Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  Charlie cradled his swollen head in his hands, receding hairline stretching temples taut, skin flush as a fat pink baby plucked fresh from the hot tub.

  We were meeting Sunday morning, which meant Charlie had been partying hard last night, and I could see he was hurting. Not that the day mattered much to Charlie at this stage. Every night was Saturday night. He could use a little hair of the dog.

  “Glad you came to your senses,” Fisher said. “This is no joke.”

  I craned to watch the twenty-year-old waitress bend over to restock the muffins. “Like you said yesterday, I don’t have a choice.”

  “Anything new on Tom?”

  I shook my head and turned around.

  “So what’s the plan?” Charlie said, less interested in a course of action than he was in speeding up the process. Fisher was crashing at his place, and I knew he’d dragged Charlie along. No other way my best friend was making the morning meeting. Charlie wanted back under the covers until the skies grew dark again and he’d be able to drink himself back into oblivion.

  “First thing we need to do,” Fisher said, “is pay Joanne Crowder a visit.”

  “Already did. Last night.”

  “And?”

  “No one’s home. Doesn’t look as if anyone’s been home for a while. Newspapers haven’t been picked up, mail stuffed in the box.”

  “Then I’m thinking we need to take this show on the road.” Fisher looked deathly serious. “We go down to Boston and confront the man himself. See what Ethan Crowder has to say.”

  “Let’s hold off on that for now.” I had no interest in a road trip with Fisher, especially to Boston. Just hearing the name caused me pain. I flashed back on the last thing Erik Bowman said to me three years ago when he quit the construction game, giving up leg-breaking to go on the run from the Lombardi Brothers: anywhere but Boston. One of the few things we agreed on. I’d been down there to see the Sox play a couple times. Loved the team. Hated the city.

  The pretty waitress came to take our order. I needed to start dating again. I felt like a fat guy ogling a cheesesteak stand.

  Bypassing his usual chicken wings, Charlie asked for a beer. He didn’t care what this pretty girl thought of him. The minute you stop caring what pretty girls think about you, might as well pack it in, get some black socks and sandals, move to Florida.

  Fisher and I said we were good with coffee for now, and then Fisher called the girl back, said, on second thought, he’d order half the fucking menu. So I got a mushroom omelet and some hash. Even if I’d lost my appetite, I knew I needed to eat.

  “Charlie,” I said, “you still have friends at the phone company?”

  “I know a few guys over there, yeah. Why?”

  When my brother got his hands on that hard drive, Charlie was working for the phone company. He had offered to tap Lombardi’s line. At the time, I’d talked him out of it, told him he was crazy to jeopardize the steady paycheck, never mind the legal repercussions. Obtaining phone records without a warrant was a serious criminal offense. Now here I was, outright encouraging him to break whatever law he could, implicate former coworkers, friends, whoever, throw the whole town under the bus, personal welfare be damned. Funny what a potential murder charge does to belief systems.

  “How hard will it be to pull Tom Gable’s phone records?”

  “A lot easier once I get something to drink. My fucking head is killing me.” Charlie whiplashed down the aisle, willing his beer to arrive faster. “I didn’t eat enough yesterday.” His bulging belly pinched over the countertop.

  I didn’t point out he hadn’t ordered any food to remedy that.

  “I need all incoming and outgoing calls for Thanksgiving night. The morning after, too.”

  “I don’t think I drank enough water yesterday,” Charlie said to no one.

  “Can you access Tom’s e-mail?” I asked Fisher.

  “Tom have computers at the warehouse? I’d rather not go up to the house and break and enter.”

  “You need his actual computer?”

  “Makes life easier. A lot of times passwords are saved, stored via autofill. Beats hacking.”

  “You can do that? Hack?”

  Fisher slid along a slip of paper. “How do you think I got that?”

  The address for Rewrite Interventions. I hadn’t been able to find a physical address anywhere. Rewrite’s actions were clandestine, under lock and key—the only way to reach them was filling out a form and waiting for them to contact you.

  “I’m a man of many skills.” Fisher hoisted his coffee mug with a smarmy grin. “Wasn’t that hard. Buried in a chat room. Couple pissed-off junkies. Everyone’s a tough guy on a message board. Your problem, Porter, is you give up too easy.”

  “We’re in the middle of transplanting everything. Tom scored a new space for us in Pittsfield.” I nodded out the Olympic Diner windows, down the Turnpike, through the low-lying fog sweeping in with tractor-trailer drift and obscuring faster-moving headlights. “Got one of those temporary U-Storage places down the road. You Store. We don’t have any computers at the warehouse but I have some of his personal hard drives stashed there that I’m supposed to recycle.”

  “That’ll work. If Tom asked you to wipe the hard drive, means he hasn’t done it himself. All the passwords should still be accessible.”

  “I’ll give you the key to You Store.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I waited till the waitress set down Charlie’s beer with a mild scowl of disapproval. She wasn’t being overly judgmental. Only people drinking at this hour are hobos. Not that Charlie paid any heed. He chugged half the glass in one long swallow.

  “Guess I’m taking a ride over to Rewrite Interventions.”

  “You really think they got the Crowder boy?”

  “That was Biscoglio’s story.”

  “Ulterior motives?”

  “Possible.”

  “Biscoglio hasn’t returned your call yet?”

  I shook my head. “I think it was a bogus number.”

  “You know anything about this Rewrite Interventions?”

  “I looked into a lot of rehabs for my brother. I may’ve come across the name. Or maybe I read about it when I was inquiring into that Judge Roberts business.” I took a sip of coffee. “Last thing I feel like doing, believe me. Middlesex creeps me out. Place is crawling with Mad Max types, Hills Have Eyes extras. Nothing but halfway houses, AA Nazis, and strapped libertarians.”

  “Be careful,” Charlie said, already flagging down the waitress for a refill. “Remember our visit to the North River Institute a few years ago on the Roberts case? They chased us off with handguns.”

  “Thought you said those were flashlights.”

  “And you said they were handguns.”

  I turned to Fisher. “Do private investigators have badges?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Look it up on the Internet. You must have something shiny and silver from all the junk you haul. Anyone starts acting suspicious, whip it out.”

  “I’m sure that’ll work.”

  “Put on a suit first,” Charlie said. “It’s all about how you present yourself.” He belched before tilling ear potatoes with his little finger.

  “I could be the goddamn FBI. Rehabs are confidential. And if Vin Biscoglio’s right and it is Rewrite Interventions who nabbed the Crowder boy, we have the added wrinkle of kidnapping. Rewrite will be used to getting shit from authorities. I’m not expecting any pretty blondes to offer me tea while I wait.”

  “Maybe one of us should come with you?”

  I looked at Fisher, all one hundred twenty pounds of him, at bloated Charlie, still trying to flag down another brew. I’d take my chances solo. “Thanks. But I need you guys here. Too many angles to work. I’ll be fine.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  I faked a smile. “Be charming.”

  It was true. If I concentrated all my efforts, stopped scowling and tried to look pleasant, I could
pull off charming in short bursts. Usually took me at least ten minutes before I wore out my welcome. Just ask my wife.

  CHAPTER TEN

  EVEN BY RURAL northern New Hampshire standards, Middlesex was the sticks. One road in, one road out, gas station in the middle, the township the preferred residence of the recovery community. In the middle of nowhere, drugs are harder to come by. Or so goes the theory. Most permanent citizens in the region leaned hard right. Impenetrable tree cover and natural rock formations made it tougher for the government to come for their guns. I had nothing against guns. When all that shit was going down a few years ago, I considered getting one but decided against it. I had a kid. I didn’t want to be that moron who has to bury his boy because he forgot to lock a box or pick a better hiding place. I’d eaten my share of venison but wasn’t big on hunting. The deer I ate tended to be the dumb ones that ran in front of my truck. I never saw the need for assault weapons or stockpiled automatics, even at my most paranoid. I never debated gun control, though, a simple matter of self-preservation. The other side had the firepower.

  I didn’t know what to expect. The little bit of research I’d compiled on Rewrite Interventions came via a modest website. A picture of some trees in a meadow, barn in the background, small, cursive font offering bumper sticker sound bites and fortune cookie wisdom. Wait for the Miracle. Work it, You’re Worth it. Let Go, Let God. No phone number, no hard copy address. The sole contact option via e-form. I had no intention of leaving my address for three masked men to cart me away in the middle of the night to who-knew-where. Guns outnumbered people twelve to one in this county. I anticipated hostility.

  Even armed with an address, I ended up driving in circles, although it was hard to say if I was backtracking or forging new ground, because there were no street names out here. Every so often, I’d spot a felled tree branch that looked familiar, a snow bank iced a particular shade of blue.

  The rehabs I’d brought Chris to resembled traditional hospitals, institutions with walls designed to keep the public out and the patients in. Some had gates, others fences. Most displayed open spaces to create illusions of tranquility and freedom. But they weren’t houses; they were facilities.

  I’d driven by the big green farmhouse a couple times. A picturesque home with snow on the roof and chimney puffing perfect white clouds. In the middle of the boxed lawn, a weathervane pointed due north. The sort of place where a nice old lady sat inside drinking hot cocoa, shawl draped over withered shoulders, darning ugly sweaters for her grandkids. Should’ve known better. Those kinds of people don’t live in Middlesex, and nothing in the northern wilds is ever what it seems. On my third pass, I spotted the dangling wood sign.

  With all the gun nuts up here, you didn’t go trespassing on private property, so I pulled to the shoulder, focusing on the triangular sign through the tree line. The letters were shaky, childish, like a grade school art assignment. But I’d seen those words before— Unity, Service, Recovery—and I knew what they meant.

  Turning around, I pulled into the driveway. I got out and stood beside my door. Waiting in the boot-deep snow, I glanced up at the surrounding mountains, which formed a perfect half circle. Would make a pretty painting. Or great hiding spot for a marksman’s rifle.

  The door opened and a woman came down the steps. I had parked a considerable distance from the house, in case reason presented itself to hop and run. I could only make out the long dirty blonde hair, but even from that distance I knew she was beautiful. That’s the thing with beautiful women. You can tell from the back of their heads, twenty feet away, by the sound of their voice; you don’t even need to see their face. Just the way the beautiful carry themselves. Even though it was freezing and snowing, she didn’t wear a coat, and as she drew nearer, instead of the aggression I’d been expecting, she greeted me with a warm, empathetic expression. And since it was cold and she was wearing only a shirt, no jacket, I couldn’t stop staring. She rolled a towel over in her hands, like I’d interrupted drying dishes. I pretended to monitor treetops, captivated by canopies. Amazing how even at my age a pretty woman could reduce me to high school awkwardness in seconds.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Is this Rewrite Interventions?”

  “It is.” She wrinkled her nose. But not in a nasty way, more a playful, curious fashion. “People usually call first.” She started walking back toward the house. I wasn’t sure if that meant to follow her or if she was going to get someone bigger to escort me off grounds because I didn’t follow the rules.

  She stopped to turn over her shoulder. “Are you coming? Or would you rather freeze to death out here?”

  “Can I get you anything, Mr. . . . ?”

  “It’s just Jay.”

  “Nice to meet you, Just Jay.” She leaned across an island in the airy kitchen, taking my hand. “Alison Rodgers.”

  She had a genuine, kind smile. And the home was gorgeous. The rustic exterior augmented by modern interior upgrades. I spent so much time clearing out old homes, I’d developed an eye for different time periods and styles, schools of design. Colonials and Saltboxes were my favorites. New England, with its rich, storied history, had the most magnificent homes in America. Of course, I hadn’t been west of the Hudson my entire life. Best I could tell, the old farmhouse, a Georgian, had been built in the late 1700s, and had maintained many of the original features, like bookcases carved in the walls and ornate wainscoting. Such touches increased resale value. I had a tough time reconciling the presentation with rumors of kidnapped teenagers, a theory further complicated by the fact that Alison wasn’t exactly built like a linebacker, more like a cheerleader, or that waitress back at the Olympic. The perky all-American girl routine was throwing me off my game. No doubt Alison employed serious muscle to make this operation work.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Sorry. I didn’t expect . . . this.”

  Alison cocked her head to the side. “And what were you expecting?”

  “A rehab? Place where alcoholics and junkies come to get clean?”

  Alison pulled a pendant out of her shirt, presenting the gold medallion. “Twenty years last March.”

  I did the math. When did she stop drinking? Fifteen?

  “I was a wild child.” She winked. “You never answered my question.”

  “Huh?”

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” Alison walked to the giant, stainless steel refrigerator, which sparkled sans smudge. The whole kitchen was like that: untarnished and sexy. Such overhaul did not come cheap. “We have some mineral water.”

  “Sure. Okay. Sounds good.”

  She bent over to grab one from the lower shelf.

  I turned away and checked out the latticework on the cupboards. “Quality carpentry.”

  “Ice?”

  “Huh?”

  “Would you like ice in your mineral water?”

  “That’s great, sure, whatever.”

  Alison filled the tall glass with ice and bubbly water, then slid a stool next to me, sitting near enough I could see the blue of her eyes, which were so light they almost appeared gray. When she slipped closer, I flinched.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “No reason to be nervous.”

  She made me uncomfortable by invading my personal space. Like we were in a bar and she really, really wanted to get to know me. Somehow, at the same time, I had a hard time being offended.

  Then Alison grabbed my hand, right there in her kitchen, clasped one over the other, stroking it. Forcing me to look her in the eye, which wasn’t something I liked to do with anyone, not even my wife.

  Over the past few years, I’d stared down my share of guns and taken plenty of hits, kicks, punches, and blows. I’d gone toe-to-toe with an ex-biker named Bowman who killed people for a living. A pair of dirty cops beat the ever-living shit out of me on a dark country road, fucked me up so bad I couldn’t piss right for a week. A hit man pretending to be a big-city detective lured my brother up to Lame
ntation Mountain, aiming to blow his brains out, dump his body in the ice. I got there first and ran him off the road. He died. Life had been very eventful of late. But sitting this close to Alison Rodgers, faint hints of warm vanilla sugar radiating off her body, was the most uncomfortable I’d felt in a long time.

  “Tell me, Jay. Aren’t you sick and tired of being sick and tired?”

  “Huh?”

  As Alison continued patting my hand, so soothing, so kind, nurturing, maternal, I realized what I’d mistaken for a come-on was nothing but an old-fashioned sale’s pitch.

  I jerked my hand away, hopping up when I got the joke. “Whoa, whoa, hey. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “It’s not?” Alison’s reaction was sincere. Which was the worst part. She thought I was another bum, junkie, drunk, a pill-popping loser. Me. The humiliation overwhelmed. Like when you think the pretty girl has been staring at you all night, but it turns out there was a clock over your head the entire time.

  I stared down at my clothes. I wasn’t wearing the suit Charlie suggested, but I wasn’t dressed like a hobo, either. I had on my usual dirty jeans, but I’d put on a fancy tee shirt, and by that I mean one with a logo. Even wore my new camel-fur coat. Looked pretty sharp, if you asked me. Hadn’t showered in a couple days, but nobody sweats in this cold, and even when I did sweat, I didn’t smell too bad. And, goddamn, at thirty-four I was still a good-looking guy. Alison was what? A couple years older than me, tops? But the way she looked down on me now, I might as well have been a student in her sweet pickles class.