage. Jonathan had suggested adoption. How bad were things between he and Elise?
“The good news is that we’ve hired a heavy hitter, a lawyer from Boston.”
“To appeal Jonathan’s firing last year?”
“He wasn’t fired, Peyton. His contract wasn’t renewed. They couldn’t fire Jonathan. He’s an excellent teacher, and he can teach Spanish to go with history. He’s so versatile. He brought culture to that school. That’s why we’ve done so much traveling—a year in San Francisco, a year in Mexico, then last year in Boston—for the experiences. That’s what he keeps saying.”
“And what do you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you didn’t like constantly moving.”
“Well, sometimes it can’t be helped.” Elise looked at Max. “And you do things for your family.”
“Like moving every twelve months?”
“Just let it go, okay? I know you’ve never liked Jonathan, but he’s joining us for breakfast.”
“I like him just fine.”
“Seriously, Peyton. You can’t get over his mistake. It was just a wrong-place, wrong-time thing.”
“Let’s not do this again, Elise. He had three hundred grams of oxycodone and was walking five hundred yards from a high school. That’s two felonies for the price of one. Not personal. Factual. And I look out for my sister.”
“He wasn’t dealing. He’d never do that. And he’s paid dearly. He’s teaching high school with a Ph.D.”
“He finished his Ph.D.?”
“Well, he still needs to write his dissertation.”
“So he shouldn’t go around telling people he has a Ph.D. That’s not quite accurate.”
“He’s done all his course work, Peyton.”
“And I’m sure he’s still trying to get you to support him while he writes his book.”
Elise sighed. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“No, no,” Peyton said. “I’ll be polite. But a lot of people finish their doctorates while holding full-time jobs.”
“Let’s just get through this breakfast,” Elise said. “Don’t mention the dissertation or Boston. Those things make him edgy. And Morris Picard is observing his class later today.”
Peyton nodded. Jonathan Hurley was still telling Elise what to do. Apparently he now listed conversations that were off limits. In the short time the sisters had been home together, Peyton hadn’t spent enough time with Jonathan to notice that yet. In fact, she’d spent no time with them as a couple. Elise had been married for more than seven years. That seemed a long time to Peyton—because she imagined years spent with Jonathan must be like dog years (each one feeling like seven)? Or because her own marriage failed after only six?
Outside, vehicles moved past the diner leisurely. Garrett was still a one-traffic-light town. Main Street looked exactly as it had when Peyton had left, only Garrett Drug had given way to a Rite-Aid.
A tall, angular, slender man in creased black slacks, snakeskin cowboy boots, and a dark leather jacket approached the booth. His right sleeve was torn and there was dirt near his elbow.
Peyton stood. “Great to see you, Jonathan.”
She’d never liked the way he treated her kid sister. And over the years of holiday gatherings and occasional meetings, she’d made sure to leave a not-so-subtle trail of comments letting him know it. Their embrace was awkward.
He turned to his wife. “Elise, may I kiss you, or should I shake your hand?”
“Not here, please,” she groaned.
“Well, you look great. Hey, were you dropping off some resumes?” He slid in next to his wife.
“No. I told you daycare would cost a lot. Wouldn’t be worth it.”
“Your mother’s free all day. Or I could stay home, write and watch Max …”
Peyton shot Elise a questioning look.
Elise looked away. “Please don’t rub your dirty sleeve against my sweater.”
“Sorry,” Jonathan said.
“Where’ve you been?” Elise asked.
“Out walking. I fell.”
“Aren’t you teaching today?”
“Took a sick day.”
“But you took three last week.”
“I was at a conference last week, Elise. Those aren’t sick days. And you don’t really care anymore anyway.”
“Everything alright?” Peyton said.
“Damn it, Jonathan. I told you. Not here.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Maybe I should go,” Peyton began.
“No,” Elise said. “It’s nothing. Only that this is his new job.”
“Starting a new job is tough. I’ve only been in mine for a few months.” Peyton drank some coffee, glad, for her sister’s sake, that Morris Picard was no longer in the diner to witness Jonathan on his “sick day.”
“Still enjoying teaching?” Peyton asked Jonathan.
He shrugged and found his reflection in the window, patting his hair and adjusting the cashmere sweater beneath his jacket. “High school is fine. Money’s terrible, but vacations are long. I’d rather be pursuing my research interests. The Industrial Revolution is my passion. It’s what I researched in my Ph.D. program. I’d like time to work on my dissertation. Several people have told me there’s a bestselling book in it, and I’m something of an expert.”
“I told Peyton about Alan McAfee, our Boston lawyer,” Elise said in a voice that sounded eager for approval. “Maybe he can help her redo her settlement with Jeff.”
“He can’t help Peyton,” he said.
“Why? He’s very good. You said it yourself.”
“He’s an adoption attorney, Elise, and, God knows, we don’t need that now.”
“Let it go,” Elise said. “One baby is all I can handle.”
Jonathan shook his head.
“I thought you had a wrongful-termination lawsuit,” Peyton said.
Jonathan looked at her, then waved and called to Donna. “Bring me coffee,” he said.
They were quiet whi
le Donna filled his cup. Peyton looked at her watch. She wanted to know more about the poker game Kenny Radke allegedly attended since he’d now provided names of other players.
“Great seeing you both.” She stood, put some cash on the table, turned to Jonathan, and smiled. “Be careful walking.”
He looked up from his menu. “What do you mean?”
“You said you fell.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said and returned to his menu.
When Peyton reached the door, she turned back. Elise wore an expression of sorrow and confusion. Peyton remembered that look—she’d worn it herself for months after her father lost the farm.
FIVE
WHEN PEYTON WORKED THE midnight shift, or “pulled mids,” as agents called it, she slept from 9:30 a.m. to 2 p.m., getting up in time to greet Tommy when he got off the bus. It wasn’t eight hours, but it was enough. This day, her trip to the diner skewed her sleep pattern. Now she sat on the edge of her bed, groggy, at 2:30.
On the bedside table, there was a photo of her mother and late father. Charlie Cote had always supported her, having driven her all around the state to enter karate competitions and been the one to give her a copy of On the Line, a book about the US Border Patrol, when she’d been in her teens. She’d lain in bed reading of Jeff Milton, the quick-triggered cowboy who, after years of wielding his Colt .45 as a Texas Ranger, became the first Border Patrolman in 1904. She owed her career to her father.
The house smelled of her mother’s Quebec shepherd’s pie. Most of Lois’s recipes called for enough salt to make Paula Deen cringe. She knew the shepherd’s pie meant she’d have to run an extra mile in the morning, but, she had to admit, it was well worth it.
Something struck the side of the house just below her guestroom window, jarring her from her thoughts. She stood and looked out. Ash-colored clouds had given way. She watched a football arc against the pale sky.
“Hi, Mom,” Tommy yelled and waved, his toothless grin wide, blue eyes aglow.
When he attempted to catch the ball, it careened off his forearms and fell to the ground.
She nearly flinched—not at the dropped pass, but at the sight of the man who’d thrown it.
“Hi, Peyton,” Jeff McComb, her ex, said. “Hope you don’t mind that I picked Tommy up after school. I called, and Lois said it was okay.”