River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  I immediately noticed an odor, but I couldn't quite place it. Maybe some sort of chemicals, with old cardboard boxes and motor oil mixed in. It wasn't unpleasant, just different.

  "I don't know how much of a tour I can give you in five minutes," said Gertling, "but let's try anyway." He led me through the loading dock and out into an area with rows and rows of work benches, flipping lights on when we needed them. Every station seemed to be equipped in the same manner except for a few personal items, pictures and keepsakes and such. The whole room had the look of a sort of quiet disarray.

  "This is where all our assembly work is done," said Gertling. "We manufacture the circuit boards, and then if the customer wants them assembled we can do that, too. Most of it's automated, but some work still has to be done by hand."

  "Where did John work?"

  "Over there," said Gertling, pointing to an oversized bench on the far side. "It was easier for John to be on the end. That way he didn't have to drag that chair of his through an obstacle course to get to his workspace."

  "Do you mind?" I said, weaving my way through the benches and chairs to where he pointed.

  "Go ahead. I'm going to pick up those papers I needed. I'll meet you back here in a few minutes." Gertling slipped out a door and back to the loading dock.

  John's bench was so cluttered that only a small portion of the top was visible. I counted at least ten pairs of tweezers. There were rolls of solder scattered everywhere, as well as dozens of reels of miniature electronic components. Small bottles of chemicals with bold labels describing their contents stood ready for service.

  The bench had two drawers, a big one on the bottom which held nothing but dust balls, and a smaller one that had some personal items strewn inside. I pawed through pens and pencils and sticky notes, not looking for anything in particular until I came upon a picture of John and somebody I didn't recognize. Both men had a grip on a huge striped bass that had to go at least thirty pounds. John's smile was enormous.

  I placed the picture on the bench and yanked the drawer out further, running my hand inside. Another small tug and the drawer landed with a crash at my feet, spilling most of its contents. I crouched and began loading things back in, clawing at pens and pencils that went rolling under the bench.

  When I had everything collected I tried to work the drawer back on its tracks, but I couldn't get it in the groove. After a few seconds of trying it slid into place and rolled smoothly back until it got three-quarters in, then stopped. I yanked it out of the tracks again and peered into the vacancy.

  A small white notebook had been taped to the top of the space where the drawer slid in. Some of the tape had been torn off, and the notebook was hanging down, preventing the drawer from sliding home. I reached in and clawed at the notebook until the tape surrendered.

  “Are you through, Stuart?"

  I almost jumped out of my skin. "Yeah, I think so." I worked the drawer back into place and eased it shut, tucking the notebook into my back pocket, tape and all, at the same time. Gertling made his way across the assembly area, weaving his way through benches and chairs. When he got to where I was, I flashed the picture at him.

  "Oh, yeah," he said. "John loved that picture. That was a couple of years ago."

  “Is this Melvin Addson?" I said, tapping the photo.

  "The one and only. God, can you believe it? Neither of those two guys is alive anymore." He shook his head and walked away. "Let's get on with the tour, Stuart. My wife is going to be pissed as it is."

  Gertling led me through another door and down a long hallway, flipping more switches as we went. At the end, a door opened out into a large manufacturing area with all sorts of machinery positioned around the floor. Red and orange lights gave off a dull glow that did little to push back the darkness.

  "This is where we make the circuit boards," said Gertling. He swiped at a row of switches and the whole room lit up. "I don't know that much about the actual fabrication process. I just work the loading dock."

  "That smell," I said. "Is that some sort of chemicals they use when they're making the boards?"

  "Yeah, and the reason I know is they all come through the loading dock. There are so many different kinds that I have trouble keeping track of it all."

  "I guess you'd get used to it, but it smells pretty strong to me."

  "You don't notice it after a while, though sometimes I wonder how good all this stuff can be for you." Gertling hit the lights again and let the door slam shut behind us. "The rest is just a bunch of offices, up around the front. Not real interesting." He flipped all the switches off as we made our way back.

  "Does StanMel ever run a second shift? It seems like a waste to have all that equipment sitting around in the dark."

  "Once in a while we'll run a big job and people will work late, but they like to keep it strictly voluntary. Stanley tries to make it a friendly, easy-going environment for all the workers, and I think he's pretty much successful. ‘Course when push comes to shove, you still got a business to run."

  In two minutes we were back on the loading dock, surrounded by boxes and pallet jacks and packing peanuts. Gertling jiggled his keys while I drained a glass of water from a cooler.

  "Well," he said, "does that satisfy your curiosity?"

  "Yeah, and thanks. Oh, one more thing. Can you show me where you found John? I hate to be morbid, but while we're here..."

  "Oh yeah. Over here." Gertling led me to a stairway that was dark with shadows despite the glow of the overhead lights. Ten concrete steps led down to a landing. I could see a glint of silver in the darkness.

  "It gives me the creeps," he said.

  "Is that a door down there?"

  "Yes. There's a room off to the left. It's mostly for storing old equipment, like soldering irons and microscopes."

  "Do you have a key?"

  "It's around here somewhere. Why?"

  "Just curious," I said. "How did you notice John if it's so dark down there?"

  "There's a light right here." Gertling flicked a switch and the area lit up. I could see a dark stain on the landing, and a shiver tickled my spine. I turned away.

  "Was the light on when you found him?"

  "God, you really are a PI. Yes, the light was on, otherwise, I might not've seen him." Gertling hit the switch and sent the area back into darkness. "I've really got to move now, Stuart. My wife's going to skin me alive."

  “I appreciate you taking the time. Just one more thing. What's this sign all about?" I pointed at a poster that was thumb-tacked to the wall.

  "We're looking to hire some people, and that's Stanley's way of finding them. He puts these signs up, and if any of the employees know someone that might be right for the job, he'll bring them in for an interview. If the new person works out, the employee who recommended them gets a bonus."

  "That way you're hiring a known quantity," I said.

  "That's it. Right now we're looking for two or three assemblers, and also someone to help me out on the loading dock. You don't happen to know anyone that's interested, do you?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I might."

  "Have them give me a call," said Gertling. He led us down a flight of stairs and out into the gathering dusk, locking the door behind us.

  I thanked him again and watched him drive away, then strolled over to the bank of the river and watched the oily water slithering by.

  I stood there a few moments with the shadows closing in around me, letting the thoughts ricochet inside my head. I had a feeling that the standard five-minute tour of StanMel Circuits wasn't nearly enough to show me what went on in there. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to learn. A cold ball of ice settled in the pit of my stomach, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention.

  What if John Barcom's death hadn't been accidental at all?

  What if the same was true of Melvin Addson's death?

  What if the answers were inside the doors of StanMel Circuits?

  Crazy
shit. I shook my head to clear it and took one last look at the slippery water, then started my truck and pointed it

  toward home.

  My cell phone was ringing when I put my key in the lock, but by the time I got through the door, whoever it was hung up. They didn't feel like leaving a message. For that matter, neither did anyone else.

  I switched on the TV and surfed the channels until I found a Red Sox game, then poured a cold pilsner into a tall glass and settled onto the couch next to a half-bag of stale potato chips. I munched a few and watched an inning, sipping at the beer.

  What the hell, I thought, and reached for the phone.

  Heather answered on the fourth ring, right before I was about to hang up.

  "Hi, you," I said.

  "Hello, Stuart. What's going on?"

  "Not much, really. Just taking you up on your invitation."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You know. Calling anytime I felt the need."

  "Oh, yeah," she said. I heard her stifle a yawn.

  "Not a good time?"

  "I'm beat, Stu. But I meant what I said."

  "I appreciate it," I said. "I guess I need help sorting my thoughts out."

  "What else is new?"

  I was silent, and so was she, for twenty seconds. I could her breathing through our connection. I imagined her breath landing in my ear.

  Finally, she said, "I'm sorry. That wasn't very fair. Tell me what's up."

  I told her about my visit to StanMel Circuits, including all my impressions of the place. I mentioned my unease about the whole situation, admitting it was just a gut feeling, with nothing really solid to go on. I even threw in Billy Cardell's dilemma.

  "Sounds like you have a full plate, Stu."

  "Yeah, and I spent the day fishing. Typical, huh?"

  "Dodging something?" she asked.

  "Responsibility would be the obvious answer."

  "No comment."

  “Hey, listen," I said, shifting gears, "I really enjoyed that night at LuLu's." I sipped a little beer to wet my suddenly parched throat.

  "Yeah. It was okay."

  "I was wondering. Would you like to go to dinner some time?" Well, I thought, there it is. I felt like a teenager asking a cheerleader out for a slice of pizza.

  "I don't know, Stu. Is that such a good idea?"

  "Yeah, it's a pretty good idea, and I don't have many, so we really should take advantage of it."

  More silence. I let it stretch for perhaps fifteen seconds, then cleared my throat. "Well, you don't have to decide right now. I just thought..."

  "I can't get hurt again," she said, her voice a tiny whisper in my ear. "I don't have the energy for it. I don't want to struggle the way we did before. I..."

  "I'm sorry, Heather. Maybe it was unfair of me to put you on the spot like that. And honestly, I never meant to hurt you."

  "I know it didn't start out that way, but that's sure as hell how it ended up."

  I had no comeback, and for once I was shrewd enough to know when I'd been bested. We exchanged a few more tense words, dancing around issues just like old times. She said again that I could call whenever I felt the need, and I thanked her for running the plate for me, and for listening, and that was that.

  I punched in Billy Cardell's number but he didn't answer, so I left a message telling him I'd be down in Hull bright and early tomorrow. I was certain he'd be thrilled.

  The Red Sox didn't look like they needed my help, so I switched off the set and sat in the darkness. Something about StanMel Circuits didn't sit well with me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had an uneasy feeling the whole time I was there.

  Maybe it was just the fact that John had died there, and...

  Damn! I used an open palm to smack my forehead, then pulled out the notebook I'd found while I was at StanMel. I unwrapped the tape and flipped it open.

  The first page was a scenic picture in great detail. It looked very familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place it. It was a river, with boats tied to moorings and people lining the banks. The sun was shining, and two seagulls flitted across a cloudless sky. In one corner was the number 5.

  I flipped through a few blank pages until I was looking at a pretty good rendition of a striped bass, heavy through the belly, with a broad tail and dark horizontal lines. The whole thing was done in pencil, except for the eyes, which were glaring at me through a blood red haze. This time a Roman numeral, a V representing another five, stood in the corner.

  On the next page, I found the same fish, only this time he was upside down. His eyes had gone from red to a milky white. Even the powerful tail seemed to have lost its steam. Five tally marks, four straight up and down with one slashed through the middle, sat in the lower right hand corner.

  The book contained four more pictures, and all were equally as mystifying. There was a barrel that had a skeleton sitting on top; this time a simple number four was on the front of the barrel. A skull and crossbones filled one page, with seven smaller duplicates encircling it. Five seagulls were laying on a beach, with another circling overhead.

  On the last page, the grim reaper, complete with scythe and hooded robe, stood poised and ready. The number nine was emblazoned on his chest.

  I flipped back through the pages and admired the artwork, but the pictures made no sense. Did the notebook even belong to John?

  What if that had been his desk for only a short time, and the employee who'd been there before had drawn all these scenes?

  I closed my eyes and laid the book beside me on the couch. What the hell did any of it mean? I tried to connect the pictures, without any luck, and the numbers didn't mean anything either.

  I thought about John Barcom rolling around StanMel Circuits in his wheelchair, about how he had said stairs scared the hell out of him. About Heather. About nothing, because sleep was pulling her black veil over me, and it felt at once warm and uninviting, but I went there anyway because you can only fight and lose so much before you go crazy.

  Chapter 13

  "Well, if that don't beat it all," said Whitey. "A trip to the Cape Cod Canal without your fishing partner." He glanced over his shoulder for signs of Doris, who was bouncing around in the kitchen.

  At 6:30 in the morning, Whitey looked as though he'd already put in a full day.

  "I knew I'd catch hell for it, but I just had to get away." I slurped at some black coffee while Whitey glared at me. "Don't look at me like that. It sounds like you had better luck around here anyway."

  "Thirty-six inches," said Whitey, "and about nineteen pounds worth. I caught him on a surface plug, with my light outfit. Took about fifteen minutes to land him."

  "See," I said. "You're probably better off without me. Now stop gloating, and don't rub it in."

  "Okay, okay. Let's hook up later on in the week. It's shaping up for a midnight high tide, with a full moon to boot. Nothing's better for a big striper."

  Doris swung open the kitchen doors and strode toward us, waving an oversized spatula like a war club. Whitey rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  "Whitey!" she bellowed. "Do you think those eggs are going to cook themselves? These people don't want fish stories, they want omelets." She glared at me, and I held both hands up in surrender. She thrust the spatula into his shaking hands and guided him toward the kitchen. Whitey winked at me over one shoulder.

  I devoured three eggs and a slab of ham, washing everything down with another two cups of coffee. By the time I headed for the door Whitey's was packed. A few old-timers were waiting for seats on the bench outside, smoking cigarettes and reading the Boston Herald.

  There were no messages on my phone. I checked on the progress of my latest batch of beer, then pecked some notes into the computer, mostly concerning John Barcom and my impressions of StanMel Circuits. I called Billy to let him know I'd be there soon.

  I thought about trying Heather, then chickened out.

  On the way to Hull, the dark clouds that had thus far just been threatening began to
fulfill their promise. By the time I got to the Carousel on Nantasket Beach, the mist had turned into full-fledged raindrops. I sat in a queue at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru while my wipers spat water from side to side. I collected two cups of coffee and drove the rest of the way to Billy's.

  Billy's lobster boat filled the driveway and spilled over into the backyard. I could see him in the pilothouse, fiddling with a piece of Plexiglas that had a crack running through the middle. I climbed the ladder and handed him a container of coffee.

  "Better hurry up with this old tub," I said. "We may need it if it doesn't stop raining."

  “Go get two of everything," he said. "And start with two beers." He pried the cover off his coffee and sipped tentatively, then replaced it. "I thought you were going to sleep all day."

  “That's what happens when you don't sleep at night. So how's it going?"

  "I'm making progress. I've already rewired some of the electronics, and most of the cosmetic stuff is done. I figure another two or three good days and I'll be set to float her again. This rain doesn't help." He used the back of one wrist to swipe moisture from his forehead.

  "Have you heard from Jill?"

  "She called last night. Derek's having a ball out there. They got a creek running through the back of their land, full of little brookies and rainbows. He's having a ball yanking 'em out. It's a nice place for a kid."

  I propped my coffee on a stool and squeezed inside the pilothouse with Billy. The rain was starting to slacken, but water was dripping everywhere. An easterly wind was pushing bloated gray clouds in from the Atlantic.

  Billy grunted, struggling to extract the Plexiglas. I gave him a hand and we wiggled and pulled until finally, it popped free.

  "I have a couple of new pieces in the truck," he said. "I hope I got the measurements right." He bounced down the ladder and disappeared.

  I heard the truck door open and then close. I looked around the pilothouse at some of the pictures Billy kept for the company on the long days out pulling traps. A lot of them were dog-eared and had Scotch tape running across the people, holding the two halves together. There was a picture of Billy and Jill, each holding Derek's hand, taken out on one of the islands in Boston harbor. Another of me and Billy in our Navy uniforms. A school picture of Derek. Billy's father in his barbershop in Georgia, relaxing in a chair. The resemblance was remarkable.