The wind blew cold Atlantic gusts that made me long for a sweater under my coat, a scarf, a snug-fitting hat. I wished I’d left the bar earlier, drunk one less beer. Had Walsh overheard some nugget of information at Fournier’s funeral, developed some idea about his death that could only be confirmed on-site? Had he planned a secret after-hours search for his missing tools?
Fournier had returned to the site alone and died.
My thoughts kept pace with my quickening steps. Atlantic Avenue was bright with street lamps, un-crowded. A few cars coasted by, a cruising taxi. Knots of pedestrians, muffled in heavy coats, rushed toward warmly lit hotel lobbies. Nights like this were a boon to cops. Too icy for crooks to be out on the street, too damp, with a cold that crept in toward the bone.
Blue-and-yellow barriers rose to block my view. I hurried past, to the chain-link fence and double gates that enclosed the site. The gates were chained tight, secured with a heavy padlock. I stood quietly in the shadows, trying to discern the night watchman’s presence by the sound of footsteps or the gleam of a flashlight.
The site seemed utterly deserted.
The old highway was like a jagged wound, its iron beams dividing the city from the waterfront. In its shadow, the air seemed heavy, the darkness deep and forbidding. I knew the tourists at Faneuil Hall were minutes away, laughing and drinking in bars, so close I wondered if they could hear the pulse that beat in my wrist. I walked the perimeter, trying to convince myself that Walsh had simply forgotten our date.
I’d considered entering the site at night, challenging the trailer’s alarm, searching for hidden insurance records. If I’d decided to break in, I’d have made a beeline for the area between the trailer and Dumpster, near the storage shed, the area where Leland Walsh had first approached and asked me what I thought of the Dig. I’d have worn dark close-fitting clothing, slid easily under the fence.
My coat was heavy, bulky, too long. Walsh was bulkier still, large-framed, broad-shouldered. I kept walking, my hands jammed into my pockets for warmth, wondering how Walsh had planned to enter, if he’d entered. A laughing couple passed along State Street. They didn’t notice me.
Much of the aboveground section of the site was accessible, ungated, unbarred, with KEEP OUT notices posted to tell passersby they’d strayed from the pedestrian path. I made my way past coiled cables and stacked lumber to the section of fence camouflaged by the metal Dumpster, ran the beam of my pencil flash over the linked aluminum. The edges had been pressed together, so that it took a beat before I realized what I’d seen. Six links near the bottom had been neatly bisected. When I pushed, I opened a triangular tear big enough for a man Walsh’s size.
A long time ago, I made a deal with my little sister, Paolina. I don’t walk into abandoned warehouses at midnight. I don’t leave my gun at home when I stalk bad guys. I don’t wear filmy clothing and high heels, like some pulp-fiction heroine.
I took inventory. The site was within yelling distance of a detail cop, so that wasn’t so bad. My gun was in a locked drawer in my office, but I had my own version of Mace, a particularly strong-smelling hairspray, cheaper, and just as effective. I plunged my hand into the depths of my bag, made sure it was there. If I’d had any idea the evening would call for shimmying under a fence, I’d have worn pants instead of a skirt and butt-freezing pantyhose. My boots were okay, high-cut and comfortable. My skirt was tight, but the long slit up the side meant I could run if I had to.
If Walsh had broken in to learn more about Fournier’s death, I wanted in on the action. If he’d broken in to tend to business of his own, business that had to do with selling dirt—well, I wanted to know about that, too. The question was, if he’d gone in through the fence cut, why hadn’t he come out in time to make our date?
I crouched low and entered headfirst into forbidden territory. The fence snagged my coat and held it fast. I reached around with my left hand, tugged, and then I was through, sheltered by the Dumpster. I stayed low, balancing on my heels, listening while traffic whooshed overhead. I had no idea of the night watchman’s scheduled rounds. Maybe he was asleep in the warm trailer, oblivious. Maybe he’d caught Walsh and sent him packing. Maybe Walsh hadn’t met me because he was warming a cell at Area A.
If he was, I didn’t want to join him. Too many old buddies to laugh at my plight. I thought I heard a noise that wasn’t traffic, a machine-like pulse, far away. Nothing that sounded like footsteps. Maybe laborers on a distant site, working the night shift.
If the Horgans’ watchman caught me, I’d need a cover story, but nothing came to mind. I decided to move; if I didn’t get caught I wouldn’t need a story. I ran lightly along the ground to the west scaffold staircase. The tunnel was lit by a single caged work lamp and the receding glow of streetlights. As I descended I shone my flash carefully on each tread, aware of Kevin Fournier’s fatal slip.
The tunnel was eerily quiet, the hum of overhead traffic faint and intermittent. I played my flashlight over the pale slurry walls, keeping the beam low. Overhead girders cast dark shadows. It wasn’t warmer down here, but the wind cut less. I aimed the light toward the adjoining site to the north. A bulldozer sat next to a cement truck. In the early days they’d had to disassemble, lower, and reassemble vehicles in the deep trenches, but now there were temporary ramps for easy movement. The trucks seemed huge and shadowy, a herd of waiting beasts. I walked slowly, letting the sights register, listening.
Once I thought I heard steps approaching, and a sudden vision of the silent weimaraner at Charles River Dog Care flashed through my mind. What if the night watchman kept a dog? I started at the sound of small scuttling feet, caught the gleam of small red eyes with my flash. Rats.
Passing close to a heap of cement sacks near a hulking vehicle, I paused, listening again for the missing watchman. Slowly, I became aware of a sound other than my own breathing, a rhythmic echo of each inhalation, heavy and muffled, issuing from the heap.
The bound man lay on his right side, knees bent, feet drawn up behind him. His hands were tied as well, and the rope reached around his neck and down to his ankles. A thin line of darkness ran from a cut on his skull. I played my flashlight over his face. Silver duct tape covered Walsh’s mouth. His eyes were open, dazed, or maybe that was a trick of the light. When he saw me, he tried to make a noise. His eyes pleaded. He squinted and I lowered the flash beam.
His head rested on the ground, almost hidden beneath the mud-guard of the giant dozer’s wheels. If I hadn’t heard his labored breathing, I’d have passed him by. The darkness of his clothes, the darkness of his face, melted into the night.
I whispered, “The watchman?”
He grunted.
“Did he go for the police?”
While I was speaking I was searching for my pocket knife. I keep it in my bag, not my pocket, and things fall to the bottom. In spite of the cold, sweat broke out on my forehead. The expression in Walsh’s eyes said hurry. I stripped off my gloves, shoved them in my pockets, found the knife. My fingers grasped the slim hunk of metal, opened it. I attacked the rope at his feet first, slicing strand by strand. “Don’t move. You’ll make it tighter.”
He was caught in a classic mob necktie, an arrangement that would strangle him if he struggled. I wondered why, if he didn’t have a cell, the night watchman wasn’t using the phone in the trailer. He’d know the alarm sequence. I cut and untied as quickly as my frigid fingers could manage in the dim light. I could have used another pair of hands. Walsh’s seemed useless, cold and bloodless. He fumbled at the strip of tape on his mouth.
“Stay quiet,” I warned. “Did he recognize you? Does he know who you are?”
“Let’s go. I cut the fence by the Dumpster.”
A length of iron pipe lay near Walsh’s feet. “He use this?”
“I dunno.”
There was a dark streak at one end that could have been blood. I slipped my gloves back on, picked up the pipe, hefted it.
“C’mon. I think he went for liquor.” Walsh raised a hand to his head and groaned. “Make it look good, like a fucking accident when some driver pancakes my head in the morning.”
“The watchman?”
“I don’t know that it was the watchman. I don’t know who clobbered me. I just know I don’t want to be here when he gets back.” His hand, where it clutched my wrist, was icy.
We took the west scaffold stairs, moving slowly in spite of the need for speed, because Walsh was having trouble balancing. Breathing heavily, he lurched from step to step. I slipped a hand under his elbow, worried about concussion. The fence cut was as I’d left it. I shoved it open, helped him through.
A car came along Atlantic Avenue, a big black ship, sailing without lights. I ducked and yanked Walsh into the shadow of the Dumpster. The Jeep Cherokee passed slowly, then stopped near the trailer.
The license plate light had been disconnected, but a street lamp did the trick. The plate wasn’t Dana’s. I only caught a glimpse, but I thought New Hampshire, like the one I’d seen earlier in the day. Green on white. “Live free or die,” the controversial motto. I waited, we waited, hunkered down behind the metal Dumpster. Two men got out of the Jeep. One must have had a key to the gate. I heard it creak as it opened.
“Can we get the fuck out of here?” Walsh managed in a whisper.
I wanted to stay, creep closer, see more than outlines, shapes, and shadows. Walsh swayed and tugged at my sleeve. His teeth chattered and his skin looked gray in the dim light.
We both heard it, a sharp cry of surprise, anger. There might have been five, six angry words, but the one that registered was “gone.” Abandoning caution for speed, we ran.
Some date.