Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery (5 page)

I called Phigg’s name again.

Nothing.

Over the years, the woods had closed in too much for any river breeze to chase bugs away. Mosquitoes sniffed me out and strafed me.

Underfoot it was dank clay, not like most New England soil. I stooped, picked up a handful, looked at the river, figured things out. I bet there had been a house here, years before. A nice home, a river house like the one Phigg had begun. But the original house was built too close to the Souhegan. It wouldn’t take much rain to push the riverbank up there. After a couple hundred years, whoever owned the house got tired of cleaning up after floods and abandoned the place. If I walked ten yards past the stack of presswood, I’d probably find the remains of that house. The outbuilding had to be a mill or storage shed. It survived because it was built on brick piers high enough to stand clear of most floods.

If Tander Phigg lived here he had fallen further, faster, than any of us knew—and was too proud to tell anybody, to ask for help.

I stepped toward the shack and spotted something odd on the downriver side. I checked it out and saw a couple of toothed wheels, cast iron, the bigger one as large as a hula hoop. Click: Back when the original house stood, they likely used the river for power, making their own electricity. The outbuilding was a primitive generator. Good idea.

I shoved open the sagging door, called Phigg’s name again. Nothing.

I stepped in. Felt the floor sag—not creak, but sag—beneath me, and thought how easy it’d be to drop straight through into the river.

Inside, it was dark as hell. I paused, let my eyes adjust. I wrinkled my nose at the smell—your grandfather’s basement multiplied by ten. It seemed you could reach for anything in this room, tear off a chunk, and ball it up like a sponge.

I thought all this for maybe twenty seconds, slowly turning clockwise, finally looking past the door to the north side.

Tander Phigg was hanging from a stub of cast-iron pipe that came through the wall.

He’d dressed up, then hung himself by his necktie. One of those preppy striped ones, orange and black.

His khaki pants were stained with piss.

He’d kicked over a double stack of milk crates. Not far from the crates was a green sleeping bag on an old door supported by a cinder block at each corner.

Home sweet home.

Atop the sleeping bag was a blue hard-shell Samsonite suitcase. It was open. Both halves were filled with folded clothes. Topping the stack was the yellow polo shirt he’d worn Monday, a thin black wallet, a wristwatch, the key to his shitbox Sentra. I looked at Phigg’s blue-black face. “Oh hell,” I said.

CHAPTER THREE

I stepped outside. Realized I’d stopped breathing when I saw Phigg, gulped air. I squatted at the riverbank, splashed double handfuls of cold water on my face. It felt good. Helped me think.

My gut said vamoose. My head said that would be a bad move. I rose, looked around the back of the van. Sure enough, I’d left strong tire tracks in the clay. Plus the locals had seen me and Phigg in Dot’s Place Monday. Plus me and Phigg were all over each other’s cell phones. Plus the guy at the Exxon would remember us, would remember my truck.

If I split now, the cops would pick me up before dinner.

I sighed, pulled my cell, started to punch 911.

Then a stray thought hit me and I stopped dialing. What if Phigg’s body just went away? That might stir things up, might put pressure on whoever drove him to hang himself.

It would be interesting to make Phigg disappear, then keep an eye on Ollie.

But as I played with the idea I saw how stupid it was. Start with logistics. Even if I could get Phigg down from that pipe stub and clear all signs of him from the outbuilding, what would I do with his car? I’d wind up with his DNA inside the van. When somebody wondered where he was—and somebody would—Dot’s Place and the Exxon guy would point back to me.

I shook my head. Dumb. Always looking for ways to outsmart myself. I punched 911 fast, before I could think of any other ideas.

*   *   *

A lot of the little towns up here don’t have their own police departments, so I was probably waiting for a state trooper. Figured I had a few minutes—the troopers have a lot of ground to cover.

Phigg’s car was unlocked. Its interior stank. A quick search found nothing good: a damp beach towel with a surfer on it, random magazines, cereal and cracker boxes, a jug of generic laundry detergent, half a twelve-pack of Sam’s Club Diet Cola.

In the trunk, yard-sale crap: a box of old
Gourmet
magazines, a snorkel, three mismatched golf clubs, a Hefty bag half full of aluminum cans, a pair of wading boots. Tander Phigg, sole heir of Phigg Paper Products, Incorporated, had been prowling roadside ditches for returnables to earn a nickel a pop.

I shook my head at that, slammed the trunk, went into the shack. Breathed through my mouth while I did a light search on Phigg’s suitcase. I went through his wallet first and found a ten-spot, three singles, a driver’s license that expired last year, and a dozen coupons. That was it.

Didn’t want to mess up the suitcase, so I probed with gentle hands around the sides. I found something right away, slid it out. An address book, worn black leather. That made sense for a guy Phigg’s age—you could convince him to use a cell phone, but you’d never get him to part with the hard copy.

I slipped the book in my pocket, then thought about the cops coming. I untied my right work boot, slipped the book into it, retied.

The address book made me think of Phigg’s cell. I spotted a bulge in his left front pants pocket, patted. It was his phone all right.

I stared at the body. Getting the phone wasn’t going to be easy. Phigg was hanging too high for me to get a hand up to the pocket, then down for the phone. I’d need to climb on something, and it’d have to be one of the milk crates.

While I balanced the info against the risk, I thought I heard something over the river-burble. I stilled, focused, definitely heard it—wide tires on a dirt road. The cops were here. I was glad I wasn’t standing on a milk crate with one hand in Phigg’s pocket.

As I stepped outside I tried to look horrified, then tried to look surprised at the copper-over-green Dodge Charger the New Hampshire Staties had been buying lately. I noticed the Charger was parked in the only spot where it blocked both Phigg’s car and my van. Smart cop.

I started toward the Charger. A deep voice said, “Stay right there, please.”

I stopped.

The door opened. A man unfolded, putting on a tan Smokey the Bear hat as he rose.

And rose. He was huge. Half a head taller than me, and I’m six-one. His shoulders were half again as broad as mine, and mine aren’t small. His forest-green shirt tapered to a waist two inches smaller than mine, and I’m not fat.

He had deep-set eyes, blue. High cheekbones, acne scars from teen years I bet he wanted to forget. Take Abe Lincoln, shave the beard, add thirty pounds of chest and shoulders—you’d have this trooper.

He looked at me maybe five seconds. I wasn’t sure how, but he made me feel small in every way.

He said, “You the caller?”

I nodded.

“What happened to your head?”

I fingered the purple lump I’d forgotten about. “Banged it on a Dumpster yesterday.” I turned my head to let him see it wasn’t a fresh wound.

He keyed a lapel mic on his shirt, talked code on his radio. Then he said, “Show me.” As he passed I read the name board pinned to his shirt:
MCCORD
.

Inside, McCord looked around with that unsurprisable nonexpression cops have. He faced the body. “You make sure he’s dead?” he said.

“He’s dead.”

McCord turned and looked at me with a little more interest. He turned back to Phigg, pulled on a pair of purple rubber gloves, and ran a hand up Phigg’s pant leg. Looking for a pulse at the back of the knee, I guessed.

McCord said, “He’s dead,” took notebook and pen from his shirt pocket, wrote. He stepped back and cocked his head the same way Phigg’s was twisted. “Huh.”

“What?”

“The necktie,” McCord said. “Dress up to kill yourself, okay. More likely with women than men, but I’ll buy it. Once he had his necktie all done up”—McCord pointed—“he didn’t have much tie left to work with, uh? But he made a sturdy knot that’s held up for a bunch of hours. Hard to do.”

“Probably made the knot before he slipped it over that pipe,” I said. “Made it right in front of his chest, looking at it, then slipped it over.”

“Still. You’re getting set to kill yourself, you’re balancing on milk crates. You’ve got to make a nice tight knot, a slipknot or a square knot, can’t tell from here. Then you’ve got to reach back over your head, tippy-toe on the crates, find the pipe, slip it over, snug it. Hard to do, uh?”

“Sure.”

McCord wrote in his notebook again. Without looking up he said, “Did you kill this man, sir?”

“No.”

“Know him?”

“His name was Tander Phigg.”

“Your name?”

“Conway Sax.”

“Did you kill him, sir?”

“No.”

“Did you touch anything in here?”

“No.”

“Touch
anything
?” Swept a long arm. “Go through his wallet, maybe?”

“No.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

McCord pointed at the door. As we stepped from the shack he asked for my ID. I passed him my license. “I’m on parole in Mass.,” I said.

“What for?”

“Manslaughter.”

“You don’t say.”

McCord didn’t seem to rush, but in a half second he had my left wrist behind my back and was working his cuffs off his belt.

I said, “My mistake. Should’ve told you first thing you pulled up.”

“
My
mistake,” he said. “I should’ve done this right away.” As he spoke, McCord bent me over the Charger’s deck lid, kicked my feet out wide, started to feel around my pockets. He said, “So you’re on parole down there but messing around with dead bodies up here. Not good, uh?” He was businesslike, almost gentle. A man his size probably had to be: He could hurt you without trying.

“My PO knows I’m outside the state,” I said. “I’m trying to get a job up here. He says as long as I live in Mass., I’m okay.”

I could tell McCord was looking through my wallet. He said, “Shrewsbury to Rourke? Long commute, friend.” He tugged at the handcuffs, let me straighten. Told me to stay still, took my license, sat in the Charger, worked his radio and laptop awhile.

I hoped they couldn’t get in touch right away with Luther Swale, my parole officer. He and Randall and I worked together a while back to help some people out. Luther and I have an arrangement where I get a longer leash than most parolees as long as I stay clean and invisible. If he got cold-called by a New Hampshire Statie, our deal would expire on the spot. For the most part, Luther’s a by-the-book grinder. He reluctantly gave me the long leash out of gratitude—his son had a hard time adjusting to post-Iraq life, and I guess I gave him a way to feel useful.

I was lucky. After ten minutes McCord unfolded from the Charger, unhooked me, pointed at my stuff on the deck lid. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll move my car so you can clear out.”

“Just like that?”

“ISB won’t be here for three hours. They’ll call you when they need you.” He saw the question on my face. “Investigative Services Bureau.”

“Detectives, in other words.”

The left corner of his mouth moved an eighth of an inch. It might have been a smile. “People do like fancy titles, uh?” He folded into his car as I walked toward the van.

I thought of something, stopped, turned. “How do you like the Charger?”

“I prefer the Crown Vic. Almost as fast, rides better, more headroom.”

“How about the other guys?”

“Most of ’em like the Charger because it’s badass.”

“You, you don’t need a car to make you feel badass.”

McCord gave me the eighth-inch smile again and lit the Charger’s Hemi. “Have a nice day.”

*   *   *

Southbound, I called Luther Swale’s office number. Got voice mail, left a message. I called Randall. “Where the hell are you?” he said.

“Headed for Framingham. You?”

“I’m standing beside the new deck. You were supposed to oil this fancy ipe yesterday. I came by to see how it looked. Nada. Decided to do it myself. I just finished the second coat. It looks great.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Got something important you can help me with. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

“Bring lunch.” Click.

I looked at my watch. Jesus, it was past noon already. I’d been at Phigg’s shack a long time. I hit the gas.

*   *   *

The oil on the deck did look great. It was dry to the touch, but we didn’t want to scuff it up before it cured, so Randall and I sat at a card table in the kitchen and ate meatball subs.