by Archer Mayor
Sammie had not chosen him to be her child’s father because she was running out of time on the biological clock. She had done so because of her faith in his honesty, integrity, and devotion. Yes, he could be a screwed-up son of a bitch, brusque, intolerant, short-tempered, and dismissive. But rarely to her and never to Emma. And his trustworthiness was absolute.
She surveyed the room. This had once been his house, alone, and it reflected his taste and sense of order. That was another trait—the man was obsessively neat, and a monk in his rejection of material possessions. He was as organized and spare as his psychology was anarchic.
This was not a casual observation. In some ways, it ran to the core of why she’d finally chosen him as a partner. She was messy—in her lifestyle, her past lovers, her impulsive emotionalism. She’d often acted before thinking and been quick to let her heart rule her judgment. One of the huge benefits she’d absorbed from living with Willy—the combat sniper of old—was the value of that crucial reflective pause, when poised on the very edge of battle.
But there was a giant “if” in the midst of all this rational analysis, whose influence occasionally made the ground they stood upon as unstable as quicksand: Both of them—for different reasons and from different influences—were not who they were now by natural evolution. Their current status in the world—as responsible, if sometimes unusual, police officers and parents—had come about through hard work, conscious choice, and extreme sacrifice. From dysfunctional, violent roots soaked in betrayal and human carelessness, they’d each fought against fate to get here.
Which meant that they had all that baggage still on board, lashed down as securely as possible, but often teetering on the brink of collapse. To mix a metaphor, she’d once thought of them both as solid citizen snowmen, praying that the weather would never get too warm.
His voice, when it came, was quiet and unaccompanied by any warning, as usual. It didn’t startle her. She’d grown used to it. The man could be like an illusion. The ghost she’d chosen to lean on.
Plus, she knew he had to be here. The babysitter’s car hadn’t been by the curb.
“I made a mess of things, didn’t I?”
She let him remain in the darkness, knowing how he was struggling to make an opening in his armor. She understood his dilemma—she was inclined to tell him to fuck off and figure it out on his own.
“Your timing could’ve been better. I didn’t think I was being that type A.”
“You weren’t.”
“I never accused you of goofing off.”
She felt that hesitation from him—the one that controls an initial reaction—which rewarded her for practicing the same restraint. “I didn’t use those words,” she added.
“No, you didn’t,” he acknowledged, stepping out of the shadows and removing her bag from her hand to place it on the table by the front door.
She bridged the barrier between them by touching his good arm. “We walk on such thin ice, you and I.”
“I didn’t think it was such a big deal,” he said in his defense.
She understood what he meant. “I know you didn’t. It was your timing. At the exact minute I needed support, you gave me crap—accusing me of pulling your leash—and then you took off. I know you didn’t mean it, and that you have your own thing against authority, and maybe even that you were scared I was gonna start bossing you around. But it hurt, and I don’t think I deserved it.”
“You didn’t.”
He seemed contrite enough that she risked pushing her advantage a bit. “So why did you do it? As much as anything, it caught me by surprise—you usually keep that shit for other people.”
His answer completely surprised her. “It was like I was afraid everything we had would fall apart. You know how I am—always trying to get off the first shot.”
Impulsively, she cupped his cheek with her hand—a gesture she knew he usually shied from, like a not-quite-tamed animal. “Oh, Willy,” she said softly, and kissed him tentatively. “Why would that happen? I’m just filling in till Joe gets back.”
He touched her in return, softening a little. “It’s not that. I just picked on that, maybe out of convenience. I can’t get used to good things lasting, and things have been good for a long time, now.”
She looped both arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “You are such a head case, you know?”
“That’s why I think you’ll get rid of me, finally.”
She pulled back to look him in the eyes. “That’s shit thinking, Mr. Kunkle. We’re building something here—all three of us. Don’t you dare make up some story that’ll tear that apart. If we make a mess of this, it’ll be because you and I fuck it up together. Deal?”
He gave her a small smile and kissed her back. “Deal.”
“Come here.” She grabbed his large hand and tugged him into the hallway and down to their daughter’s room, where the night-light revealed Emma sleeping peacefully, her arms clutching a favorite stuffed bear.
“What did the Three Musketeers say?” she asked.
He chuckled softly. “Sure. I’m the literary scholar of the family. ‘One for all and all for one’? Or something.”
“Right,” she said.
CHAPTER TEN
Ongoing criminal cases vary from one extreme, where the cops are left scratching their heads, to the other, where they know who did it—along with his location—and can peacefully build a case so tight, the prosecutor won’t even have to go to trial.
To dedicated hunters like Lester Spinney, each had its appeal—the intellectual challenges of one might be offset by the legal gamesmanship of the other, and influenced in various ways by the forensic intricacies required by both. It was this reliable unpredictability that kept most investigators coming back for more, despite the mind-numbing paperwork and occasional verbal abuse from suspects, witnesses, and even testy colleagues that accompanied it.
A brainteaser like Paine versus Kennedy, however, was rare enough to warrant its own category. A headline-making major case of yore, a police-involved homicide that had dominated conversation for weeks, it was nevertheless considered ancient history. Except that Lester knew it no longer was. He felt like the guy in those movies who has to tiptoe past a bunch of sleeping ogres in order to reach his goal. In his case, the ogres were the media and the public, who would have a field day if they discovered what he was investigating.
Which fortunately didn’t bother him. Lester was almost perfectly suited to his job. The son of a man who’d once worked in the machine tool industry, back in Springfield, during Vermont’s heyday as a center of that world, Les appreciated order and precision and a cool approach to problem solving. Complementing this, as a man of intelligence, independence, and a wit poorly suffered by bureaucrats, he was designed by temperament to flourish working on his own. Being a detective gave him the best of both worlds.
After studying the details of the case and meeting with Sturdy Foster, Lester had pondered how best to approach his delicate—and, for the moment, clandestine—assignment. It was that latter feature that had encouraged him to initially avoid people like Paine’s or Kennedy’s families, who had been so bathed in the limelight of the moment, and instead approach some of the outlying players in the drama.
The irresistibly named Molly Blaze, for instance—a cousin of the late Kyle Kennedy. In his scrutiny of the investigation, Lester had found Blaze mentioned but once, in notes by one of Sturdy’s colleagues. She’d shed no light on the events of that night, and hadn’t seen her cousin in several days before he died.
But Lester had liked what he’d read, given his slightly different mission. His predecessors had been out to establish the facts—who’d done what to whom, in what way, and in what sequence. Les was after those same touchstones, but his focus was more on the why, in the hope it might give him everything else in sharper relief—or in a different light altogether. Molly Blaze, while not a front-row witness, had struck him as reflective and clear-sighted on the subject of
her cousin. If Les was lucky, that insight would be available concerning the rest of her family as well.
The confrontation between Kyle Kennedy and Ryan Paine had occurred within a little-recognized, eight-by-forty-mile rectangle of land parallel to the Massachusetts–Vermont state line, running from New Hampshire to New York—east to west—and marked in the middle by the Harriman Reservoir. The western half of this patch is claimed by the Green Mountain National Forest and remains very thinly populated; the other half is sprinkled by a few tiny communities like Guilford, Halifax, Jacksonville, and Whitingham—scattered along a flimsy web of twisting, hilly, narrow, largely dirt roads that can confuse even the most dependable GPS unit. It was the kind of country made famous in a string of Vermont one-liners concerning flatlanders seeking directions.
Other jokes, however, had a more mean-spirited edge. Unlike other rural pockets in an already unpopulated state—some much touted, like the Northeast Kingdom—this isolated and largely unnamed area was only rarely referred to within Vermont, and often dismissed as being either “single-string-banjo land” or simply an extension of Massachusetts.
Lester found that a great shame. A native of the old urbanized New England rust belt, he loved this quiet, pretty, overlooked mountainous retreat. The tourists could have their Stowes and Killingtons and Quechee Gorges. He’d been bringing his family here for years, in all seasons, for canoeing and ice fishing and hunting and just plain relaxing. He didn’t wish it more popularity, as with those other places; but he didn’t think it deserved disparagement.
Molly Blaze lived a mile or so below Jacksonville, up a short dirt lane in a trailer that had—like so many others—grown a peaked roof, an extensive deck, and a ramshackle garage to protect the family pickup. The only destination left for this once mobile home was to slowly sink into the ground beneath it.
But that appeared to be a fair way off. Though old and a little worn in spots, the place was presentably tidy, with a vegetable garden being prepared to the side and new flowers beginning to appear in boxes hung under the windows. With the recent damp weather, now followed by cool but welcomed sunshine, everything capable of growth was responding eagerly, enriching the multihued green surroundings with a welcome fresh embrace.
Lester parked at the end of the rough driveway and waited briefly behind the wheel—observing backcountry rules of etiquette—for any protective dogs to appear and function as surrogate doorbells.
Sure enough, something close to a black Lab came out from under the house, but with tail wagging and tongue out, its white muzzle speaking of too many years to put up much of a fuss anymore.
As Lester opened his door and stepped out, he heard a woman’s voice call out, “Brutus. You stay. That man does not want his face licked.”
Dog and man both stopped five feet apart, each questioning the woman’s accuracy. Brutus was exactly Lester’s kind of mutt.
Nevertheless, he passed the dog by, trailing his hand so Brutus could touch his fingers with his nose, and approached the front door, where a slim woman with long hair had opened the screen and was holding it ajar with one hand.
“I help you?”
He flipped his jacket open to reveal the badge clipped to his belt. “Lester Spinney, ma’am. I’m from the VBI.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Ooh. You guys are a big deal, right?”
He laughed. “We like to think so, but it depends on who you ask.”
“Does that mean I’m in trouble?” It didn’t seem to bother her much.
“Not as far as I know,” he said. “Are you Molly Blaze?”
The smile broadened. “The one and only.”
“I know I’m coming from out of the blue with this, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few things about your cousin Kyle.”
Her expression became questioning. “You know he’s dead, right?”
“Yeah. Right. I’m sorry,” he retreated slightly. “I shoulda put that better. It’s how he died that I’m asking about.”
“One of you guys shot him,” she said simply but, interestingly, without bitterness or rancor.
“I guess that’s right,” he said. “I was assigned to other things back then, so I suppose I heard about it like everybody else did. It was a big shock.”
“Surprised me, too,” Blaze concurred. “It’s not the way I saw Kyle goin’ out.”
Lester was taken by her response. “Really? Not a go-with-my-boots-on kind of guy?”
She laughed, yet another good sign. “You want a Coke or a coffee or something? It’s a pretty day. Might as well use the deck—if nothing else, to justify the time and money we put into it.”
She stepped back into the trailer, leaving the door open for him to follow. Without answering, he accepted her implied invitation and entered the home.
“Coke would be great,” he said once he crossed the threshold. Looking around, he saw a beautifully kept kitchen and living room, with a hallway beyond—tastefully decorated, clean-smelling, with fresh flowers in a vase on the coffee table. Molly Blaze had crossed over to the fridge and was preparing their drinks.
“Really nice place you got,” he commented. “You live here alone?”
“Thanks,” she replied, keeping to her task. “Looks that way, doesn’t it? I have a husband and two kids—not here right now, of course. They’d probably tell you I torture them to keep things tidy, but this is mostly my doing. I tend to pick up after people. Just a habit—compensates for the usual messy life.”
Lester read behind her words. “Tough growing up?”
“Like everybody else,” she allowed, “we all have our stories.” She handed him a Coke and led him out through a double glass door onto the deck and into the sunshine.
She chose a chair and settled down, waving him into the seat across from her. “I should’ve asked,” she said. “You want lemon in that? Or lime? I got both.”
Lester got comfortable, crossed his legs, and reached for the drink, shaking his head. “I’m all set. Thanks.”
“What do you want to know about Kyle?” she asked. “And why? Isn’t this old news?”
“Well, you’re right,” he told her, keeping his voice casual. “It is. Every once in a while, though, people like me poke into a closed case, just to make sure everything’s squared away.”
“And the poor slob who’s been in jail for twenty years isn’t suddenly proved innocent?” she asked.
He looked slightly pained as he took a sip of his Coke. “That’s a worst-case example, and obviously not the case here.”
“You saying Kyle didn’t shoot that cop?”
“No, no, no,” he reassured her. “None of the facts have changed. What happened, happened.” He paused to take another sip, playing for enough time to think through what he wanted to say, now that he’d sized up his audience.
“It’s just that at the time, because of the headlines and publicity, there was a big push to get everything squared away, so that passions could settle down as soon as possible.”
“And the lawsuits would go away,” she suggested with a small smile, watching him carefully.
“Those, too, I guess,” he conceded. “I don’t doubt a few lawyers were hoping they had a cash cow on their hands. That’s actually one thing I haven’t researched.” He then said, “Were there any suits filed in the end? I never knew.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s like you said. Once the Attorney General or whoever it was said they shot each other during a traffic stop, that was sort of it. The family went back to drinking and feeling sorry for itself.”
“Ouch,” he said, almost despite himself.
She shrugged it off. “It’s not my branch, not really. My mom and Kyle’s were sisters, and they never liked each other. Actually, Kyle was about the only one of them I thought had something on the ball. The rest of them’re a waste of time. I shouldn’t say that—his sister Lorraine’s okay.”
“You spend a lot of time with Kyle?” he asked.
“Enough,” she
said. “He had an attitude—don’t get me wrong. The man could be an asshole, ’specially around women—course, what man isn’t? But never with me. We were buddies, plus we were family, like I said, so that made it different. I was like the older sister he didn’t have. Well, Lorraine’s older, by a lot, but she had her own problems.”
“You’d give him advice?”
“Yeah—which he’d never take. I’d give it a shot now and then, even if it was like trying to teach a preschooler rocket science.”
Lester laughed. “Sounds like you had a lot of practice. Is that why the first investigators looked you up? To ask you about Kyle’s personality?”
“Not really,” she said. “They just wanted to know when I’d last seen him, what we’d talked about, and if he ever had a grudge against the cop.”
“Ryan Paine.”
“Right.”
“What did you tell them?”
She lifted three fingers, one at a time. “A few days earlier, nothing much, and I never heard the name Ryan Paine before this whole thing blew up. We talked for twenty minutes, tops, and they didn’t seem super interested in anything I had to say, outside of answering those three questions. It was kinda lame, if you ask me.”
“Point taken,” he said. “Tell me about Kyle. What was he like? You said he was different from the rest of his family.”
She sounded wistful. “He could be sweet, for one thing. He thought he was a ladies’ man, but it was more he was a sloppy jerk who couldn’t take no for an answer. Women would like him at first, ’cause of his manners and the attention he’d give ’em, but then one side of the equation or the other would get tired of it, and that would be the end of it. I kept warning him to cool his jets and pick on a higher class of chick, but he kept rooting around in the beer section, hoping to find champagne—if you get my meaning.”
Lester did. “Did he ever get violent because of these fallouts?”
Blaze shook her head. “He’d get drunk and lick his wounds—usually come crying to me. He might’ve got into a shoving match. I think I heard about one girl calling the cops, but I never saw him raise a hand to anybody—ever.”