The Dead Soul (32 page)

73

Sunday, September 14 – 2:43 P.M.

Jake and Dickie were almost at Meyers’s house. Dispatch called and explained the false alarm. They looked at each other, then busted out laughing.

Jake got off the exit and headed back toward the squad room.

Getting out of the car in the parking lot, Dickie said he needed to go home and pack up a few personal items Caroline forgot to take with her. Then FedEx them to Michigan.

“Let’s hook up later today.”

“Right.”

Jake texted Dawn.

how are all of you doing?

Dawn answered as though she had been waiting.

fine … father john is supposed to be here sometime this afternoon—i’m told we’re moving again!!!!????.

Jake typed out his answer, sent it, put the phone away.

let’s leave that there. don’t say another word about it. few more days. hang on. be strong. i’ll see you today or tomorrow morning.

The next order of business was Mo. Jake needed to talk with Mo while he had a chance. Jake hadn’t eaten lunch. So he grabbed a sandwich at the deli on the ground floor of the Patriot Building, ate it while on his way over to Mo’s. It was time to end all this bullshit with his mentor. Once and for all. If the feds were coming for him, Jake needed to know what to expect. How deep he was involved. He couldn’t live—or work—while constantly looking over his shoulder. Part of him wanted to drive straight to HQ and lay it all out for the captain. Tell brass what he knew and what he thought he had done per the Big Dig. Let the chips fall. As he drove and ate, Jake considered how it would go. “Kickbacks, Captain,” he heard himself saying. “I knew but I said nothing. After I put this sonofabitch serial in prison, fire and indict me. But let me finish this.”

That plan, Jake knew, might foil the investigation. He couldn’t afford to put Dawn and Brendan in danger. On top of that, there was loyalty involved. The Southie code.

You don’t rat. No matter what.

Mo was a perfectionist when it came to cleanliness. On patrol, if he found so much as a foil gum wrapper on the floorboard of his cruiser, the guy went spastic. He hated disorganization. That’s why, when Mo opened the door to let his former student in, Jake knew right away things were as bad as they could get for Mo Blackhall—he was at the end of a long rope. The inside of Mo’s house was disgusting. Empty cartons of food scattered among beer bottles and cans and strewn newspapers. All sorts of different documents spread about the floor in Mo’s office as though he was searching for something he couldn’t find.

“What is this, Mo?” Jake had to step over things walking in. The kitchen stunk of rotten food.

Mo tried to tidy up as Jake made his way into the house. But there was no use. It was obvious the guy had given up.

They walked toward the slider. Dog hair was piled up in the corners like tumbleweed. “You’d think the pooch goes out in the middle of the night for secret chemo treatments,” Mo said, trying to lighten the mood, “with all the hair he sheds. Look at this shit.”

Mo hadn’t shaved in four, five days. He had the beginnings of a gray, white and black beard. His eyes sagged. His face had that puffy, red, alcoholic bloat to it. Jake thought of a woodsman, terribly downtrodden. But most of all, tired. Yeah. That was it. A man tired of running.

Mo slid the door open, inviting Jake to walk outside with him. “No one can hear us out here. Sounds paranoid, I know. But look at me, Jake. Do I look like I shouldn’t be?”

“Mo, what the hell is going on?” Jake was as confused as he was angry. “Why’d you take off on me like that? Matikas said something about an indictment. What am I missing here? Come on, man, talk to me.”

Mo shrugged. “Embarrassed, I guess. It’s hard to face you sober.” Changing the subject, “You should have used me on the Optimist case, Jake.” There was pleading in his voice. “I needed that one thing. One last feather to go out on.”

“That’s bullshit. I’ve seen you get drunk as a hobo and brag about sleeping with the fattest, ugliest skank you could find. You have no shame, Mo. Your pride is gone. This isn’t about solving a murder.”

Mo knew why Jake was there. “I was running an errand upstate. Trying one final move to get out of this. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Out of what? What do you mean, ‘errand’?”

“Jake, come on. The less you know …”

Jake didn’t want to hear it. He wanted Mo to say he was having a rough time and things would be okay. A few weeks, a month, Mo would be back in the game. Jake shook his head. Put his hands in his pockets. Mo walked toward the wooden chair swing near the edge of his property. Jake followed.

“What’s going on?
Talk
to me, Mo. Maybe I can help. How is the Teddy Williams Tunnel law suit connected here?” Jake had a good idea, but wanted Mo to confirm his suspicions—and also tell it to the wire Jake was wearing.

“I don’t know how this happened, Jake. I never expected people would die.”

There was movement in the woods behind them. Leaves cracking. A squirrel chasing nuts.

“Were you paying someone off up north?”

Mo thought about it. “Freakin’ bartender. I gave him a c-note to keep his trap shut.” He waved his trembling hands around. The skin on Mo’s palms was yellow, Jake noticed. His eyes, too, held a jaundiced hue. “You don’t want to know, Jake. It won’t do you any good now.”

Mo pulled a half-pint of Black Velvet from his back pocket. Before he could take a swig, Jake grabbed the bottle and threw it into the woods. “Tell me what’s going on here!”

Mo looked with longing at the shrubbery where the bottle had landed. “It’s over, Jake. There was so much money floating around during that Big Dig. You have to understand how hard it was for me.”

“What have you done?” Jake was startled by this revelation. He assumed it was a few thousand dollars here and there.
Coffee and donuts
, the old-timers called it. Local merchants liked to give cops free stuff. It was a community thing. But he could tell by the look on Mo’s face it was much more involved. “You’re stronger than that, Mo. Come on. What are you saying? How deep have you gotten me involved.” Jake paced. Put a hand on his forehead. “Tell me.”

“The Big Dig, Jake. Everyone was making money.”

Jake put his head down. He couldn’t believe this. His cell phone buzzed. “Yo? Kinda busy here, Dick.”

“We got our break, Kid. Meet me at your house in an hour.”

“What is it?”

“The name … the name … but I need to show you.”

Jake hung up. “Mo, I need to get going. We’re close to getting our guy. Let’s talk tomorrow or Tuesday.”

Mo did not speak.

“Hold on, Mo. We’ll fight this. Together. Just a while longer.”

Jake went to walk away.

Mo called after him. “Mayor Devino, Jake, we go way back. I owed him.”

That stopped Jake in his tracks. He turned.

Mo raised his voice. “I always taught you to pay your debts. Remember, there are only three sources of morality—object, intention, circumstance. I failed all three, Jake.”

“You did
what
?” Jake looked down at the ground as his temples throbbed. “Two people died in that Ted Williams accident, Mo. What the hell are you talking about?”

Mo stared at nothing, tearing up. “I know …”

“Last time I checked, we were supposed to save lives.” Jake walked over and poked a stiff finger into Mo’s chest. “Two,” he held up the peace sign, spoke slowly. “Two. People. Died. Mo. You got me involved in
that
?” Jake stared into Mo’s sad eyes.

Mo didn’t speak.

Jake started for the house. He had a hand on the sliding glass door handle. “I’ll call a few people, Mo. Find out some things. Just give me a few days. We’ll turn ourselves in. Figure this out. ”

“Why didn’t you just follow Casey into the service, Jake? I’ve always wondered. I gotta know.”

Jake considered this. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Then said: “No guts, Mo. I was scared of dying over there. No fucking guts. That’s me.”

Jake walked in, closed the door behind him.

Mo stared into the woods, not knowing Jake was gone. He said, “Our plan was to groom you. Bring you into the fold with us. But when I began to see how good of a cop you were, how much tougher than I could ever be, how far you had come from that neighborhood, I couldn’t do it.”

Jake was out in front. Inside his car. The blue light above him on the roof spinning and flashing. The siren wailing.

On his way home.

74

Sunday, September 14 – 3:13 P.M.

A manila folder in his hand, Dickie paced in Jake’s driveway.

Jake pulled in, chirping the tires to a stop.

The house was empty, the shades pulled. It had that no-life look to it, same as when families go on vacation. A tell-tale sign to home invaders was the porch light on during the middle of the day.

“What’s up?” Jake slammed his door shut, tore off his sunglasses.

“I could have explained it over the phone, but I had better show you this. I took one of the files from the sheriff’s station house like you told me to.”

“Naughty boy.”

“Listen, you were right. I found something. There was a report in here about that boy, Rainn Meyers, who supposedly killed the neighbor after escaping.”

“I know all this already.” Jake was impatient. “Come on here—”

“Just shut up and listen for once. I did a Lexis-Nexis on the name. Look at this newspaper clipping.” Dickie shoved an article published by the
Augusta Gazette
in Jake’s face. It was a short piece about the break-in and murder of Howard Charles Markmann.

Jake took the article. Walked toward his garage. The next-door neighbor started his lawn mower, pushed it into gear, began cutting his grass. The noise reminded Jake how out of the suburban loop he was.

“Read it,” Dickie said.

HOME INVASION ENDS IN MURDER

Suspect  Sought  by  Sheriff

BAINBRIDGE—Howard Charles Markmann, 57, a retired Port Henry school teacher and lifelong resident of Bainbridge, was murdered by an intruder last night. The intruder broke in, killed Mr. Markmann with a pick-axe. Nothing appeared to be stolen.

Asked if residents in the tiny town should be concerned, Sheriff Buford Townsend responded, “Not at all. Isolated incident. The only thing missing was Markmann’s wallet and a few papers from his desk. We have a suspect.”

“Sonofa
bitch
. How’d we miss that!”

“Exactly.”

“You run that name and see what turns up. I’m driving straight to Walden.”

“I’ll call Father John and let him know.”

Jake wondered why Dickie would say that. Then, “No,” he shook his head quickly, “don’t alarm them. I’ll text Dawn. They’re supposed to be moving to a seminary near Hampton, anyway.”

The new locale was in Bangor. A retreat center.

Jake sped off.

Dickie stood, stunned, watching Jake drive away. Sure that Jake was out of sight, Dickie took out his personal notebook, licked the end of his pencil, wrote something down.

Near Hampton seminary…

75

Sunday, September 14 – 3:24 P.M.

Father John forced a smile as he pulled up to the trooper standing guard along the gravel driveway leading to his cabin. The priest was no actor. Nor was he thrilled about lying. Today would be a test of will.

Rainn Meyers looked at his prisoner. He brandished enough of the razor hidden under his left thigh to remind Father John who was in charge. The priest did not doubt that Meyers would lift that blade, slice his throat, then slash the cop in the face before either of them knew what happened.

“Father Charles Howard, you got it?”

The priest said he did.

“Officer,” Father said, rolling his window down.

The trooper leaned in. He looked at Father John’s passenger. Then raised the barrel of his M-16 into the opening of the window. Nodded. All business. “Who’s that, Father?” He pointed to Meyers with the barrel of the gun.

“That, my good son, is Father Charles Howard, from Reading. He’s here to speak to the child and Dawn. Counsel them about what’s going on. Detective Cooper approved the visit. Encouraged it, even. Please call the detective and ask.”

Rainn Meyers did not like the addition of that last part. He ground his teeth. Blinked his eyes. Rolled his tongue across his bottom lip. Took a deep breath.

“I haven’t heard anything about this,” M-16 said. “What’s up with your neck? Nick yourself shaving?”

“Indeed. Darn dull razors.”

“Hold on a minute.” M-16 stepped away from the driver’s side door. Lifted his walkie-talkie, said something they couldn’t hear.

Father John sat still, looking straight ahead. Bounced a finger on the steering wheel. The air coming into the car was noticeably colder out here in the woods, a cool dampness to it. Father John could smell the sweet, pungent aroma of the pines all around them.

“Shut off the car,” M-16 ordered, leaning down, pointing his weapon at them.

Meyers stayed calm. “Keep cool,” he whispered to Father. “You are going to do this.”

The cop was on his radio again. Clicking and talking cop-speak to his counterpart, who was walking out the front door of the cabin.

Dawn, Mother Lucinda, Brendan and one of the sisters stood in the doorway, looking on, wondering what was going on.

Both cops stood on each side of Father John’s car. “Get out,” M-16 said sternly, as he had been trained to. The second trooper had a shotgun pointed at Meyers’s head.

“Everything okay, son?” Father John asked M-16.

“Just fine, Father. Get out.” He used the barrel of his weapon to point.

He stepped out, walked away from the vehicle. “Listen, Officer. Father Charles is, well, he’s not in the best shape. Problem with his legs.” The priest put a hand up to shield the side of his mouth, whispered. “He’s in the early stages of multiple sclerosis. Doesn’t want anyone to know. He’s soiled himself. Needs to change his Depends.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, he really shouldn’t be getting out of the vehicle until we can get him into the house. Maybe you can carry him. Detective Cooper is not going to like this. But if you insist.”

M-16 looked over the roof of the car at his partner. Motioned with his eyes for a huddle. They talked in back of the car.

“Fine,” M-16 said, approaching Father. “Get back in. We’re going to allow you to pass. If you need us, there’s a radio inside, on the kitchen table. You press the big button on the right side, then you speak.”

Father John drove away.

M-16 and the other cop, standing at the end of the cobblestone driveway, watched Father John and his companion drive toward the cabin.