Shadow of Death (19 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

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BOOK: Shadow of Death
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The headline for the second clipping read: “Boy's Body Found on Monadnock.” It was dated July 16, 1972.
JAFFREY — Andy and Rebecca Gilman's nine-month nightmare ended Saturday afternoon when hikers discovered the couple's teenage son's body at the bottom of a ravine off the Marlboro Trail on the west side of Mount Monadnock.
 
Bobby Gilman, who would have turned fourteen in three weeks, became separated from his friends in a freak snowstorm last Columbus Day. Rescue workers and volunteers searched for over a week before giving up.
 
The boys who were with Bobby that day told police that they had been playing in the woods about halfway up the mountain just off the heavily traveled Parker Trail on the east slope when the heavy snow squall suddenly enveloped them. They headed down the trail, and only when they arrived at the bottom did they realize that Bobby wasn't with them.
 
“We found the boy's body on the opposite side of the mountain from where he got lost,” said Jaffrey Police Sergeant Adam Becker. “We figure he must have gotten disoriented in the storm and the darkness, and he ended up wandering several miles in the wrong direction. It appears that he fell into the ravine and hit his head and broke his leg. If he'd just stayed where he was, the rescue teams would have found him for sure. It's a tragedy.”
 
Bobby Gilman was an honor-roll student. He played the clarinet in the Southwick junior high school band and was a member of the French club. Funeral arrangements are indefinite pending the release of his body.
I tilted back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling. I was thinking of Andy and Rebecca Gilman. How do parents ever learn to live with such a thing?
I read the two stories again. The names of the boys who'd been with Bobby Gilman the day he got lost on the mountain were not mentioned. If they had been, I was willing to bet that Oliver Burlingame, Mark Lyman, and Albert Stoddard would've been among them.
If I was right, those boys must have lugged around a load of guilt all those years.
Mark Lyman, for one, had ended up taking his deer rifle into the woods shooting himself with it. Maybe he never did quite learn how to live with it.
Maybe Oliver Burlingame had gone to Louisiana and jumped off his bass boat.
And now Albert was acting, in Ellen's word, “weird.” Guilt over something that happened thirty years ago?
If so, why now?
And what did Bobby Gilman's death on Mount Monadnock in 1971 have to do with Gordon Cahill's murder?
 
 
Julie and I usually close up shop a little early on Friday afternoons, so I got home before Evie. I changed into my weekend clothes, then took Henry down to the Common so he could stretch his legs.
When we got back, I snagged a Sam Adams from the refrigerator, took it to my room, and checked my voice mail.
I had one message: “Mr. Coyne, this here is Farley Nelson up to Southwick. I was thinkin' maybe you'd like to come on up here tomorrow, give them bass in my little pond a try. They've been bitin' awfully good lately. I'll be around all day. If you can make it, just come on up. Don't forget your fly rod.”
He didn't leave his number, but I hit star-69 and retrieved it.
I dialed it, and when his answering machine picked up, I said, “Farley, it's Brady Coyne. Thanks for the invitation. I'll be there. Late morning sometime, assuming that's okay with you. If you get a chance, call me back. I need directions to your place.”
I thought it would be fun to get to know Farley better, and maybe even to catch one of his largemouth bass on a fly. I was also looking forward to testing his memory about a Southwick boy who died on Mount Monadnock over thirty years earlier.
 
 
Evie and I were sipping Bloody Marys in our patio garden and watching the late-summer sky grow dark. We were debating whether to go out to eat or have takeout delivered. Neither of us had the energy to cook.
Henry was sprawled under the table listening closely to our discussion. He'd already eaten, but he was always attentive when the subject was food.
We'd pretty much agreed on takeout and had narrowed it down to pizza or Chinese.
I refilled our Bloody Mary glasses. “Tomorrow's Saturday,” I said to Evie.
“Thank God.”
“Feel like driving up to New Hampshire with me?”
She took a long thoughtful sip, then said, “Why?”
“Well, the foliage has started to turn. It's supposed to be a nice day. There are always antique shops …”
She was grinning at me. “Antique shops? Come off it, Brady Coyne. You hate antique shops. And since when did you want to go driving around looking at foliage?”
I shrugged. “I've got to go back up there, talk to someone. I thought you might like to come along.”
“And do what?”
“Keep me company. It is a pretty drive.”
She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Honey,” she said, “don't worry about me, okay? You've got business to do, and if you've got to do it on a Saturday, that's fine. I understand. I'm a big girl. I'll give Mary a call, see if she wants to play.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Bring Henry. He enjoys foliage.”
“I wouldn't do it if weren't important.”
“I believe you,” she said. She stood up. “I need a jacket. I'm getting chilly. Want anything inside?”
I shook my head.
Evie went into the house. I reached down and scratched Henry's forehead. I was thinking about Bobby Gilman stumbling around a mountainside in the dark with a blizzard swirling around him.
When Evie came back, she said, “Hold out your hands and close your eyes.”
I did.
She put something into my hands. “Don't open 'em yet,” she said. “Guess what?”
I closed my hands on it. “I know what this is,” I said. “It's a damn cell phone.” I opened my eyes and looked at Evie. “I hate cell phones.”
“Tough,” she said. “This is for me, not you. This is for when you're on the road or held up in court or off fishing or wandering around in New Hampshire somewhere and you realize you're going to be late and you know I'm about to start worrying about you, or you think maybe I'm already getting angry with you. This is so you can call me and tell me you're okay and you're going to be late and you love me. Just keep it with you, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “But I'll never use it.”
“You'll use it to call me,” she said.
“I guess so,” I said. “But I'm not going to give the number to anybody. I don't want the damn thing jangling in my pocket.”
“I've got the number,” she said. “If it jangles, it's me, and you better answer it.”
“If you tell Julie I've got a cell phone,” I said, “I promise, I'll heave it off the Longfellow Bridge.”
She smiled. “It's a deal. What about pizza?”
I
was in my car heading north by nine on Saturday morning, with my brand-new cellular telephone riding on the seat beside me. Evie had insisted I leave it turned on. She assured me that if it rang, it would be her voice I'd hear when I answered it—so I better answer it.
I left Henry sitting inside the front door with his head cocked to the side and his brown eyes accusing me of abandoning him. I tried to convince him that I'd be back, but he wasn't buying it.
It was one of those breezy late September New England mornings—cloudless sky, a hint of frost in the air, dead leaves swirling alongside the road. The closer I got to Southwick, New Hampshire, the more splotches of crimson and gold I saw along the roadside. Flocks of migrating blackbirds perched on the telephone wires, and chipmunks and squirrels scurried around collecting acorns and beechnuts.
Foliage would be approaching its peak in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom. Over the next few weeks it would spread southward.
As I approached the village of Southwick, I came to the Goff brothers' garage. Both bays were open, so I pulled up in front and got out. I was eager to get a look at Farley Nelson's bass pond, but I had some questions that Harris and Dub Goff might be able to help me with.
On the radio inside the garage Ray Charles was singing “Georgia on My Mind.” A Dodge pickup truck was parked in one of the bays. Masking tape outlined the headlights and windows and chrome, and it sported a brand-new coat of spray-painted blue primer.
An old Volvo station wagon was up on the lift in the other bay, and Harris Goff was working under it with a socket wrench. He was wearing his faded old Red Sox cap backward and whistling along with the radio.
I didn't see Dub.
I stood in the doorway and cleared my throat, and when Harris Goff didn't turn around, I stepped into the bay and said, “Mr. Goff.”
He turned his head and squinted at me. “Hey,” he said. “Boston.”
“Wonder if I could talk with you for a minute,” I said.
He waved his socket wrench at me. “Hang on a minute.”
I went outside to the Coke machine, fed it a dollar bill, and got a can of root beer.
Harris Goff came out wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “You find Stoddard's camp okay the other day?”
“Your directions were impeccable. Thank you.”
“Impeccable.” He grinned through his scraggly black-and-gray beard. “Didn't get stuck in the mud, then?”
“Nope. No problem.” I smiled. “I'd like to run a name by you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Bobby Gilman.”
He looked off into the distance. “Haven't heard that name in a long time,” he said slowly. “Twenty-five, thirty years, I bet.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
He shrugged. “Not much. Just what I heard. He died. Me and Dub were off to college when it happened. All I know is, Bobby Gilman was just a kid. Got lost in the woods over on Monadnock, snowstorm blew in. They didn't find his body for close to a year. It was pretty big news hereabouts. Not many kids from Southwick die. Not many kids in Southwick to start with.”
“He was a Southwick boy then?”
He nodded.
“Did you know him?”
“Me?” He shook his head. “He was about ten years younger than me.”
“I understand he was with some friends when he got lost.”
“That was the story.”
“Do you remember who those friends were?”
Harris Goff scratched his beard and peered at me. “You got a lot of questions today, Boston. Why're you interested in some boy who died thirty years ago?”
“I can't tell you that,” I said.
He grinned. “Lawyer business, huh?”
“Yes. Does the name Oliver Burlingame ring a bell?”
He frowned. “Should it?”
“He was a Southwick boy. About Bobby Gilman's age. He might've been one of those friends he was with.”
He shook his head. “Like I said, I was off to school when that happened. I didn't know them boys.”
“Never heard of Oliver Burlingame, then?”
“Can't say I have.”
“They called him The Big O.”
He shrugged.
“What about Mark Lyman?”
He looked up at the sky for a moment, then said, “Nope. Not him, neither. Sorry.”
“But you knew Albert Stoddard,” I said.
“Didn't know Albert,” he said. “Knew the family. There was a sister. Older than Albert. Closer to my age. She had a reputation, if you know what I mean.” He winked. “That's why I remember Albert. Them Stoddards had more money than most. Old man owned a plumbing supply place over to Keene, got himself a new Buick every other year. My mother used to say the Stoddards put on airs.”
“Albert was about the same age as Bobby Gilman and Oliver Burlingame and Mark Lyman.”
“I'd expect those boys were friends, then,” said Harris Goff. “Southwick was even smaller back then than it is now. Anybody your own age, you go to school with 'em from the time you're five or six. You don't have a big choice when it comes to who your friends are.”
“What happened that day Bobby Gilman got lost on the mountain?” I said.
“Hell, Boston. I told you, I wasn't there. Bunch of boys playin' in the woods up on the mountain, blizzard blows in, they all head down, and when they get to the bottom, one of 'em ain't there. That was the story.”
“There must have been talk about it.”
He shrugged. “I suppose there was.”
“Rumors,” I said. “Accusations.”
“I don't know nothin' about that,” he said. “Me and Dub were off to school, didn't hear much about it.” He shrugged.
“Don't mean to be rude, Boston, but if I don't get that damn tie rod fixed on Mrs. Hart's old Volvo by noontime like I promised, she'll write another one of her bitchy letters to the newspaper.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I'll let you get back to work.”
“Wish I could've helped you,” he said. “Always like to help lawyers.”
I smiled. “Thanks for your time. Say hello to your brother for me.”
“Don't drive too fast, Boston.” Harris Goff winked at me. “Rumor has it the police've got their eye on you.”
 
 
Farley apparently hadn't checked his answering machine, because he hadn't called back with directions to his place. So I stopped at the general store. A tall teenaged girl wearing pigtails and a University of New Hampshire sweatshirt was behind the counter. An elderly woman in overalls and a pink hat was counting change into the girl's hand.
I got a bottle of orange juice from the cooler and stood behind the woman in the pink hat. The girl at the cash register was putting cans of cat food into a paper bag.
After the old woman left, I put my potato chips and juice on the counter.
The girl looked at me and smiled. “That it?”
I nodded and handed her a five-dollar bill.
She gave me my change. “Want a bag for that?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I wondered if you could tell me how to get to Farley Nelson's house?”
“You a friend of his?”
I smiled. “He invited me to see his bass pond.”
She nodded as if that was the answer she'd expected.
“How well do you know your way around here?”
“Not very well.”
She came from behind the counter and pointed out the front window at the road that ran past the store. “Head out that way,” she said, “past the cemetery, three, four miles 'til you pass the lake. You want to take your … let's see”—she closed her eyes, consulting her memory—“it'll be your third … no, your fourth right after the lake. Look for the dirt road. It's really just a driveway. No street sign or anything. You go up a hill after you cross a little brook, and it's there on your right. Mr. Nelson's place is down the end, about half a mile in. Old white farmhouse with a big porch in front, red barn out back. It's the only house on the road. Been in their family for about a hundred years. Used to be a real pretty place. Nice view of the mountains. Mrs. Nelson always grew flowers, had a big vegetable garden. She made great apple pies. The Nelsons always brought stuff to the farmer's market on Saturdays. He's still got some sheep. She died a couple years ago.”
“Sounds like you know him pretty well,” I said.
“Everybody knows Mr. Nelson,” the girl said. “He's an awfully nice old man. His family used to own half the town. He made loads of money, selling off the land. Donated a lot of his property for conservation, too. My dad says Farley Nelson has got bales of money piled up in his hayloft.”
“But he works here?” I said.
“Oh,” she said, “he doesn't do it for the money. He does it because he misses his wife. They were real close. He just likes to be around people. He's always inviting folks out to his house. Some people around here aren't very patient with him. He does talk a lot sometimes.” She smiled. “But he's a nice man. Lonely, that's all.”
The “three or four” miles the girl at the general store had mentioned turned out to be a little over six. Country miles are longer than city miles. I almost missed the dirt driveway that angled back to the right at the top of the hill after I'd crossed the brook, because by then I'd begun to think I'd already driven past it.
I turned in. The roadway was bordered on both sides by stone walls, and it was so narrow that in places brush scraped against the sides of my car. It dipped down, crossed the same brook I'd crossed on the paved road, went up a hill, and ended in Farley Nelson's farmyard.
A mud-spattered red pickup truck and a dark green Ford Explorer, both several years old, were parked side by side in front of the barn. A few sheep grazed in a rocky pasture off to the left, and as I sat there in my car, a dog—he looked like a cross between a Labrador retriever and a black bear—came lumbering out of the barn, barking gleefully.
When I got out of my car, the dog stopped barking, stood there stiff-legged, and looked at me. His tail swished back and forth, which everyone thinks is a sign of friendliness, but really signifies happiness, which isn't necessarily the same thing. Some dogs get very happy at the prospect of biting a human buttock.
This big black furball didn't strike me as the biting type, though, so I scootched down and held out my hand. He came over cautiously and gave it a sniff. If he was disappointed that it didn't hold a Milk-Bone or something, he kept it to himself. He circled slowly around me, snuffling greedily at my pants and shirt. I guessed he caught Henry's scent on me.
I stood up. “Where's your boss?” I said to the dog.
He looked at me, then lay down in the dusty driveway, put his chin on his paws, and closed his eyes.
Okay, so he wasn't telling.
I stood there in the sunshine and looked around. Through the trees behind the house I caught the glint of sun on water. Farley's bass pond, I guessed.
I assumed he'd come wandering out to see what his dog was barking at. But he didn't, so after a minute or two, I went over to the barn. The door was open. I stepped inside. “Hey, Farley,” I called. “It's Brady Coyne. You in there?”
No answer.
I went around to the front of the house, climbed the three or four steps onto the porch, knocked on the door, and waited.
No sound came from inside.
I circled around the house, and out back, on the sunny southern side overlooking a weedy one-acre pond and facing a view of distant mountains, were two wooden Adirondack chairs. Farley Nelson was sitting in one of them. He wore a red-and-black checked wool jacket, baggy blue jeans, and scuffed work boots. His eyes were closed and his chin was on his chest. His gnarled hands rested on a folded newspaper on his lap.
I smiled. The old guy was sound asleep. When you're eighty-something, you've earned the right to take a nap whenever and wherever you want.
I imagined Farley and his wife sitting out here toward the end of a sunny summer's day having a drink and watching the dragonflies buzz around the pond and the shadows slither out of the woods and creep up the sides of the distant mountains.
An empty coffee mug and an ashtray with a cigar butt stubbed out in it sat on the wooden table beside him, along with his black-rimmed eyeglasses with the built-in hearing
aids. No wonder he hadn't heard his dog barking or me calling his name.
My first impulse was to tiptoe away and let him sleep. But he had invited me to visit him. The girl at the general store had mentioned how lonely the old guy was, how he missed his wife, how much he enjoyed having company.

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