Shattered Shell (20 page)

"Those sounds being ... "

"Those sounds being a bed being used rather vigorously, and heard the voices of two men, laughing and talking on the stairway outside."

Another scoop of the dessert from Felix. "But he's got a hearing problem. You think he made it up? Do you think he was in on whatever happened that night to Kara?"

I played a bit with the empty packets of sugar. "Tell you what I do think. I think he did hear something that night, and he probably heard it from his bedroom, but I don't think he was lying in bed, dozing off. I poked around his bedroom just for a second and saw a couple of things that made me think."

"A collection of slasher movies?"

"No, a chair and a dirty ceiling," I said. "The chair was near the nightstand, and it was worn in a funny way. There were two impressions there, like someone had been standing on it. And right above it, on the ceiling, was a smudge of something dark. Like newsprint. The smudge was about the size of someone's hand."

Felix nodded, tossed the spoon into the empty dish. "So you think Jason likes to listen in to what's going on upstairs, and standing on the chair and balancing himself by keeping a hand on the ceiling helps him along."

"That's right," I said. "Maybe he heard more than he wants me or the cops to know, something that's going to embarrass him. Which is why he deserves another visit."

"All right," he said, nodding in satisfaction. "That takes care of one visit. What's the other visit you've been considering?"

"We've talked to Kara, her neighbors, and her landlord, but we haven't talked to her place of work. If Kara did know her attacker and did let him in, then it might be someone from her company. God knows everything else so far has been a bust."

"So what would you like?"

I rewarded him with a half-smile. "My, aren't we being considerate today?"

He waved a hand. "Being considerate has nothing to do with it. You're paying for my time, which means you can give me polite suggestions on what to do next."

"Okay, here's the suggestion," I said. “I’ll do the employer interview, and I'd like you to go back to the landlord. I played the good cop with him, and you can play the bad cop. Get him upset, get him concerned, do something to scam him into telling you more."

"Like what?" Felix asked.

''I'll leave it up to you," I said. "I don't want to be accused of micromanaging."

"Bah. Thank you very much. And what do you intend to do?"

"I plan to head over to her job tomorrow and talk to whoever will listen to me, but first, I've got something else to do."

"Which is what?"

The waitress came by, dropped off the check. I smiled and picked it up and handed it over to Felix. "I've got to arrange a peace treaty."

Later that night it was quite cold, dropping into the teens, and I was parked at the Tyler Harbor Meadows, up against a snow bank, waiting for someone to come home. There was a broken yardstick and a piece of cloth at my side. I didn't want to draw attention by leaving the engine rumbling, so I was bundled up in a coat and hat. While the engine was off, the key was switched on, and to pass the time I played around the stations, listening to AM talk radio from Boston, then some of the local FM music stations, and then bouncing over to the National Public Radio outlet from New Hampshire, up at WEVO in Concord. A nice mix that kept me awake, though the grumbling in my stomach was certainly not helping things. It had been many hours since that cheesecake and coffee. But I didn't want to leave, not after having gotten the courage to get here in the first place.

Lights were on up at the condo unit numbered fourteen but there was an empty parking space out front. There had been movements up there by the window, so I knew that someone was home. But it wasn't the someone I wanted to talk to.

I flipped through the radio dial again, and then there was the fanning beam of headlights, coming up the condominium driveway. I sat up, conscious that it had gotten so cold that my breath could be seen inside. A green Volkswagen Rabbit burbled into the parking lilt, and as it came to a stop, I gathered up my possessions and stepped outside.

Diane Woods was stepping out, also bundled up from the cold, carrying a soft leather briefcase. She turned and saw me standing there.

"Lewis? And what the hell is that you're carrying?"

I shook out the cloth that had been tied to the broken yardstick, and waved the piece of white fabric back and forth.

"Truce?" I asked. "Please?"

It seemed like her face was struggling with a variety of emotions, from being standoffish to being merely curious, and the slight humor of the scene seemed to take control and she smiled.

"Why? Afraid I was going to shoot you down on my doorstep?"

I smiled back. "Well, I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't entered my mind."

"You really think I'm still that mad at you?"

I waved the stick and white flag. "That's why I brought this."

Another smile. "Men. Always looking for the grand gesture. Look, the both of us have a lot of history and times between us." She gestured up to her condo, where I thought I saw a shape, looking down. "That's something important to me, up there."

"And for me, as well."

She seemed small there, bundled in winter clothing, standing in the snow by the door. "I felt bad, the way we last saw each other."

"I do, too," I said. “I’m sorry for acting like I knew it all. Even in my old job, I should have known better. I don't know it all, especially about you and Kara."

"I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry about tossing that male-bashing nonsense your way. You're not perfect, but you sure as hell get it more often than any other guy I know."

"So?" I asked, and I waved the white flag again. "Truce?"

A laugh, this time. "Yes, a truce. Is that all?"

"No, just one more thing."

Diane motioned again. "You sure you don't want to come up?"

I shook my head. "This won't take long. Look. It's entirely up to you, but I want to close the circle, Diane. I want to finish this matter for you, as best as I can. It won't mean talking to Kara again, but it'll mean talking to her neighbors again, her landlord, and where she works. After that, if there's nothing there, I'll write it up and give it to you, and it's over. Done. Unless you have something else for me to do."

"Why do you want to do that?" she asked, her voice quiet and neutral.

I shrugged again. "I promised, that's why. Because you asked me, that's why. And because you're my best friend, Diane. That's why."

“I think she was biting her lip. "Those are pretty good reasons." She looked up at her condo. "Kara's doing a bit better. She's starting counseling and I've even agreed to come in with her. She's eating and sleeping more, but, my friend, I still want to know who he was. So, yes, continue. But I'll hold you to your word. Don't come talking to Kara, She's beginning to smile again, and that's very important to me."

"A deal," I said. "Felix and I will do some more digging, and 1'1,'11 pass it along when we've reached the end."

"Thanks. What have you got planned?"

"Felix is talking to the landlord again, and I was planning on going to Digital tomorrow."

"Let me call for you," she said. "Otherwise they won't tell you what time it is."

I finally put the white flag down. "How are you doing, otherwise?"

She hefted up her briefcase. "Goddamn Crescent House burned down earlier this week, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I noticed, all right."

"Same damn thing. Nothing makes sense. No money problems, no threats, no connection with the other fires. But still the damn thing burned, and it was arson again."

I thought of what Paula had found out, about the planning board and the motels, and decided to keep quiet. That had been a promise to Paula. Damn hard to keep track of one's promises, sometimes. "You working any better with the fire inspector?"

"Hardly." She shivered and said, "I often don't think this way, especially in the summer when it's busy and I get asleep every night about one minute after I get to bed, but all that's gone on these past few weeks has made me think about evil."

I could tell she was in no joking mood, so I kept my expression straight. "One would usually think about evil in the hot months. Not necessarily the winter."

"No, not for me. I think about bad things and evil in the winter. Everything around here shuts down, everything's boarded lip, and there's not enough light in the day. People leave home in the morning and it's dark, and when they get home, it's still dark. It’s cold and windy and the ocean seems that much wider, and the nights are very long, Lewis. Long enough for minds to be at work, for minds to urge people on to do evil things. Like burning down motels. Like raping young women."

"And where does it come from?"

"From the sick ones," she said. "Not the ones with bedwetting problems when they were younger, or who caught Mommy and Daddy bouncing in bed. I mean the real sick ones, the ones who enjoy torturing small animals when they're kids and who move on to bigger animals when they get older. I think they're born that way. Just born evil."

I said, "Some local clergy might not like my opinion but I'm with you on this one."

"Good. An ally. Tough to be the good guys nowadays, we're so unfashionable."

"And probably freezing, too," I said. "You should get inside. Kara's probably wondering what the hell we're doing."

"Fair enough," she said. "And ... thanks for coming by."

"My pleasure." I turned to walk away and she called out, "Wait!"

"What's that?"

She stepped up to me. "Fool," she said. "What makes you think I was going to let you leave without a hug?"

She grasped me around the waist and I returned the favor, and something seemed to catch in my throat when I said, "I'll do the best I can, Diane. Promise."

A firm squeeze, a kiss on the cheek. "I know you will. Now get going, before my woman sees us in action."

The next day I was driving through a remote part of Newburyport, near the town line of Newbury and just a few minutes off 1-95. This part of Massachusetts is known as the North Shore, and tho Merrimack River cuts through a lot of the towns on its way to the ocean. Parts of it are still fairly rural, and the road I was on curved gently among the snow-covered fields and bare forests.

Eventually I turned right at a driveway that was marked by a blue-and-white sign saying DIGITAL and quickly found a spot in the visitors' section. About half of the parking lot was empty, and the lot was poorly plowed. This Digital plant was a distant cousin of the big and brawling company that had roared through the early and mid-1980s, making its mark in the world and also causing giddy headline writers, who should have known better, to compare the North Shore with Silicon Valley. The fall from favor and profitability had been a long one, and Digital had shorn off plants and employees like desperate Russian sleighers being pursued by wolves in a Siberian winter, tossing off passengers to lighten the load. It was still surviving, though it had gone through two or three additional rough years.

The reception area was tiny, with vinyl-covered couches and chairs, a scuffed metal coffee table that had a copy of its annual report, and issues of
Money
and
Fortune
. The receptionist sat behind a glass window arrangement that looked like it belonged in a bus station in the Bronx, and after announcing who I was and passing over my New Hampshire driver's license, I was privileged to get a green plastic badge that said VISITOR. I clipped the badge to my shirt collar, took off my coat, and sat down, watching the snow melt from my boots.

I didn't wait long. The door was buzzed open and a man poked his head through.

"Mr. Cole?" he asked.

"The same," I said, getting up.

"Scott Weber," he said, extending his hand, which I shook.

"I don't have much time, so let's see if we can get things squared away."

The head of security for the Digital plant wore a two-piece dark blue suit, white shirt, and light red tie. He had on black-rimmed glasses, and while his features were delicate, his eyes were hard blue and unmoving.

"That'll be fine," I said. "I don't think it should take that long."

I followed him through and the security door slammed shut, bringing back some memories of my old job, and I followed him down a tiled corridor. Off to both sides were cubicles and the sounds of' phones ringing and the incessant tapping of computer keyboards. There was a banner taped to the side of one cubicle that said SCREW HEWLETT-PACKARD, with an illustration that showed a long screw protruding through a circuit board that bore the Hewlett-Packard logo. Weber saw that I noticed the banner and said with a thin smile, "Bit of corporate cheerleading, I'm afraid."

"Does it work?"

"It better."

The hallway opened up on the right-hand side with large windows overlooking an assembly area. People were hunched over on long tables, working with power tools of some sort, slapping together circuit boards and cathode-ray tubes and other electrical devices. Most of them wore earphones of some sort, and all were working with heads bowed, staring at what was before them. There were no windows to the outside.