In Shadows (12 page)

RAMER DROVE UP THE MUDDY DRIVE
to Pam and Ernie’s neighbors’ home, and Jake sighed as he stared at the walk leading to the front porch.

Cramer gave him a questioning look.

“Let’s start somewhere else,” said Jake.

“Where else?”

“Anywhere,” said Jake. “Bert’s an old friend. His wife, Karen, is a cousin.”

“Like there’s anyone around here who isn’t. Seemed like everybody at the get-together Thursday night was either a cousin or someone you dumped.”

Jake frowned. “It’s a small valley.”

“Small ain’t the half of it. This place
is petit petit.
Look, I don’t like having to disturb the Murphys, either, but if we’re going to investigate, then let’s investigate. We have to talk to everyone in the valley sooner or later, and they’re the closest.”

“Mister Business,” said Jake.
“You
tell them it was us chasing their kid.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come up. There’s no reason the cops had to tell them anyone else was chasing the boy.”

Jake knocked on the door as water trickled down the back of his neck. The rain was heavier now, penny-sized drops pattering down from a dark but still-silent sky. Karen Murphy answered the door in her bathrobe. Her face was puffy and red, and her dark-rimmed eyes looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. She had a cigarette in her hand, and the smell of stale tobacco assailed Jake. She stared at the two of them for a moment as though she couldn’t quite focus.

“Jake!” she said finally, her voice worn and raspy. “Come on in. You guys are getting soaked.”

She herded them over to a wide sofa that had seen better days, adjusting the floor vent so warm air would blow in their direction. Jake introduced Cramer.

“Bert’s in the bedroom, lying down. I’ll get him,” said Karen.

As they watched her amble away down the hall Jake noticed how much her shoulders sagged, and he suddenly wished that Bert would refuse to come out and meet them. But then Bert stumbled into the room, and it was obvious he didn’t recognize Jake. Bert had always been thin and short of stature, but the weight of Dary’s death seemed to have compressed him even more. He looked as though one more blow might make him disappear altogether.

Jake took his hand and shook it gently. “It’s me, Bert. Jake Crowley.”

To Jake’s amazement, Bert fell into his arms and jerked him close, slapping his back. “Jake! Jeez, I’m so glad to see you.”

Jake tried to introduce Cramer, but Bert dragged Jake down onto the sofa, still hugging him like a long-lost brother.

“I can’t believe you came back, Jake. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Bert.” Jake gave Karen a look, but she shrugged. No salvation there.

“We didn’t know what to do,” said Bert. “I mean . . . you know . . . After the deputies came and told us about Dary. We have to go to the funeral home this afternoon and pick out a casket . . .”

Without warning he buried his head in Jake’s shirt again and began to sob.

“I know, Bert. I’m sorry.”

“They say he stole a car. Dary would never do anything like that.”

Jake bit his lip.

“He was so afraid the last couple of days,” whispered Karen.

“What was he afraid of?” asked Jake, a sense of doom worming its way between his shoulder blades.

“He kept saying there was something bad here that was going to get us,” said Karen, sitting on the edge of a coffee table that was more cigarette burns than veneer. “Bert told him it was just the bogeyman.”

“I didn’t mean to make fun of him,” said Bert, sniffling. “I just didn’t want him to be a sissy.”

“He wasn’t a sissy. He was a fine boy,” Karen said between tight lips, as tears rolled down her cheeks. “The funeral is day after tomorrow.”

Cramer shook his head. Karen and Bert didn’t know anything beyond their own grief.

“I don’t know how to say how sorry I am,” said Jake, taking Karen’s hand.

She nodded. “We know it was you that followed him,” she said.

“Cramer and I tried to stop him,” muttered Jake, feeling trapped and guilty.

“Was he going real fast?” said Bert.

“We couldn’t get around him to head him off.”

“Was he running from you?” asked Karen, her eyes boring into Jake like wet lasers.

Jake had no answer. The silence burned.

“He was running from the thing he was afraid of,” said Bert, shaking his head. “Mark told the deputy that when Dary jumped in his car he looked like a frightened rabbit.”

“Mark?” said Cramer. “You know the owner of the car?”

Bert glanced at Cramer. “Sure. Mark Robbins. Jake knows him. He was there when they brought up Dary and the car. I guess the police called him.”

“I didn’t realize it was Mark’s car,” said Jake.

“So you were at home when it happened?” said Cramer.

Bert nodded.

“Were either of you out and about the day Albert was killed?” asked Jake.

“No,” said Bert, glancing at Karen. “I’ve been laid off from the mill, and we haven’t been anywhere in a couple of weeks. Why do you ask?”

Jake shook his head. “I just wondered if you had any ideas about Uncle Albert’s killing.”

Bert seemed to take a minute to wrap his mind around the concept of something other than his boy’s death. “No . . . One of Virgil’s deputies came by to ask questions. But like I say, we haven’t been out of the house. It’s terrible about Albert. I’m really sorry for your loss, too, Jake.”

“We won’t bother you any longer, then,” said Jake, nodding and rising.

Bert rose with him, taking Jake’s hand in a firm grip. “I know you were trying to do what was right, Jake.”

All Jake could do was nod.

But Cramer wasn’t done. “What do you think Dary was running from?”

“He was acting real funny the last few days,” said Karen,
her voice quavering. “Up till then Dary’d never been afraid of anything. He used to ride his bike up and down the valley. He hiked as far as the old swimming hole by himself. But Bert made him promise never to go in without one of us.”

Jake frowned. “Up by my parents’ old house?”

Karen nodded. “That’s what I mean. Most small boys would have been afraid of that old empty place. You know how it is. The kids around here think it’s haunted. But not Dary. Or at least not until the last couple of days.”

“What changed?” asked Cramer.

Bert shrugged. “He started having bad dreams. Only he couldn’t seem to recall what they were about, just something
bad
was all he’d say. He seemed preoccupied during the day, staring off into the distance a lot. Said he could hear whispering. I thought maybe he was coming down with something, but Karen said he was just daydreaming.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Karen defensively. “Then yesterday while he and Bert were working in the garden, Dary wandered off into the woods.”

“I didn’t worry at first,” said Bert, beginning to sob again. “I thought maybe it was a good thing. If he was out in the woods, then maybe the fear was going away.”

“Is Mark home, do you know?” asked Jake.

Bert shook his head. “I wanted to talk to him . . . But I guess he was just getting ready to head back to the coast when Dary . . . the deputy told us Mark caught a ride. He works on a fishing boat out of Gloucester now.”

“Thank you for your help,” said Jake, nudging Cramer toward the door.

They shook hands all around. Then Jake and Cramer hurried back to the car.

“The hitchhiker and the boy were both up by your old family home,” mused Cramer.

“So?” said Jake irritably.

Cramer shrugged. The rain pounded even harder against the windshield, and he shook his head.

“Storms follow you around these days,” he said. “And there seems to be a hell of a lot of whispering going on in this valley. Did you by any chance hear people whispering out on the beach?”

“No.”

“Did you hear them the night your mother was murdered?”

Jake turned up the road, gripping the wheel between white knuckles.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

Cramer nodded, leaning back and giving Jake another of his evil grins. “The plot thickens.”

IMMY
T
ORRIO WATCHED
the New England landscape slide by through the downpour. He was equally at home in a million-dollar boardroom or a Guatemalan jungle. But the rolling hills and big dairy farms of rural Massachusetts felt alien to him. Even the cows huddled together beneath the storm seemed wrong. Instead of the sleek red Herefords or creamy-gray Brahmas with their humped backs that he might see wandering through the oil wells on the outskirts of Houston, there were fat, low-slung, bony-hipped dairy cattle and some kind of black, alien breed with perfect white belts around their midsections that looked as though they’d been painted on by a bunch of college kids pledging a fraternity.

He tried to clear his mind by focusing on his prey. He’d had it in for both Jake and Cramer before Jake murdered his only brother. It had been no secret that the two of them had been investigating him and José for months. And getting rid of one of the nosy cops and the double-dealing hit man at the same time had seemed to Jimmy to be nothing short of
an act of genius. Only it hadn’t turned out that way. Reever was dead, all right. But somehow Jake Crowley had taken out six of their best men
and
José. And that made things not only business but personal.

The driver of the old Crown Victoria, a man named Smitty, smiled at Jimmy, and Jimmy smiled back, glancing at Paco lolling in the backseat half asleep. Paco snapped to a sitting attention. He knew he was still on Jimmy’s shit list. Ever since he’d been sent to Crowley to dig up dirt on Jake, things had gone downhill as far as Jimmy was concerned. Bringing the dunce along had seemed like a good idea back in Houston. At least Paco knew the lay of the land. But he had the ability to irritate Jimmy just by opening his mouth.

The original plan had been for Paco to threaten Jake’s uncle, and then Jimmy would let Jake know that
he
knew where Jake’s family lived. But the old man had ended up dead, and the fuckhead swore he hadn’t had anything to do with the killing. So Jimmy had been forced to move on to plan B. Only plan B had cost José his life. Now Jimmy was formulating plan C as he went along. But he knew that regardless of what he had told the old woman, it was going to entail both Cramer and Jake dying.

“Nice of you to pick us up,” said Jimmy, smiling at the driver again.

Smitty nodded, brushing back a lock of wavy black hair. Jimmy figured him for thirty but he might have been younger. The few wrinkles could have been caused by heredity or stress instead of age.

“I told you, it’s no problem. I needed to go to Boston next week anyway to meet some potential clients. This way I go early and get that out of the way. And you can never rack up too many points on the other side, eh?”

Jimmy nodded. “Nothing like good karma.”

“You got that right. I do need to stop at the next gas station
and phone my wife, though.” He glanced at the cell phone stuck in the console between them and shook his head. “Figures it would be on the blink at a time like this.”

“No way I can talk you into giving us a ride on up to Maine?”

Smitty frowned. He was one of those people who really had trouble saying no, but it was clear that Jimmy was approaching the limits of his hospitality.

“I can’t, fellas. Sorry. You can catch a train or bus in Boston.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I had to ask. The way our luck’s been running both the train and the bus will be out of service.”

He gave Smitty one his best grins, and Smitty responded with another of his own, clearly mollified. Jimmy loved that word. Mollified. He was good at mollifying people.

“Tell you what,” he said, “I’m up for a big lunch, how about you?”

“Well . . . we’re almost there,” said Smitty.

“Come on,” said Jimmy. “It’s on us. Pull over at the next exit, and we’ll find a really nice restaurant.”

“I am getting hungry,” agreed Smitty. “And I hate to pass up a free meal.”

The exit turned out to be more of a rest area than a real village. McDonald’s competed with Burger King directly across the street, and four gas stations lined the road. But a half mile up the straightaway a sign flashed, and Jimmy pointed at it.

“That might be the best we can do after all,” he said.

Smitty shrugged, squinting.
“Way Out Steak House.
I wonder if that’s way out in the middle of nowhere or way out of our price league.”

“Don’t worry about our league,” said Jimmy.

“You never told me exactly what it was you did for a living.”

“A little of everything. I’m a businessman, but I own several enterprises.”

“You need any management seminars, call me. I can book you the best in the business.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much your consultants could teach me,” said Jimmy, looking at the worn upholstery next to his leg, “but I’ll take it under consideration.”

“You got my card,” said Smitty, pulling into the restaurant lot.

The building was long and low slung with faded clapboard siding milled so that the bottom of each board still held rough bark. A wide shaded porch ran the length of the building, shielding the large, dusty windows from another approaching thunderstorm. Smitty parked between a car and a pickup near the front door.

“They probably have a pay phone,” he said, nodding to himself.

Jimmy glanced at Paco, who leaped out of the car as though scalded and ran up the front steps. Smitty looked at Jimmy, and Jimmy shrugged.

“Weak bladder,” he said.

As Smitty started to follow, Jimmy caught his eye again. “Aren’t you going to lock it?”

“Here?” said Smitty, glancing around the lot that held only four other cars.

“You never know.”

Smitty turned around, digging for the keys as Jimmy moved around the car beside him. He glanced over his shoulder when Jimmy approached.

“I got it,” he said, fumbling the key into the door and turning it to lock the car.

Jimmy nodded, waving toward the restaurant entrance and following Smitty inside. The place smelled of french
fries and hamburger, but the couple in the first booth were both eating thick steaks.

“How about there?” said Jimmy, pointing toward a table in the back.

“That looks fine. I’m just gonna find a phone.”

“Let’s get seated first so Paco can find us.”

Smitty frowned but followed Jimmy. A waitress wove through the empty tables, giving them a look that said she wished they’d sat a little closer to her other customers.

“Do you have a pay phone?” asked Smitty.

She gave him a funny look, pointing toward the rest-rooms, and he disappeared.

Jimmy glanced at his watch as the waitress poured three waters. The acid in his stomach was starting to churn. He and José had never been all that close, but, even so, he hadn’t allowed himself time to mourn. Grieving was not the Torrio way, anyway. Revenge was in their blood and had been instilled in both brothers from the cradle. When Jimmy was only eight his own father had slit a man’s throat in front of his eyes for stealing from the family. Don’t cross a Torrio wasn’t a motto with Jimmy. It was genetic code. Cramer and Jake Crowley were going to pay dearly for ever messing with his business. For murdering José, Jake Crowley was going to pay doubly dearly.

Smitty stared at the receiver in his hand. The metal cord dangling near his knees had been jerked right out of the phone. You wouldn’t think in a small place like this that kind of vandalism would be common, but for all his naive optimism Smitty had come to see the growing sense of desperation in the world. It was something he chose to combat a little at a time, with random acts of kindness, such as picking up two stranded strangers and going out of his way to help them
reach their destination. Still, the violation of private property ruined his appetite, and the fact that he could not get in touch with his wife bothered him even more.

He’d never gone so long without phoning Molly before, and he knew she’d worry. This was her first pregnancy, and even with her mom living two doors down, she was still a bundle of nerves. If there was any way at all he could have stayed home with her he would have, but he had to earn a living, and with the increasing availability of Internet training it was becoming harder every day to sell small companies on live seminars. He turned away from the phone but decided to wash his hands before lunch. Entering the rest-room, he was struck by the smell of urine. There must be a drain plugged up, and he wondered if this was even a decent restaurant after all.

He splashed water on his hands and pumped soap into them, then lathered his face, as well. He leaned down with his eyes closed and slapped more water on, rubbing the suds away, shaking his hands under the cold flow, reaching blindly for the towel dispenser. A hand caught his wrist, and he jerked. All he could see through soapy eyes was a blurry figure.

“Hey!” he said.

He heard the sound of the towel dispenser ratcheting, and a paper napkin was slapped into his palm as his wrist was released. As he wiped the suds out of his eyes he saw Paco grinning at him.

“Thought you needed help,” said Paco.

“Th-thanks,” said Smitty.

“Sorry. Did I make you nervous?”

Smitty noticed that—like Jimmy—Paco tended to crowd a man’s personal space. He could smell not only Paco’s minty aftershave but a touch of feral body odor, as well. And
the squinty brown eyes and thin lips made him even more nervous.

“No,” he lied. “You just surprised me.”

Paco nodded, straightening and peering in the mirror to brush back his wavy black hair.

“Okay,” he said, taking Smitty’s elbow. “Let’s get something to eat.”