Skull Session (29 page)

"No!" Lia said emphatically. "Absolutely not. Your take on this is just what we need."

They went into the warmth. Lia's compliment, if that's what it was, made Mo feel good. The three of them held their hands in the hot air rising from the heater, not speaking, until Paul turned and began pumping up a Coleman lantern. When he had lit it and set it on the mantelpiece, he looked out the darkening windows briefly, and then turned back. "Well, I'd say the sun is verifiably over the yard arm," he said decisively.

"And I am going to have some cognac. I don't usually drink this early, but it's been a rotten day and I feel entitled to some self-indulgence.

Who's joining me?"

"I'd love some," Lia said. "You, Mo?"

Mo stalled, not sure. "What the hell is a 'yard arm' anyway?" Lia laughed. "No one knows. In Providence, it's called a
yahd ahm."
She mimicked the New England accent perfectly.

Paul poured amber liquor into three Styrofoam cups and handed Mo one. Mo inhaled the fumes, feeling better than he had in a long time. He liked these two. His divorce had worked an attrition on his circle of friends, the people he'd known when he was half of a couple, all of whom ultimately took one side or the other. He'd found it difficult to stand the company even of those who'd stayed with him, uncomfortable with the mix of sympathy and suspicion that seemed to follow divorce. But this was nice. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

"I've got a question for you, Mo," Lia said. She turned her eyes on him with a trust that warmed him. For an instant, he wondered if he might be letting his attraction to her bias his judgment about getting involved up here, telling them too much, bending too many rules.

"What's that?"

"What kind of investigator are you? I mean what kind of process you use—do you think of yourself as Apollonian or Dionysian? Rational and logical, or intuitive and instinctive?"

Mo laughed uneasily. He was flattered by her attention, but she had unknowingly touched upon a sore spot. "Good question," he said. He repressed a desire to tell them about White Plains and the whole chain of ramifications. "You learn one in forensic training, but you're born with 'the other. I guess I use both, you've got to. But probably I go to extremes. I'd do better if my Apollo and my Dionysus could work together as a team. Kind of meet in the middle."

"I think we all feel the same way." Lia reached over and touched her cup to his. "To meeting in the middle," she said, and swigged off her cognac. Mo automatically did the same.

Paul poured another jot into all three cups. The windows were now black rectangles, and Mo became conscious of their isolation, the acres of dark forest that surrounded them.

"Well, we'll need both halves of our brains to figure this mess out," Paul said. "We've run into some very interesting things among my aunt's papers. Some of them may be linked to the vandalism here."

"The problem is," Lia said, "we don't have access to other sources of information. We have an odd photo that suggests something like this happened before, but we can't be sure. We've found . . . well, other interesting things." She glanced at Paul, as if asking a question.

"I have to honor my aunt's desire for privacy," Paul said. "It's problematical."

Mo stood up. "Listen. I want to make a pitch to you. I hear your concerns, and I respect your aunt's desire, her right, for privacy. Okay. I can't just make your aunt open this place up, but at the same time I wouldn't be here if I didn't feel strongly that there was something here I need to find." He found himself getting worked up about it, gesturing, pacing feverishly. "I've got some kids, some good kids, missing. Their parents and brothers and sisters are walking wounded, there's a hole in their lives. I've got another young man who was killed dead. I can't figure out who or how or why, but I've got good indications he's tied in too. So what am I supposed to do—not follow the leads that brought me here?"

He turned to face them, glad to see they were listening and responsive. "And one other concern you ought to think about. The element of danger to you. This place scares the shit out of me—excuse my French. The sooner we get to the bottom of what happened, the sooner we can neutralize any danger to you while you're up here. And whether she likes it or not, to your aunt when she returns."

He paused to let that sink in. "So here's my proposition. I call your aunt, try to get permission for a consent search. If she doesn't consent, fine, then I don't come into the house. But maybe a little compromise will be in everybody's best interests, and this part's up to you. You tell me what you find, what you discover as you go along. I run the outside work."

Lia and Paul looked at each other. "It'd be just what we need, Paul!" Lia said.

Paul needed another minute to think about it. "Okay," he said finally. "But on one condition. I'd like to get this thing with Rizal cleared up. I don't want to be pushed around by him again. If you look into why he's hassling us, I'll agree to your proposal."

"That's tricky. I can't tell you about an ongoing investigation. I'm not willing to cast any aspersions on—"

"I know, loyalty to the cop corps, the brotherhood in blue. But you can tell me if there is really any drug investigation or if there's some other bug up this guy's butt." A hint of the anger Mo had seen earlier crossed Paul's face. "Just as you're sure this house is connected to your case, I'm sure he's got some hidden motives in this. I'd like to know what."

Mo considered it. Rizal was a shit, Mo wouldn't put anything past him. His instinct told him these were good people. He smiled. "Okay.

It's a deal." He took his notebook out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, settled into his chair. "Okay. So tell me what you've got."

37

T
HE CANDLE FLAMES thrummed in unison, dancing to some invisible draft. Paul lay, thinking, staring at the ceiling. First thing in the morning, he planned to dig into the biggest drifts, just to set their minds at ease. It would be impossible to work wondering if the next time they moved something they'd uncover a goddamned corpse.

Rolled in her sleeping bag, Lia read one of her textbooks, leaving him to his thoughts, and Paul was glad—there were things he couldn't talk about with her just yet.

Morgan Ford, for example. At every turn, the detective had confounded Paul's preconceptions of what a cop was like. He had a self-effacing quality that made him accessible, rather charming Never pushy, no authority games. Yet at the same time Mo had a tough, assertive, competent side. Clearly a person who had taken a realistic look at his own strengths and shortcomings and come to terms with both.

When the detective interviewed them, he'd guided the discussion skillfully, listening attentively, taking detailed notes. They'd been left with no doubts as to his professional skills.

But there were aspects of Mo that Paul didn't want to mention to Lia right away. Paul had immediately sensed Mo's attraction to Lia, the way his body had reacted whenever she inadvertently bumped shoulders with the detective during their tour of the house. Even his interviewing talents hadn't concealed the slight modulation of his voice whenever he addressed her. Paul was willing to bet that Mo had been divorced within the last year. He recognized the symptoms: the sweet-sad yearning of the single man. Looking at Lia leaning against the end of the bed now, her T-shirt taut against the round full curve of her breasts, he didn't blame Mo in the slightest.

Had Lia noticed? In every other way she was very observant, but her single blind spot was that unlike most beautiful women she was completely unaware of the effect she had on men. After two years with her, he'd come to know that her friendliness toward men was nothing more than a tomboy camaraderie, the natural ease of a woman who had grown up with three brothers, a cop father, a bunch of uncles. He'd always cherished her lack of self-consciousness. But a man meeting her for the first time could easily misunderstand her simple gregariousness.

Whether she'd noticed or not, Paul could understand why she might respond to Mo. The cop had a good build that his trim charcoal suit flattered, thick dark hair short on the sides but a little too long in front, a hint of the fifties rockabilly pop star. He had a generous, slightly asymmetrical nose and unwavering dark eyes with surprisingly long lashes.

In a lot of ways, Lia and Mo were more alike than Paul and Lia were: Both had quick, curious minds and a direct, pragmatic approach that Paul envied. Both had the bloodhound's instinct for the trail, both spoke the language of police procedure. When the three of them were talking, Lia and Mo had sometimes left him behind as they skipped ahead an inference or two, leaving Paul to wonder what he'd missed.

Plus—and this he hated to admit to himself—there had been something reassuring about having Mo in the house. Paul had caught a glimpse of the gun he carried in a snug shoulder holster, and he had no doubt the detective knew how to use it. Certainly Paul wasn't a source of reassurance to anybody, with his fucking tics and jitters and family skeletons.

Despite the buzz of concern, having the detective at the house had been the best part of an otherwise miserable day. It had started with his call to Janet. After a nearly sleepless night worrying, he'd tried Janet's number first thing Thursday morning, standing in the ruined kitchen, seething with tics brought on by the anticipation of talking to her.

"Janet? Paul. I'm glad I finally managed to get through. How are you? How's Mark?"

"I'm fine. Mark had another bad day on Tuesday." Her voice was flat, revealing nothing.

"How bad?"

"Micropsia, withdrawal. This is the second time in ten days. The one before that was about the same."

"Which means that the interval is shortening up again. Christ!" Paul said. "I wish I were up there to work with him. I miss him."

That managed to put a chill in her voice. "I'm sure," she said.

Paul rang the invisible bell. "Well, it's going well down here. I think we're on schedule for—"

"Paul, I've been talking to an attorney."

He stopped, shifted gears. "So I gather. And to my aunt. Care to tell me why?" He resisted slipping a jab in with his question. She'd only escalate it, and right now he needed her to stay reasonable. If it came to a struggle over Mark, Janet had him at a disadvantage in every way. He was cohabiting with another woman, hving outside Mark's school district, unemployed. He didn't have her family money or connections to draw upon—in his current state, he couldn't begin to match her ability to stick out a legal battle. Unspoken, whenever she listed his failings, was his Tourette's. She'd use it if she could. Could a court find him unsuitable because he had a neurological disorder? How well could he control his tics and coprolalia at a custody hearing?

"I'm just exploring the issue at this point," she said.

"What issue is that, precisely?"

"Don't play the naif, Paul, please. Really, it's your most irritating habit. The issue of the rights and obligations we each assume with regard to Mark."

"Meaning custody." "I'm just doing the research I should have done years ago."

"So why'd you call my aunt?"

"I didn't call your aunt. I called your current employer—on the advice of my attorney. Your long-term financial viability, what you make and what you can pay, it all factors in. I wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth."

Paul wanted to fling the phone away from him, smash Janet's condescension and arrogance against the wall. "Why do you want to do this? You know that I love my son, that he loves me and needs me. You know I've been working very hard to figure out what's the matter with him, and we've goddamned well been making progress. You know I'm doing everything I can to make money."

"No doubt. But you don't seem to manage to make money and live nearby at the same time, do you? Any 'progress' you might've been making seems to be slipping away, doesn't it?"

"I'll come up next week."

"I've got to get going now," she said.

"I'll come up Sunday. I'm hoping I can get a gate up by then, I'll have subcontractors in the house all day—I'll be able to get away. You and I can talk. I'll have Mark out at the farm for a couple of days." Paul's knuckles ached from gripping the receiver.

"Maybe. We'll see."

"Janet, why- do you want to do this?" He spoke in a gentle voice, sincerely trying to reach her. "Please, don't use Mark as a weapon to hurt me."

"Don't flatter yourself," she hissed.

Paul wrestled with the conflicting impulses in him, and at last the dammed-up anger washed over him. "Janet. You listen to me: Don't try to come between me and my son. Don't even consider it. You think you have all the cards in your pocket? The legal shit doesn't mean squat to me. I'll do whatever I have to."

"Let me see—is that a threat? Oddly enough, my attorney mentioned just such a possibility. He said I should make a note of any violent or threatening behavior on your part." Her self-control was astonishing.

"You heard me. I'll be up Sunday. Have Mark ready to come home with me Monday after school." He would have gone on, but Janet had cut the connection.

Paul stirred in the sleeping bag, squirming with tension. His arms and legs moved independently, little tics in every muscle group. Next to him, Lia turned a page, absently stroking his chest with one hand.

Then, after the call to Janet, the thing with Rizal. Paul had been pacing up and down in the crisp air, working out the kinks he'd acquired from stooping over Vivien's papers, when the cruiser came over the crest of the drive. Pazal swaggered out of the car, chewing a toothpick.

"I've already registered a complaint about your last visit," Paul warned him.

"Yeah, Miller said you called. He said, 'Take a good close look at this guy Skoglund.' So I thought I'd drop by again. Actually, I'm here to do you a favor."

"What's that?"

"You're from Vermont, right? Still hippie heaven up there? Food coops and farm communes? Grow your own, do you? Green Mountain Green—I hear it's very nice."

"I'm not understanding you. What's the favor you're here to do?"

Pdzal came to the bottom of the stairs and spoke conspiratorially "There's been speculation about drugs happening up here for some months now. Recent talk at zone headquarters is that you're bringing down some Vermont homegrown for sale to our Westchester County kids. So the favor is this: I'm giving you a little advance warning. A chance to clear out."

"I've got to get back to work, Rizal. Come on up and search the place. You won't find anything. But you make sure you have a warrant, because if I see you up here without due authority again, on any pretext whatsoever, I'll bring you to court."

Rizal didn't budge. "Funny—you can
always
manage to find something if you're really looking for it."

"You mean if you want to nail somebody, you bring it with you."

Pdzal just looked at him, eyes flat.

Paul had started walking away, back toward the kitchen door. He'd suppressed any vocal tics, but his abdomen was clenching spasmodically. If the cop wasn't off the property by the time he got to the kitchen phone, he was calling the State Police headquarters. And then a lawyer.

"But here's another thing to consider, Mr. Skoglund," Rizal called after him. "It won't make things easier for you if there's an investigation, will it? I mean, how do you think your aunt will hke it if you're even accused? If we have to go through her little castle with a fine-tooth comb? And how fast do you think your work will go if you're tangled up in something hke that? Interrogations, making bail, lawyers, hearings, court dates—my guess is it will not go well. My guess is you can't afford a headache like that. So I'm giving you the chance to get lost. Go home. Tuck fanny and scoot."

Paul didn't pause or turn around. He didn't want Rizal to see that he'd finally touched a nerve. Not so much that there'd be problems with Vivien, or the job. Highwood and everything connected with it could go to hell. But a drug charge now, no matter how bogus—Janet would love it. She'd eat him alive in any legal battle. Good-bye to Mark.

"Paul! Paul!" Lia was shaking him, scattering kisses on his face. "Are you all right? You were moaning as if you were having a bad dream!"

"Yeah, a nightmare—I was thinking back on the day."

"You were grinding your teeth! You've never done that before."

"What's that
splat-splat
noise? The sound of shit hitting the fan?" Paul moaned and put his head between his hands. "Oh, baby, what's going on? Why is all this happening? What am I supposed to do?"

Lia wrapped her arms around him. "It's going to be all right. I promise." She kissed him beneath his ear. "It's going to come out fine."

"How? What am I supposed to do? It seems like everyone around me is nuts."

"Me too?"

"No. Not you." He put his forehead against her. "But recently, so help me, I've been thinking
I'm
going crazy."

"You're the sanest person I know! You've got to be nuts to think you're crazy."

"Explain to me how sane I am—I seem to have forgotten."

He expected more humor, but she took him seriously: "I'll tell you exactly. You remain honest when everyone else is being deceitful. You are compassionate in a time when selfishness is everywhere. You've got the best brain of anyone I know, yet you still steer by your heart. You keep a sense of humor, even if things are difficult."

It was good to hear her flatter him. "Yeah, well, neither my heart nor my humor has been helping me recently. How're they supposed to help me with this Pdzal character? Fuck it—I need a forked stick and a canvas bag for that son of a bitch."

Lia laughed, still wrapped around him.

"And I didn't even tell you about Dempsey," he went on.

"I thought you'd cleared that up."

"Ah, fuck—I think there's still something going on with him." He told her what he hadn't had time to earlier: That afternoon, Paul had found Dempsey upstairs in Vivien's bedroom, furtively rooting through the papers just as Lia had described earlier. Paul had slipped past the doorway without Dempsey's seeing him, but the implication was clear—the old man was still looking for something.

Lia looked lost in thought for a moment, then stretched and yawned hugely. "I think you're getting worried about things that probably aren't very important. So Dempsey has something else he'd like to keep private—so what? How does that affect Paul Skoglund? Anyway, problems are just opportunities to grow, learn more about ourselves."

"Recently I've had about all the personal growth I can stand," Paul grumbled.

Lia slept. Paul lay, straining to hsten to the night through the sound of her gentle snores. Night wrapped the carriage house, the rugged woods seemed to breathe too. The yellow candlelight set into sharp focus tiny irregularities in the paint on the ceiling, like the pocks and craters of the moon.