Hell Bent (24 page)

Gus Shaw made order out of all that chaos, and Alex, his adoring sister, accepted it. I couldn’t see what they saw. Maybe if you believed in order you could recognize Gus’s constellations, and if you didn’t, you’d never see them. If that was the case, I was doomed.

I toyed with comparisons between the universe of stars and space up there and the universe of the new Information Age as
brought to you by the Internet. You could swim around in both space and cyberspace for an eternity and never end up anyplace. It was all meaningless confusion. Orderliness and sequence and cause-effect relationships were arbitrary man-made constructs. If you wanted order and logic, you had to fabricate your own.

“Existential muck and mire,” I said to Henry. “We’re born, we live, we die. That’s about it, pal.”

He looked up at me and wagged his tail.

I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes after ten. Pedro said he’d call me again at midnight. Then maybe I’d get some answers.

“Come on,” I said to Henry. “Let’s see if there’s something to watch on TV. It’s cold out here.”

The phone rang around eleven. I snatched it up before the first ring ended and said, “Yes? Hello?”

I heard a throaty chuckle. “I love your eagerness.” It was Alex.

“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

“Whoops. I guess you were expecting somebody else. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I was,” I said. “But I’m not disappointed. I like hearing your voice. I’m smiling.”

“Bullshit you’re smiling. But thanks for saying so. Who were you expecting?” She hesitated. “Oh. Evie, huh?”

“No,” I said. “I’m definitely not expecting Evie to call. I don’t expect she’ll ever call.”

“It must be hard for you,” said Alex. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like that,” I said. “I’m over Evie. I’m glad you’re around.”

“No,” she said, “I’m a confusion for you. I know that. Bad timing.”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. “You can analyze it forever, and it still comes down to how you feel.”

“I know how I feel,” she said softly.

“Me, too,” I said. “But that’s what I meant. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Fair enough,” said Alex. “Show, don’t tell, right? All you can do on a telephone is tell. But tomorrow’s Friday. Then I’ll see you.”

“Showtime,” I said. “Around seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Uh, Brady?”

“Yes?”

“So who were you expecting to call you if it wasn’t Evie?”

“Just business,” I said. “Some guy looking for a lawyer.”

I watched the eleven o’clock news, let Henry out, put the morning coffee together, let Henry in, and we went upstairs.

I set my cell phone ringer on “loud” and put it on the table next to my ear. I picked up the bedside house phone extension and made sure it had a dial tone.

It was ten minutes before midnight. I was ready for Pedro Accardo’s call.

I adjusted my pillows and picked up my tattered copy of
Moby-Dick.
I let it fall open, as I always did before bed, at a random page. Melville’s classic was, of course, the archetypical fishing story, never mind that a whale is a mammal, not a fish. It was also tedious and overwrought and the ultimate sleeping potion for occasional insomniacs such as I.

The book opened to a chapter entitled “Chowder.” I read these words:

Ishmael’s sense of ominous foreboding and Melville’s blatant foreshadowing gave me a shiver.

I closed the book. I didn’t need any more of that crap tonight.

I put the book on the bedside table and checked the clock. Two minutes before midnight.

I readjusted the pillows behind my neck.

Henry was curled up beside me where Evie used to sleep. I scratched his ribs.

I closed my eyes and tried to think about Alex. Tomorrow, maybe, we’d sleep here, in my bedroom, in Evie’s and my king-sized bed—now my bed, no longer Evie’s—not in the narrow daybed downstairs in my office. Symbolically, that would be a big step. Never mind more comfortable.

I thought about the smooth firm skin on the insides of Alex’s
thighs, the smell of her hair right after a shower, the taste of her mouth, the “um-mm-hmm” sound she made in her throat that told me that I was doing something that felt good.

I was pleased to notice that I was not confusing Alex with Evie.

I rolled onto my side and checked the clock. The little hand and the big hand were aligned and pointing straight up. Midnight.

Time to call, Pedro.

The phone didn’t ring.

Fifteen minutes later, it still hadn’t rung.

I turned off the light, laced my fingers behind my neck, stared up into the darkness.

After a while I went to sleep.

I woke up suddenly and all at once. Dim gray light was creeping in around the curtains that covered my bedroom windows.

I looked at the clock.

It was ten after six in the morning.

I checked both my house phone and my cell phone for messages. It was possible, although unlikely, that I’d slept through Pedro Accardo’s call.

No messages. No missed calls.

Pedro had not called.

B
efore I left for the office that morning, I Googled Pedro Accardo’s name, and when that didn’t yield anything useful I scoured all of my Boston and Greater Boston phone books for a listing in his name. I found one in Dorchester, one in Somerville, and two in Lawrence, and called all four of them. None was the Pedro who’d called to tell me that he didn’t think Gus Shaw had killed himself.

Of course, the Pedro who’d called me had used a pay phone, which might mean he didn’t have a private line.

I used a break between client meetings that morning to call Phil Trapelo. When his voice mail came on and invited me to leave a message, I said, “Sarge, it’s Brady Coyne. Remember? I met you at the VFW hall the other night and we talked about Gus Shaw? I was wondering if you might tell me how I can get in touch with a member of your group named Pedro Accardo. Also wondering if the name John Kinkaid might mean something to you.” I recited my phone numbers, then said, “Please give me a call. This is quite important.”

The only other person I could think of who might know
something about Pedro was Claudia Shaw. I tried her home number and let it ring for a dozen times. No answer, no voice mail, no answering machine.

I remembered that Claudia was an accountant for a firm in Lexington. I tried Alex’s cell phone, and when she answered, I said, “Hey. It’s me.”

“Hey, yourself,” she said. “This is nice.” She hesitated. “Oh. You’re not gonna …”

“I’m not calling off our evening,” I said. “Nothing like that. Looking forward to it. I just wondered if you had Claudia’s work number. I need to ask her something.”

“You sound rushed,” she said.

“I’m between clients.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Just Claudia’s number.”

“Okay,” she said. “Hang on a sec.”

A minute later she came back on the line and gave me a telephone number. “It goes directly to her desk. Bypasses the switchboard.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Thanks.”

“This has something to do with Gus, huh?”

“I’ve really got to go now,” I said. “See you at seven, okay?”

“I’ll take care of dinner,” she said. “My turn.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Claudia did, indeed, answer her own phone, and when I mentioned Pedro Accardo’s name, she said, “Pete, you mean?”

“That’s him,” I said. “You know him?”

“Before we, um, before Gus moved out, Pete came over to the house a few times. He seemed like a nice man. Very polite to me, sweet to the girls. He and Gus would huddle in Gus’s den or out in the garage as if they had big secrets. He was in Gus’s group, I think.”

“Any idea what they talked about?”

“No,” said Claudia. “Gus always seemed a little calmer after he talked with Pete. I figured they just sort of counseled each other.” She hesitated. “Why are you asking about Pete?”

“He called me last night,” I said. “Our conversation was interrupted and he said he’d call back, but he never did. I’d like to reach him. I was hoping you might have his number.”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I guess you could look it up.”

“Tried that,” I said. “Oh, well. Let me run another name by you. John Kinkaid ring a bell?”

Claudia was quiet for a moment, then said, “No. I can’t place it. It sounds like a name I should recognize, but … no. Sorry.”

“Maybe somebody Gus might’ve mentioned? Someone from his group? Somebody he knew in Iraq?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“If anything occurs to you,” I said, “give me a call, okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Will do.”

It was a drizzly, gray early-November Friday afternoon. Close to quitting time. Outside my office window, the maples had all dropped their leaves. Their branches were black and skeletal against the shiny wet pavement of the plaza, and the light-activated lamps on their steel poles glowed soft orange in the premature dusk. The people on the pathways walked with hunched shoulders and turned-up collars.

I was just tucking some papers into a manila folder when the intercom on my desk buzzed.

I hit the button and said, “Yes?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Epping are here to see you,” said Julie, leaving me no choice, even though they didn’t have an appointment.

“Sure,” I said, knowing that Doug and Mary were probably
standing there watching Julie’s reaction to my end of this conversation. “Good. Bring ‘em in.”

A minute later Julie was holding my door open for the Eppings.

I took one look at them and smiled. They wore identical outfits—droopy canvas hats, yellow slickers over navy blue sweatsuits, and wet sneakers. They looked bedraggled and forlorn.

“It’s not funny,” said Doug.

“Sorry,” I said. “Have a seat.”

“We’re drenched,” said Mary. “We’ll ruin your furniture.”

“Don’t worry about it. Please.” I gestured at the sofa, and they both sat. “Want some coffee? Sorry, I don’t have any brandy to offer.”

“Nothing,” said Doug. “We don’t want to take up your time. Just wanted to give you a report.”

I took the chair across from them. “Picketing in the rain? You’ve got to be nuts, both of you.”

Doug was shaking his head. “Four solid days. Cold, raw, nasty days. It spit snow Wednesday afternoon in Nashua. Today it drizzled. We walked back and forth in front of the AA Movers office on Outlook Drive from nine thirty or ten every morning til four or four thirty every afternoon. And you know what?”

“I’m guessing that Nicholas Delaney has not written you a big check and issued a public apology.”

“It’s way worse than that,” said Mary. Her white hair hung out of her hat in damp ringlets. “Outlook Drive turns out to be this dinky dead-end street that goes down to some warehouses on the Merrimack River. An alley more than a street. Sometimes a big truck or a moving van goes by. Once in a while a few workmen come or go. The first day we were there, they looked at us and shook their heads. After that, they haven’t even noticed us. There are no pedestrians going by, no traffic.”

“I mean,” said Doug, “nobody ever goes into the AA Movers office. Not a single customer all week. Of course. You want to hire a mover, do you go to their office? No. You call them, and they go to you.”

“So,” said Mary, “what we’ve been doing is stupid and a big fat waste of time, and we’ll be lucky if we don’t end up with pneumonia.”

“I’m ready for Plan B,” said Doug. “I just wanted you to know.”

“What’s Plan B?” I said.

“He’s not serious,” said Mary.

“She doesn’t believe me,” Doug said. “I’m dead serious.”

“He says he’s going to murder Mr. Delaney,” Mary said.

“You might as well start planning my defense right now,” said Doug.

“Listen to your lawyer,” I said. “Don’t do it.”

“You’re not taking me seriously, either,” he said.

“No,” I said, “actually, I am. I believe you. I take you very seriously. People have committed murder for far flimsier reasons. Please don’t do it.”

“You expect us to continue picketing?”

“I never thought Doug Epping was a quitter,” I said.

“I’m not,” he said. “Okay. I won’t murder anybody. Not yet, anyway. I’ll keep at it until that dirtbag prick bastard sonofabitch Delaney talks to me. Far as I’m concerned, I’ll die of old age right there on his steps, and when they write it up for the newspapers, they’ll have to mention why I was there.”

“You with him?” I said to Mary.

“I’m not crazy about his language,” she said, “but I love his passion.” She reached over, patted Doug’s leg, and smiled at me. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” I said. “It deserves to be rewarded.”

“I don’t care about my stupid furniture anymore,” Mary said. “Getting some kind of justice seems way more important. So, yes. Absolutely. Till death do us part. I’m with my man on this. Maybe we’ll die together on Nicholas Delaney’s doorstep. Let him explain that.”

“I hope you’re going to take the weekend off, at least,” I said.

“We are,” said Mary. “We plan to pamper ourselves. We’ll spend a lot of time sipping wine and nibbling cheese in our Jacuzzi. We have this wonderful tub in our new condo with a big window overlooking the waterfront. And we will dine out and rent movies and sleep late and get ourselves geared up for another week of picketing. We figure sooner or later somebody’s bound to notice us.”

“I hope it’s sooner,” I said.