Eighteen

Peyton entered Garrett High School Friday afternoon before last period. In uniform, she received the standard reaction: the center of the hallway suddenly emptied, leaving her feeling like Moses.

A couple students nudged each other, pointed, whispered back and forth, and laughed.

She stopped short. “There a problem, boys?”

“No, ma’am,” a boy in a tan Carhartt jacket and a green John Deere cap said.

“Where’s Mr. Dye’s classroom?”

The boy pointed.

She walked to the room at the end of the hall, peered through the narrow, wire-meshed window of the steel door (apparently events like Newtown made wooden doors obsolete), and saw Pete Dye behind a stack of papers at his desk.

When she knocked, he stood and waved her in.

“We still on for seven?” he said.

She held out a Tim Hortons cup. He took it, waiting for her reply.

“I’m here on business, Pete.”

“Really? I don’t get many visitors who wear guns.” He pulled a student desk closer to his so Peyton could sit facing him.

“I hope it stays that way,” she said.

“Yeah. Me, too. Poor choice of words for a teacher to use these days.” He reorganized the papers so they were out of the way.
“People think we’re removed from school shootings up here, but you never know.”

“My father used to talk about bringing a rifle to school during hunting season,” she said, “leaving it in his locker during classes, and hunting after school.”

“Lots of kids did that not too long ago. Think gun control is the solution?”

“Probably not, but I do know no one needs a semi-automatic for home protection.”

He pointed to his stack of papers. “I’m psyched you stopped by. It allows me to procrastinate.”

“How long will it take you to grade those?” The stack was an inch thick.

“Three, four hours,” he said.

“I think I’d rather hike six miles wearing a Kevlar vest.”

“Me, too. Last time you came here on business,” he said, “you were chasing down a pregnant runaway.”

“That’s all you remember from my visit? Teaching’s made you cynical.”

“Seen the parents I deal with?”

“Hey, I’m having my kid tested. I might be one of them.”

“Case in point.”

She smiled. He’d always been able to make her laugh—when they’d been kids pulling high-school pranks, when they’d been in college and had nearly dated, and since she’d begun seeing him several months earlier.

“You know Sara Gibson?”

“I still work at Tip of the Hat,” he said, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You’re saying she’s a regular?”

“She’s there more often than I am, and you know I work there four, five nights a week.”

“What’s she like?”

Pete reorganized the stack of papers. “How can I say this without sounding like a jerk?”

“You probably can’t. Just say it.”

“She’s not exactly selective in who she leaves the bar with.”

“She gets around?”

“Understatement,” he said. “She’s sort of nuts. Maybe desperate is a better word. She’s needy, looking for something.”

“More than a one-night stand?”

“Oh, definitely. If you leave with her, she calls and calls.”

“You’re speaking from experience.”

“Oh, God,” he said. “Look, I told you my bed’s been empty for a year. Yes, I did take her home once—more than a year ago—and I’m not proud of it.”

“She ever leave with Freddy St. Pierre?”

“Maybe. I try to avoid her now. She’s moved on, and I like it that way.”

“Why does she do it? Is she attention starved?”

“No. I think she gets attention every night she goes to Tip of the Hat.”

“God, what an existence,” Peyton said and considered it: living at home, her mother waiting for her to wake each morning to see if she’d met any “nice boys”; what boys there were in town knowing her reputation and thus using her; and the vicious cycle repeating, night after night.

Existence was the appropriate word, Peyton thought. That was no life.

“Know anyone Nancy Lawrence dates?”

“Bartenders are supposed to be discreet.”

“But they never are.”

He smiled. “I hear there’s a young doctor, a real nerd-type.”

That would explain the dinner date Nancy had told Peyton about.

“Anyone else?”

“What are you after?” he said.

“She date anyone else you know of, even for a short period of time?”

“I saw Nancy leave the Tip with Freddy St. Pierre once,” he said, “if that’s what you’re after.”

Corroboration. But what did it mean?

“Can I ask you a question?” Pete said.

“Depends.”

“What’s going on with Freddy? I heard some agents talking about him when I brought you coffee.”

“Get your deer license yet, Pete?”

“Changing the conversation, Peyton?”

She just smiled. “See you at seven.”

She was crossing the parking lot when she heard running footsteps from behind and someone call, “Excuse me.”

She turned to see a boy, not much taller than Tommy. He had terrible acne and unkempt greasy shoulder-length hair and patches he might have called a beard. Was he trying to grow one, or had the acne prevented him from shaving? He wore a light-blue work shirt, Matt stitched into the breast pocket, and jeans with dark spots (oil?) on them. He was so short, his beard was probably an attempt to remind everyone that he was a junior or senior.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

The late-afternoon sun was high in the summer sky. The temperature had risen to the mid-eighties. If she weren’t working, it would be a nice time to take Tommy to kayak on the river.

“You’re not a game warden, right? Someone said you’re not.”

She waved a blackfly away. “That’s right. I’m with Customs and Border Protection.”

He plunged his hands—they were dirty with grime under his fingernails, like he worked on car engines—deep into his pockets.

“Border Patrol,” she clarified.

“Okay. I think I saw something I should tell you about,” he said. “I wasn’t going to … but I been thinking about it for a couple days, and I hear sometimes these things can get turned around on you … and then I saw you … so …” He shuffled his feet. The toe on his right boot was worn to the steel. He looked around nervously.

“I don’t want to take much time,” he said. “It was three guys. I was doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, but I think they …” He looked over his shoulder, back toward the high school.

“No one’s around,” she said. “It’s just you and me.”

“It wasn’t even my property. And, like, I had my rifle and my light, but I didn’t jack anything that night.”

That night. “You were poaching deer?”

He nodded. “But like I said, I didn’t see any. My father is out of work. We can’t afford many groceries. And, like, I didn’t do nothing that night. But I was in the woods, behind a tree, when I heard three voices.” He looked down and moved a pebble with the toe of his worn boot.

“It was Monday,” he continued slowly, “the night of the fire at that cabin. I think somebody got shot.”

“Matt Kingston is the boy’s name,” Pete Dye told Peyton and Hewitt.

At 5:10 Friday evening, Pete was back in the bullpen at Garrett Station, seated in a straight-backed chair near Peyton’s desk, his legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed. Still wearing khaki pants with a shirt and tie. His Garret High School Varsity Girls’ Basketball team jacket was draped over the arm of his chair.

Peyton thought he looked relaxed. She also thought he looked good.

He hadn’t come to deliver coffee this time. In fact, he hadn’t come of his own volition. So it was Peyton who got the beverages and, given that she’d asked him here, even a piece of Linda Cyr’s cherry pie.

“Matt Kingston is a good kid,” Pete continued. “I’d take him at his word, Peyton. You bake this pie? It’s very good.”

“I couldn’t bake that,” she said. “Linda’s gone, but I’ll pass the compliment along.”

The agents working 3-to-11 were already on patrol duty. Only Miguel Jimenez, chained to his desk with paperwork from a Houlton-
to-Fredericton cigarette-smuggling ring he’d busted, was moving about the bullpen. He left the room, and Peyton heard the microwave door open with a pop and slam shut.

Peyton pulled her iPhone out and fired a quick text to Lois: Mom, wking late. Home by 5:30, ok?

She felt Hewitt’s disapproving eyes on her.

“I need to confirm childcare,” she said.

“No problem,” Hewitt said.

Did he mean it?

“Mr. Dye,” Hewitt continued, “thanks for coming in.” Hewitt sat beside him, both men facing Peyton.

“Call me Pete,” Pete said and shrugged, finishing the last of the pie.

The microwave beeped, the door popped open, and the bullpen was filled with the smell of steak and spices. Jimenez re-­entered carrying a plate of fajitas.

Pete looked at them.

“Want one?” Hewitt offered.

“Boy, you guys eat well around here. No, thanks. We’re supposed to be having dinner at seven.” Pete motioned to Peyton. “The pie will tide me over.”

“I forgot the two of you are dating,” Hewitt said. “That complicates things slightly.”

“Pete isn’t here in a formal capacity,” Peyton said. “This is background only. But he knows the boy. And he’s lived here his whole life. I think he can offer some insights.”

“Background only?” Hewitt said.

Peyton nodded, then to Pete: “Tell us more about the boy.”

“Good kid. Hard working. Gets picked on because he’s small.”

“If teachers know a kid is being bullied,” she said, “why don’t they stop it? I’ll never understand that.”

He looked at her, surprised. “I … I haven’t witnessed it firsthand. If I had …”

“Is that relevant?” Hewitt said.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Everything alright, Peyton?” Hewitt asked.

“Fine,” she said.

Hewitt was still looking at her. “What we need from you, Pete”—he turned back to Pete—“is confirmation of this kid’s character.”

“We think he witnessed a crime,” Peyton said. “He may be asked to testify.”

“Peyton,” Hewitt said. “Let’s play this closer to the vest, please.”

“We can trust Pete,” she said. “This conversation never leaves this room.”

Pete nodded.

“Matt Kingston has no criminal record,” Peyton said, “nothing that shows up anywhere. But we don’t want to get blindsided by information about him that comes out down the line.”

“You won’t get blindsided,” Pete said. “He’s a good kid.”

“Who just happens to poach deer. See the problem?”

“Peyton, he poaches so his family can eat.”

“The attorneys won’t care about his family’s financial woes,” she said.

“Is that true about the deer jacking?” Hewitt said. “If so, I don’t know if we can use him.”

“I’m not sure you realize how far your government salaries go up here,” Pete said.

“I don’t follow you,” Hewitt said.

Peyton did—and she knew what was coming.

“I hear some agents get transferred here, sell their homes in other parts of the country, and buy beautiful, big places up here. You know what the local economy is like—hell, what it always has been like, Peyton. Not everyone has a government salary.”

She nodded. She knew she lived better in this region—where she’d bought her three-bedroom, two-bath Cape on ten acres for under $200,000—than she could on just about any other assignment in the US.

“I’ve got news for you guys,” Pete went on, “Matt Kingston isn’t the only kid poaching. And a lot of these families can’t afford not to.”

Peyton looked at Hewitt. She knew Pete spoke the sentiment of many residents. It might have been the first Hewitt was hearing about it, though. Jimenez was at his desk and looked up from his plate of fajitas. He looked ready to protest, but chewed and said nothing. Peyton knew Jimenez had a right to protest. He’d grown up in California, the son of two migrant workers, and had seen a Customs and Border Protection career as a way out.

“Federal salaries aren’t making anyone rich,” Hewitt said, “but your point is well taken. Is Matt Kingston articulate?”

“I guess. He works most evenings at Tip of the Hat, bussing tables, stocking the kitchen, washing dishes—that stuff. And he’s an honor-roll student. I saw him carrying an SAT-practice book into work the other night.”

“So he wants to go to college?” Peyton said. Her legs were crossed, and the black laces of her boots slapped against the leather as she bobbed her foot. “And he’s going to pay his own way.”

Pete Dye nodded. “No doubt. He’ll probably go to the Reeds branch of U-Maine, live at home, and work. You know the story.”

“Yeah,” she said. “And you trust this kid a lot.”

“I do. What exactly did Matt see? Why would he have to take the stand?” Pete said, leaning to retrieve his Nalgene bottle off the floor. His coffee was gone.

“Thanks for stopping by.” Hewitt handed him his business card. “May we call you if we have further questions?”

“Is this about the Freddy St. Pierre thing? Serving as a key witness in a murder trial is asking a lot of a seventeen-year-old. You don’t have any other witnesses, do you?”

Hewitt smiled. “Peyton said you were smart.”

“Pete,” Peyton said, “obviously, this is a delicate matter that must be handled with great discretion.”

“Of course. Mum’s the word.” He stood and looked at them.

Hewitt nodded. Then Pete Dye turned and left the building.