River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  "Where does it go from here?"

  "I have no idea. Once it's out of our hands, we kinda forget about it, although technically it's still our problem. But we pay Enviro-Joe a small fortune to worry about that for us. I could always get the Baby Step down here to explain it all to you."

  "No, thanks," I said. "I was just a little curious."

  "No problem, Stuart." Gertling scooped up a mountain of paperwork and headed for a large black cabinet to do some filing.

  I headed back to the stockroom, my head buzzing with random thoughts.

  By 3:15 I had made all my deliveries and assembled enough boxes to ship the entire contents of the Boston Public Library. My feet were throbbing and my back was screaming in protest. All of this brought a huge smile to Hugh Gertling's face.

  "Nice job, Stuart," he said. "You may as well go on home and get some rest. We have to do it all over again tomorrow."

  "Are you leaving, too?"

  "I'll probably be here until 5:00 or so. There's only so much I can take." He slapped me on the back. "Seven o'clock, then?"

  "Sure, if I can still get out of bed."

  Gertling laughed and went back to his work. I limped to my truck and fired it up. I took one last look at the Town River before I found first gear and chugged away.

  "Damn, Billy," I said, "you've been working almost as hard as I have." I handed up a six pack of Budweiser and two Styrofoam containers, then climbed the short ladder up to the deck of Billy's lobster boat. Billy's face was slicked with sweat, a smile creasing the middle of it.

  "Yeah, well, I had a good day today. Made a lot of progress."

  Billy pulled two cans of Bud from their plastic rings and shoved one at me. "With a little luck, I'll be able to float her by the weekend. Larson Marine will work on the engine for me. What's in the boxes?"

  "Clams in one, scallops in the other. Percy’s Lobster Pound was hopping tonight. Take your pick."

  Billy reached for the scallops and used a short plastic fork to roll them around in tartar sauce. The clams were big and sweet, lightly battered and fried to perfection. We ate in silence, slurping beer and grunting occasionally. The sun was sinking behind a group of oak trees in Billy's back yard, sending his driveway into dappled shadows.

  "Do you know a Donnie Broadhurst?" I asked. Billy balanced his beer on one knee and sucked at his teeth, cocking his head at me. "I don't know why the name sounds so familiar. I can't put a face with it. Who the hell is he?"

  “Sounds like a friend of Lapierre's. From what I gather, they're out at sea together. I asked Heather to check on them. I haven't talked to her since then. It'll be interesting to see what they've been up to lately."

  Billy grunted and finished his beer, then walked me around the boat to show off his work. I could sense a little more enthusiasm in him today, in his walk and in his speech. Most of the evidence of the vandalism had been erased, and with it, Billy's blues seemed to be evaporating as well. I could tell he was itchy to get back on the water.

  "How's Jill?" I asked.

  "Doing great. She's ready to come home. I think Derek would stay for the rest of the summer. They have plenty of things to keep him busy out there."

  "Anything else going on?"

  "Like what?" Billy popped the last scallop in his mouth and stuffed the container into a green garbage bag.

  "Like phone calls in the middle of the night. Like flat tires, or spray paint. Things like that."

  "Nothing," said Billy. He pulled another can of Bud from its plastic retainer and snapped it open. A rusted Ford pickup chugged by. The driver tapped out a staccato beat on the horn, and Billy lifted his hand in acknowledgement. "Maybe it's over. Maybe whoever it is wanted their message to get across and that's it."

  "Sounds like wishful thinking, partner. But maybe what's more likely is that the bastard got scared. I think people like this are cowards, to begin with. When someone stands up to them, they generally back down."

  "Is that why you had me send my family away for a while?"

  "Look, Billy, better safe than sorry, right. I mean until we know for sure who or what we're dealing with."

  "Yeah, right." Billy sucked at his beer, his face becoming clouded and his mood pensive. I walked around to the bow and silently kicked my own ass for never being able to find the right words to say.

  "So tell me about this new job," said Billy. He was pushing a broom around the deck, making tiny piles of dirt here and there. “Is this going to be a permanent thing for you?"

  "No way. These guys work way too hard. I'll be there just long enough to figure out if there's any validity to my hunches."

  "How does your new boss feel about that?"

  "He doesn't know yet. He probably wouldn't be in love with the idea, though." I picked up a dustpan and held it for Billy while he pushed scraps into it.

  Billy laid the broom down and sat on a white bucket. He took his hat off and put his face in his hands. I stood next to him and put a hand on one of his thick shoulders.

  "Hey, you look tired. How about a break? We could catch a movie, or maybe go fishing."

  "Thanks, Stu," he said. He jammed his hat back in place and dry-washed his face. "I think I'll just hang out here, maybe drink a few more beers and watch the Red Sox. Jill said she'd call tonight, and I'd hate to miss it."

  “No sweat, Billy. I'm going to give it another day before I look in on your friend LaPierre again. Give me a call if you need anything. I'd give you my work number, but I have no idea what it is. Just leave a message on my phone and I'll call you right back."

  "Yeah. No problem."

  "I'll be in touch," I said, backing my way down the ladder.

  "Thanks, Stu." Billy waved and picked up a cordless drill and small box of stainless steel screws.

  I waved back and got in my truck. I took one last look at Billy in my rearview mirror. He was sitting down again, holding his big head with both hands.

  "Are you sure you didn't see anything, Mrs. Ferrel?" I asked, keeping one eye on her snarling pooch.

  "No, I didn't see anything, Stuart. But now that you say it, Pedro did seem a little more agitated than usual this afternoon. I thought he might have been barking at some kids playing in the neighborhood. He's a little bit nervous at times." She smiled and tucked a few strands of gray hair behind one ear.

  "Did you call the police,” she asked.

  "Not yet, but I will. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right with you."

  "I'm fine. God, this used to be such a nice neighborhood. Did they get much?"

  "It's hard to tell at this point," I said. "I'll have to take a closer look." Pedro advanced toward my ankles, then retreated and squirmed between his master's legs. "Mrs. Ferrel, this is important. If you happen to see anyone you're suspicious of, even someone you don't recognize right away, just call the police and report it. Don't take any chances."

  "Oh, don't worry, Stuart. Me and Pedro can take care of ourselves."

  "Please, Mrs. Ferrel, just let the police handle it. I'll pay for any damages to your property." I waved and went back to my side of the two-family while Pedro chattered away.

  The front door had big gouges around the latch where someone had jimmied it open. The door jamb took a beating too and would have to be repaired if I ever wanted to lock up again.

  In the living room, what little furniture I did have was all upside down. Someone had used a knife on the back of the couch, ripping the fabric the entire length. Even the cushions were cut into pieces, the stuffing scattered everywhere. My TV was upside down; I hadn't yet located the cable box.

  My bedroom had received the same treatment. Dresser drawers had been overturned, their contents scattered. Underwear and T-shirts hung from a lamp beside the bed.

  The spare room is what hurt the most. My latest batch of beer had been knocked over and was slowly seeping through the hardwood floor and into the cellar. Most of the equipment had been destroyed. I shook my head in disgust and closed the door.
/>   I picked my way through the rubble to the kitchen. I righted the table and one chair and used a foot to kick the refrigerator door closed. My cell phone chirped.

  "McCann," I said.

  “Hi, McCann," said Heather. "'Bout time you answered your phone. What’s happening?"

  "Someone broke into my apartment. They tossed the place pretty good."

  "Damn! Was Mrs. Ferrel home?"

  "Yeah. She's okay. Didn't see or hear anything. I was tempted to interview the dog. I guess he raised a ruckus, but he's always doing that so she didn't pay attention."

  "What'd they get, Stu?"

  "Heck if I know. I can't imagine having anything anyone would want." I sat down on one arm of the couch and blew out a sigh.

  "Well, I managed to dig up some dirt on the two guys you were interested in."

  "Let me find something to write with," I said. "I had a notebook around here somewhere."

  Then it hit me. John Barcom's notebook. Where the hell did I leave it?

  "You still there, Stu?"

  "I'm here. Can I call you back?"

  "I'm leaving the office soon. Try me at home in about an hour. What's wrong, Stu?"

  "I just had a thought. I have an idea about what someone might be looking for. I gotta go." I broke the connection and placed the phone on the coffee table, trying to remember the last time I saw the notebook.

  Jesus, John. I knew you were trying to tell me something.

  Chapter 17

  Think, think, think, McCann. I paced back and forth between the kitchen and living room, stepping over and around all the debris. Where in hell was John's little diary?

  I remembered having it on the couch, maybe two nights ago, but the rest was a blank. I wandered into the bedroom, hoping to stimulate my memory, and began absentmindedly straightening things, folding T-shirts and underwear, fixing a crooked picture on the wall.

  I stood back and stared at the painting, pondering. It was a winter scene, a cabin in the woods, smoke curling from a brick chimney, even frost on the windows. Another yard sale bargain. I turned away, and that's when the penny dropped.

  Cold. Frost. Of course. I clapped my hands together and smiled at the way Providence sometimes guided my life.

  I made my way back to the kitchen and pulled open the freezer. The notebook was nestled in the middle of a huge stack of bluefish fillets. I dug it out and removed it from its freezer bag, blowing into my fists to warm my fingers.

  Why in hell would someone want it? Who would even know about it? Obviously, John was trying to tell a story, but what the hell it was I hadn't a clue. I thumbed through the book, checking each page carefully for something I might have missed. I counted seven pages that had drawings or writing on them; all the rest were blank. The drawings didn't make much sense to me. Nor did the numbers that were on each page. I did have an idea, though.

  I found my phone again and dialed Heather at her office. She picked it up on the third ring.

  "It's me," I said. "I found what I was looking for."

  "What is it, Stu?"

  "A notebook. I grabbed it where John used to work."

  "What kind of notebook? What's in it?"

  "That's the problem I'm having. I've been wracking my brain, but I can't figure it out. It's in some kind of code."

  "Code?"

  "I mean there's a lot of pictures and symbols and numbers, but so far I haven't been able to make any sense out of it."

  "I think you may be watching too much late-night TV."

  "Very funny," I said. "I really think this is important, Heather."

  "And..."

  “And what are you doing this evening?"

  "I'm beat. I was just going to take a hot bath and crawl into bed.”

  “Sounds good to me," I said. "I have hot water over here, and a bed, too, although I'll have to assemble it again."

  "Don't get crazy."

  "Seriously, Heather. Could you swing by here? Two heads are better than one."

  "Why the hell are you always doing this to me?"

  "I need your help," I said.

  "Dammit," she said. She was silent for perhaps ten seconds, then let out a long breath. "No, I can't make it. Not tonight."

  "I understand. Hey listen, it's no problem." I thumped my fist on my thigh hard enough to raise a lump. "I'll figure it out."

  Now it was my turn to supply the silence.

  "Hello?"

  "I'm still here," I said. "Let's talk about the two pillars of society I asked you about. Tell me what Broadhurst has been up to." I sank to the couch and propped my feet up on the coffee table.

  "That one has quite a rap sheet," said Heather. "He did a stretch up at Concord for car theft and some more for aggravated assault. He bit part of a person's ear off in a bar fight."

  "Beautiful," I said. "Anything else?"

  "A few smash-and-grab robberies as a youngster. Possession of cocaine. Possession of marijuana with intent to distribute."

  "Okay, I get the idea. His father pointed him down the wrong path, by example, a long time ago. What about the other guy?"

  "LaPierre is relatively clean," she said. "Breaking and entering, but that was a long time ago. More recently, he was arrested for DUI. That was down on the Cape."

  "That's it?"

  "That's all I could find. You were hoping for more?"

  "I didn't know what to expect. I appreciate the help. How many favors do I owe you now?"

  "Forget it," she said. "I'm leaving. It's been a long day."

  "Okay, Heather. Thanks again."

  And then she was gone.

  I padded to the kitchen and sat down at the table, cracking a lukewarm beer from the fridge. I swung open the notebook and flipped through the pages again, hoping something would make sense.

  I had a feeling about the first scene, a river with moored boats and seagulls soaring overhead. Something wasn't quite right, but I couldn't wrap my brain around it. I also had the feeling I'd been there before, but couldn't say exactly where it was. I sipped some beer and stared at the picture, turned it upside down and sideways, but nothing clicked. I tucked the notebook into the back pocket of my jeans and dumped half the beer down the sink.

  In the bedroom, I finished reassembling things just enough to allow me a decent night's sleep. I flopped down on the bed and picked up a fishing equipment catalog, but my eyelids refused to stay up.

  I don't remember the last time I slept so soundly and completely, and for seven uninterrupted hours. Even the dream about the accident seemed to have abated, at least for the time being.

  A damp, gray haze had descended over the South Shore during the night. It was a physical presence, with moisture dripping off the leaves and sliding off the hoods of cars in little rivers.

  I brushed my teeth and exchanged yesterday's shirt for a fresh one before hitting Whitey's and tanking up on an artery-blocking breakfast that Paul Bunyan would've had trouble finishing. Whitey pressed me to make fishing arrangements, but I succeeded in deflecting him.

  In the parking lot of StanMel Circuits, I stared across the river and watched through my rearview mirror as the cars slowly filtered in and found their familiar slots. In the apartment building on the opposite bank, I could see lights snapping on at random intervals as everyone's day churned to a start.

  John's notebook was open on the seat beside me, but I was sick of staring at the cryptic pictures. I saw Hugh Gertling pull in the lot. He got out of his car carrying a lunch box and a black binder, looking as if he'd been burning a tanker-full of midnight oil.

  I started to flip the notebook closed when something caught my eye. I held it up against the steering wheel and stared out over the river. The first page was a river scene, and here I was parked near a river.

  The apartment building on the opposite bank looked exactly the same in real life as it did in John's picture. The moored boats were different, but that was to be expected. There were no sun or seagulls today, but aside from that, the scene in the pic
ture had been right in front of my eyes all along.

  "Hey," said a muffled voice. Hugh Gertling tapped on the driver's window with the edge of his lunchbox.

  I was so startled that I dropped the notebook. I clawed it off the floor of the truck while I rolled the window down. It squeaked to about half way, then stopped.

  “You coming to work today, or not?"

  "Wouldn't miss it, Hugh. Just give me a minute."

  "What do you have there?" he said, poking his head inside the cab. "I was just going over some notes." I tucked the book into my back pocket and grabbed the newspaper I had stolen from Whitey's. "Let's get to it."

  Gertling led the way to the loading dock, pausing a couple of times to greet his fellow workers. My mind was racing, trying to connect the rest of the pictures in the book.

  "Invoices," said Hugh, after he started the coffee machine bubbling. He threw a heavy stack at me and pointed toward the wall of boxes we had assembled yesterday. "Fill 'em up, Stu."

  I gave a half-hearted salute and started matching paperwork with product in the bottoms of the boxes, picking up, it seemed, right where yesterday had left off. I was getting faster, but Hugh was still gaining on me, filling the boxes with packing peanuts and slapping on shipping labels.

  The day progressed pretty much like the one before, and while I was starting to feel a little more comfortable with the job itself, I wondered how people could do the same thing day in and day out and not get bored out of their skulls. Maybe they all were, only they had somehow tricked themselves into coming to work every day, stuck doing the same monotonous tasks over and over again.

  One thing was for certain. One way or another, I wouldn't last long in the workaday world of StanMel Circuits.

  Just before noontime, Hugh Gertling held out a set of keys and smiled at me.

  "What?" I said.

  "I went to get the keys myself. Figured you had enough of the Baby Step yesterday."

  "What do we need this time?"

  "Go down to our storage room and see if you can find a couple of soldering irons that at least heat up. There should be a socket down there you can plug into. Bring them up and give them to our friend Shirley. If you can’t find any good ones, we’ll order some."