The Second Silence (24 page)

Bronwyn came to a stop before a simple granite headstone she hadn’t noticed during her earlier wanderings. Its inscription was less worn than the others, making it easier to read.

CORINNE ANNE LUNDQUIST 1952–1969

BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER

A light chill shimmied up her spine. ‘My father went to school with her,’ she remarked softly. ‘She was only two years older than me when she died.’

‘How did she die?’ Dante asked.

‘She killed herself. Can you imagine?’

‘Yeah, I can.’

Something in his voice made her turn toward him sharply. Dante was staring off into the distance, wearing a strange look. He glanced back at her, defiantly almost. In the dappled shade his storm gray eyes looked almost black. ‘Just because I’ve thought about it,’ he said, ‘doesn’t mean I’d ever go through with it.’

Bronwyn thought of her mother, buried in the Catholic cemetery on the other side of town. What she wished more than anything was that she’d had a chance to say good-bye. She’d been nine when Mummy died, and in those days kids weren’t allowed into hospital rooms. That’s what she remembered most about her mother’s death: feeling angry and cheated. Angry at the doctors and nurses. Angry at Dad. Angry at Mummy even.

‘Not everyone sees it as a choice.’ Her hands tightened into fists, her arms stiff and unbending at her sides. ‘My mother, for instance. She fought hard to the very end.’

Dante was silent for a long moment, staring out over the valley below, where the creek wound in a dark gold ribbon through clumps of weeping willow. When he spoke, she hardly recognized his voice. It was soft, bruised almost. ‘I don’t remember my mother,’ he said. ‘She died when I was two. From a drug overdose.’ He shrugged, but she could see the pain on his face. ‘My stepmother—she was no bargain, either. She never let me forget, not for one instant, that I wasn’t her own flesh and blood.’

The thought of Mary intruded once more. As they turned and began making their way back down the hill, Bronwyn reached for his hand. ‘Dante? There’s something I need to ask of you. It’s a pretty big favor, so I’ll understand if you say no.’

He smiled. ‘You want me to talk to your dad about us, right?’ He sounded as if he were only half kidding.

‘It’s not about us. It’s for my sister. Well, mostly.’ She dropped her gaze, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

‘The sister you told me about … with the kid?’

She nodded. ‘Noelle’s in a tough spot right now. She could lose her little girl for good if—if something drastic isn’t done.’

He glanced at her uncertainly. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

Bronwyn took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her face. This was it—now or never. ‘I need you to help me break into my brother-in-law’s office,’ she said in a rush. There’s a safe where he keeps an extra set of books. If it was suddenly missing, I’ll bet he’d do just about anything to get it back. Even … even drop this stupid custody suit.’

Her words seemed to hang in the air like the smell of ozone after a thunderclap. Dante didn’t say anything at first, just pulled his hand away to fold his arms over his chest. In the hot stillness, there was only the whirring of insects and drone of a car engine somewhere off in the distance. When he spoke at last, it was with such force that she jumped a little.

‘Are you
nuts?
Do you know what would happen if we got caught?’

‘I know it’s risky. That’s why I need your help.’

‘Jesus, what do you take me for? I repair car engines for a living. I don’t go around busting into people’s offices. The trouble with you is you watch too much TV.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Even if we
could
break in without getting caught, you think cracking a safe is so easy?’

‘It is if you have the combination.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve thought of everthing, I see.’

‘It’s printed on a card he keeps locked inside his desk. But I memorized it.’

Dante rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me. The one time he wasn’t paying attention, you just happened to glance over his shoulder. Then, of course, knowing you, you
had
to see what was inside that safe.’

She grinned. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because I’m a genius,’ he shot back angrily. ‘A genius who should have his head examined.’

‘Does that mean you’ll do it?’

Dante held out a hand, traffic cop style. ‘Whoa. I didn’t say that.’

She felt a tremor of excitement nonetheless. ‘But you’ll think about it at least?’

‘I don’t suppose you snitched a key to the office while you were at it.’

She shook her head, wishing now that she had.

‘Either way, you’re on your own,’ he growled.

Maybe it was the nervous glance he flicked her or the way he abruptly darted ahead, stalking off in the direction of his car, but Bronwyn suddenly sensed there was more to his anger than met the eye. She scurried to catch up with him.

‘Dante.’ She grabbed hold of his arm. ‘What is it? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

He shrugged her off and kept on walking. ‘Let’s just forget it, okay?’

‘If there’s something I should know, please, tell me.’

‘You don’t get it.’ He swung around to face her, eyes flashing. The tattoo on his tightly clenched arm flickered like something alive. ‘I work for the guy, okay?’

She gasped and took a step back. The air felt suddenly thick, like hot soup that would choke her if she tried to breathe it in. ‘You …
what?’

Dante dropped his gaze, digging into his pocket for a cigarette. ‘Look, it’s nothing illegal. Just errands, deliveries … that kind of stuff. A few hours a week at most.’

Bronwyn licked her lips, which suddenly felt parched. ‘What kind of errands?’

He hesitated, his gaze flicking up at her over the hand cupped about his cigarette. ‘Last time, it was an envelope I delivered to … to some guy.’

He thumbed his lighter and the tip of his cigarette flared like a red eye blinking open. In that instant, with his face cast in its devilish glow, Dante’s furtive expression said it all. She didn’t have to ask if the envelope had been stuffed with cash.

Her face stung as if slapped. Of all the scenarios that had run through her mind, she never in a million years could have imagined this one.
I don’t know this person,
she thought. Just a little while ago he’d had his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her breasts, but she didn’t know him. Not really.

Maybe her dad was right about Dante.

At the same time, she found herself thinking,
He didn’t have to tell me. Maybe this is his way of warning me.
But of what?

Suddenly, for no particular reason, Bronwyn felt as if unseen eyes were watching them. She could almost
feel
them, the ghosts of all those people buried up on the hill, rustling like the leaves overhead. Goose bumps scuttled up her arms.

But before she could pump her boyfriend for answers, the car engine droning in the distance grew suddenly louder. A shiny white boat of a Cadillac was pulling into the parking area below. A woman in dark glasses with a scarf tied over her head climbed out, wearing slacks and a long-sleeved blouse on what had to be the hottest day of the year. She walked slowly, the way an invalid might, clutching a vase of flowers. White roses, Bronwyn saw as she drew closer. How strange that anyone would leave such expensive flowers to wither on a grave. A grave out in the middle of nowhere, where no one had been buried in more than twenty years.

She didn’t know why, but some instinct made her duck behind a tree, pulling Dante with her so they wouldn’t be seen.

CHAPTER 9

T
HE MONDAY AFTER NOELLE’S COURT HEARING,
an editorial bearing Charlie’s by-line appeared on page two of the
Register,
one that sent shock waves throughout the community. By late morning it was the talk of town.

CONFLICT OF INTEREST AT TOWN HALL

In days of old, when a grateful citizen threw an extra chicken or two a town councilman’s way, no one thought twice. What was a jug of homemade cider or a bushel of potatoes among friends? These days the issue isn’t so clear-cut. What do you call it, for instance, when a real estate developer shells out sizable consulting fees to an attorney who just so happens to be the Public Commissioner for Land Use? Illegal? Unfortunately, no. But there are many who would argue that unethical doesn’t even begin to cover it.

From 1992 to 1995, when Frank Perault, a local tax and real estate attorney, served in public office, he was also on the books at Van Doren & Sons. ‘Consulting fees’ totaling nearly $70,000 were paid out at regular intervals. The folks at Van Doren & Sons would have us believe it was all strictly aboveboard. Perault was an attorney hired, among other things, to ‘facilitate transactions.’ In plain English, he made it easier for his developer friends to rape and pillage virgin tracts of precious lakeside land. It was Perault’s job as Public Commissioner to protect said resources. But let’s take a look at the facts. During his three-year reign an unprecedented number of variances were voted through. They include permission to clear 25 acres of land along the north shore (1994), and the same year, the removal of several species of fish and fowl from a list of our region’s protected wildlife. The diversion of Mohawk Creek (1993) and the allocation of funds for a public road to access the Mohawk Village development (1995) mark the nadir of Perault’s tenure.

The result is that the land passed down from our forefathers now bears such fancy real estate monikers as Heritage Park and Trout Basin and Mohawk Village. Litter dots a shoreline once unspoiled, and water that once teemed with trout and striped bass is now stocked by hand, like a supermarket’s shelves.

Who profited? Not the townspeople. Not even the owners of those brand-new condos, who paid through the nose for a tranquil spot that no longer exists. So in all fairness, I propose a vote. Is it fair for one greedy developer and his fair-weather friends to line his pockets at our town’s expense? The ayes have it.

Shortly before noon, when Charlie showed up at Halpern’s for his weekly shave and haircut, Gus Halpern greeted him with wary good humor. ‘Don’t know that I can risk going anywhere near
you
with a razor,’ the barber joked. ‘You might put it in your paper that I nicked you.’

‘“Bloodthirsty Barber Seeks Revenge,”’ Charlie quipped in return. ‘If I’ve been shorting you on the tip, Gus, just say so.’

He settled into the barber chair. It was nearly lunchtime, and he was the only customer in the shop. The timing wasn’t accidental. After a morning of nonstop calls, the last thing he needed was a running commentary from the peanut gallery of regulars that usually lined the bench along the wall.

Gus fastened the drape about his neck, the same beige nylon drape that had been in use since the Eisenhower administration. That’s what Charlie liked about this place, why he hadn’t switched over to one of the newer unisex salons springing up like crabgrass in the strip malls just outside town; it was predictable. The barbershop itself might have been the model for Norman Rockwell’s famous
Saturday Evening Post
cover, minus the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit calendar on the wall, and you could practically set your clock by Gus Halpern. As soon as he was done here, he would flip over the sign in the window, lock up, then stroll across the street to Murphy’s, where he’d order a ham sandwich and a Dr Pepper.

Charlie let out a deep sigh of exhaled breath as the chair was tilted back. ‘What’s the word, Gus? They getting ready to tar and feather me down at town hall?’

The barber ruminated for a minute or two, the crease in his meaty brow deep enough to have tucked a penny into. A big man in his mid-sixties, with a face like an English bulldog, he’d learned his trade working alongside his father, Pete, who’d recently passed on at the ripe old age of eighty-nine. Charlie relied on Gus as the town’s unofficial ear as well. There was something about lying back in a barber chair with a hot towel about your face, Gus had once shared with him, that softened more than a man’s follicles. He’d heard stories that only priests and bartenders were normally privy to. And though discretion was half the secret to his success, Gus provided a useful overview. A sort of one-man Gallup poll, as it were.

‘Let’s just say there’s a few who wouldn’t mind seeing you take a spill off the old soapbox,’ he confided. ‘Most folks are behind you, though. Just don’t ask for a show of hands. That’s some pretty powerful mojo to piss on.’

‘Is there any other kind worth pissing on?’

‘Easy for you to say. But a lot of folks around here owe their living to those bastards.’ Fortunately Gus was among those who didn’t count on Van Doren & Sons to pay the rent.

‘I’m beginning to get the idea. So far I’ve had three businesses yank their ads.’ Charlie gave a rueful laugh. ‘And let’s not even get into the slew of canceled subscriptions.’

In truth, he wasn’t terribly worried about loss of revenue. The paper had weathered such storms in the past. Even if it was to fold altogether, what was that compared with his family? No, what troubled him was the degree of influence Robert yielded in this town. It was certainly no secret to Charlie that his former classmate was slick—for years he’d longed to expose the man, holding back only out of deference to his daughter—but others had been surprised to learn of the town council’s incestuous relationship with Van Doren & Sons. If he was lucky, another stick or two of dynamite would succeed in blowing the bastard right out of the water.

Charlie closed his eyes, soothed by the shaving brush gliding in tight circles over his jaw. Wheels within wheels, he thought. At the center was his elder daughter, fighting for her child. A wheel that had set into motion those around it. Like this unfinished business—he didn’t dare give it a name—with Mary. He felt a sudden tightening in his rib cage, thinking of what they’d done the other night and what he
should
have done thirty years ago.