Wicked Fix (11 page)

some consolation, as was my own nonlethal intention;

the bullet was a dummy and the guy's death was a

freak occurrence. I'd meant to stop him, not end his

life. But none of that changed the fact that the guy had

not survived the episode. Since then, the weapons I

owned--a .25-caliber semiautomatic and an Uberti-made

Bisley .45-caliber 6-shot revolver, the sort of gun you

might see the good guys blasting at the bad guys, in the

old Western shoot-'em-ups--had remained securely stored with

their trigger locks, cartridges, and ammunition clips in

the lockbox in my cellar.

On the other hand, if someone was going around

slitting throats I did not want mine to be one of them.

So I descended to the cellar, opened the lockbox with

the only key, which I wore on a chain around my neck,

and removed the handguns.

The semiauto was metallic gray, only a little larger

than my hand, and very light. The Bisley, by contrast,

was a whopper with a blued-steel barrel, checkered

grip, and weight enough to make you think twice

about carrying it around; also, it's got stopping power

enough to drop an elk.

Experimentally, I slid a clip into the semiauto.

Then I just sat there on the cellar steps, holding it for a

while. It was the Bisley I'd killed the man with, not the

pistol. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that

in the same situation, I knew that I would do the same

again. And, after months of silently thinking it over, I

knew that I could.

It's an interesting thing to learn about yourself.

When I was sure of it, I put the handguns back in the

lockbox and turned the key, snapped the light switch,

and went upstairs. It was not yet time to start adding

deadly weapons to my toolkit. And maybe it wouldn't

ever be.

But they would be there, if I needed them.

Next step: The drive to Machias took a bit under

an hour and felt like five minutes. I had a question, and

I needed an answer in order to make my second decision.

The jail is located in the old red-brick county

courthouse building, on a pretty side street that as I

pulled onto it was quiet; most offices were closed on

Saturday. But there were still official deeds to be done,

apparently; inside, the lobby bustled with low-key but

purposeful activity.

I waited while the desk clerk consulted with somebody

about my request. The verdict: yes, but with conditions.

Okay by me. I followed the young police officer

who was to be my chaperon down a dingy hall, past

offices, a file library, and a coffee room. The uniform

for female attorneys, caseworkers, and others who had

business here today was longish rayon dresses, jackets,

and flat shoes; for the men, jackets and ties.

The inmates, by contrast, were all dressed alike:

bright orange jumpsuits that would make them easy to

spot in the woods, which is where you would head to if

you wanted to escape around here. Victor looked

ghastly in his, though under the circumstances I

doubted that crisp tailoring would have made him look

any better.

The young officer sat on a plastic chair in the corner

of the conference room. When Victor came in, I

didn't mince words.

"Do not, I repeat do not make any incriminating

statements to me."

I didn't know what he might have said to Bob Arnold,

on the trip down. All I knew was that perjury

was not among the crimes I planned to commit for

Victor.

Which limited pretty severely the questions I could

ask him. But there was one, and as I sat there looking

at him across the table in that hideous little conference

room, I understood that I already knew the answer.

I'd just needed to see him, so it would be clear to

me. And I needed to hear him say it.

He understood; even on his worst days, of which

this had to be a real standout, he was no fool.

"Jacobia," he said, and for an instant all his idiocies

and posturings evaporated. He was just a man in

an orange jumpsuit, tired and frightened.

I'd loved him, once.

"Jacobia," he said, "please help me."

"I don't see how all this affects your own

situation," Paddy Farrell sniffed, regarding

me with a narrow look of unwelcome.

Inside the old sardine cannery overlooking

the boat basin, Paddy's fabric-design studio was

aggressively white: the pristine walls, recently painted

woodwork, and high airy ceilings. On the polished tile

floor a half-dozen wooden layout tables were covered

with colored drawings and sketches, under track lights

as bright as little suns.

"Or why you want to go digging up old misery, on

account of it," Paddy added, his salt-and-pepper head

tilted suspiciously at me.

In one corner of the big work area, a chemistry-lab

bench had been built in, complete with gas jets and

oversized, brushed stainless-steel double-basined sinks.

Another area was a display module with swatches of

bright cloth in jewel-like hues spread on low tables,

gleaming like a sultan's riches.

"My situation," I snapped back at him, "is this:

Victor's in jail and if it comes to a trial, Sam may have

to testify against him. Even if he doesn't, he's very upset

over his father being in trouble. Also the money I

personally have in jeopardy over the matter would pay

off the national debt of Peru. So does that adequately

sum up the reasons behind my interest for you?"

At the far end of the studio, cubicles were sectioned

off for computer stuff--workstations with

candy-colored Macintosh hardware set up on them--

and dye testing: the object, I supposed, of the chemistry

equipment. Paddy didn't only design fabrics; he tried

out his ideas on actual pieces of cloth, to see what

effects he could achieve before the work went into

larger-scale trials.

"Also," I said, "jerk that he is, Victor didn't kill

Reuben. And I'd say an unjust murder conviction is

going a little far." In the personal revenge department,

I meant; Paddy knew that my history with Victor

wasn't exactly silk-lined.

He glowered, still deciding whether to talk to me at

all. Meanwhile I thought again how much of a Renaissance

man it was still possible to be, here in Eastport.

Basic design, dye experiments, fabric tests: with no one

around to tell him that he couldn't do it all, Paddy just

went ahead and did.

It was, I'd gathered, an unconventional way of

working. But stubborn, pugnacious Paddy had made a

success of it; from his small Maine island studio here at

the back of beyond, he did business with clients in Europe,

South America, and Japan, as well as in the

United States.

In one corner of the studio hung the big weight bag

and the punching bag that Terence worked out on

when he wasn't jogging or bicycling. His ten-speed

leaned against the wall nearby.

"And Wade," I finished, "has got a mad-on at himself

about something. I don't know what, but I know

it's to do with Reuben."

I faced Paddy. "So are you going to help me or

not?"

He still looked unhappy, pained and put-upon in

the extreme, but no longer so flatly rejecting. "You

were awfully useful, solving that little tax problem I

had earlier this year," he conceded reluctantly.

Paddy was good at earning money hand over fist,

not so good at spending it on anything other than his

beloved studio. Sending any of it to the government,

for instance, was anathema to him. Thus his tax problems

had ended up being soluble only by dint of my

brushing off my tax-preparer credentials and going to

Augusta, and falling on my very own personal knees in

front of the revenue officials.

"If I could just cast doubt on the theory," I said.

"Show that somebody else is at least as good a suspect

as Victor."

Paddy eyed me over another stack of colored

sketches. The patterns were for watered silk in shades

of salmon and turquoise, the effect a pearly shimmer.

"A suspect," he suggested thinly, "such as myself?"

"No," I denied, although the thought had of

course occurred to me. Paddy had been pretty vocal

about his feelings, the night before. "Just ..."

Terence Oscard looked up from a table where he

was writing something in a spiral notebook. Lined up

nearby with his writing things was a collection of potions,

pills, lotions, ointments, and herbal remedies, all

of which he used regularly to ward off real or imaginary

ailments.

"Paddy was with me all evening," he said firmly.

"All," he emphasized, "evening."

The big man waved at the open staircase leading to

the top floor, where Paddy had put the living area.

Mounted on each of the pillars under the stairs, and on

other pillars dividing the whole area of the workspace,

were bright red fire extinguishers.

The effect was of little drops of blood sprinkled

evenly on a background of snow. But the cylinders

were also reassuring; if a fire got started here it could

take the whole downtown with it, not to mention all of

Paddy's investment.

"I'm very glad to hear it," I told Terence. His left

hand, I noticed, was wrapped in an Ace bandage he

hadn't been wearing at La Sardina. But I paid little

attention; probably it covered some minor wound that

might, to a normal person, be worth a Band-Aid, or no

treatment at all.

"It means," I went on, "Paddy can tell me all he

knows about Tate and anyone who might have wanted

to kill him, without worry about incriminating himself."

Which was not strictly true. If it came to these two

having to alibi each other, I wouldn't've put much faith

in it. But it hadn't come to that--at the time, I had no

particular sense that it would--and in any case there

was no sense saying so to Paddy.

"Starting right now," I told him. "Or next spring,

I'll let you sort out your taxes all by yourself and go to

Augusta to try defending the hash you've made of

them."

I spoke to both of them; Terence was Paddy's business

partner as well as his domestic companion but