Thirty-Four

Dinner consisted of a trip to Subway en route to the dojo in Caribou. Tommy’s class began at 6:15 p.m.

Leo Lafleur, garbed in nylon athletic shorts and a Boston Celtics T-shirt, was in his office, leaning back in his leather chair, feet on his desk, a paperback copy of Hamlet in his hands, when Peyton entered and stood near the window, looking out at the mat below.

She pointed at the paperback. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a nerd?”

“Not without me kicking their ass.” He looked at the gauze on her leg. “What happened?”

She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. “A few stitches. Nothing big. Anything in the fridge?”

“You know exactly what’s in the fridge. You’ve been raiding it since you were a teenager.”

“I bet there’s a six-pack of Heineken, a gallon of chocolate milk, a couple bottles of some kind of sports drink, and some orange juice.”

“Help yourself.”

She took a Heineken from the fridge.

“You used to go for the chocolate milk,” he said.

“A long time ago.”

“You say that like it’s been a hard day.”

She didn’t reply. But when she blinked, the backs of her eyelids were painted red—and the image of a leather boot with blood-stained tendons dangling from it flashed into her mind.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Peyton, you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Fine. Just a little tired.”

He got up and stood beside her. “You ought to read this.”

“I do read,” she said.

“Not Hamlet. Here, listen.” He flipped to a page. “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. It’s my favorite line in the play.”

She sipped some beer. “Will you read that again?”

He re-read the passage.

“It reminds me of someone,” she said. “I was thinking about her as I drove over here.”

“It reminds me of a lot of people,” he said, his eyes on her.

She looked away.

“That line reminds me of our talk,” he said, “the last time you were here.”

They were quiet for a time, each thinking.

Then he said, “Your career isn’t easy, especially for a mom. It’s a tough way to live.”

“It’s what I do. Who I am.”

Leo motioned to the window, to Tommy below. “He complicates things, huh?”

“For sure,” she said, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Speaking your feelings can crystallize your thoughts. And she smiled. She’d been striving for normalcy. Had come here because the lesson was on her to-do list: Tommy had an appointment. Work, no matter how traumatic, wouldn’t get in the way of Tommy’s life.

Stone Gibson looked up from the mat. She raised her bottle, saluting him. The gesture made him smile.

She was smiling back at him when her phone vibrated in her hip pocket. She looked at the number.

“Peyton,” Hewitt said over the line, “have you heard from Matt Kingston today? He never went home last night. He went to work, but he never went home afterward.”

“I haven’t heard from him, no,” she said. The phone felt heavy in her hand.

“Matt Kingston’s father says he went to Tom Mann’s garage after school. Mann confirmed that. He says Matt worked for him until six and then went to Tip of the Hat. We’ve confirmed that he got to the bar around six fifteen, ate dinner, and worked until ten.”

On the mat below, Tommy was kicking Stone Gibson’s padded hand.

“Some nights,” Hewitt was saying, “Matt Kingston sleeps at a friend’s house—a kid named Curt Paterson—and goes to school from there in the morning. The Paterson kid never saw Matt Kingston last night. The Tip of the Hat manager, Paul Kelley, says Matt left at ten. No one’s seen him since he got his paycheck and walked out the front door.”

“Did he cash the check?”

“It was late. We’re checking ATM records.”

Leo, sensing the importance of the call, pulled a chair to her, and she sat.

“He never went to school?” she said.

“No. The school called his home, but his father didn’t pick up and didn’t get the message until five tonight.”

“Matt is a serious student. He wouldn’t skip school.”

“State police and two of our guys are interviewing people at Tip of the Hat,” Hewitt said.

“Have the state police sent reinforcements?”

“Not for this. Augusta sent three troopers to help the four guys up here because the explosion and Pete McPherson’s death were on CNN.”

“Where does all that stand?”

“Got a call after we left the sheriff’s. The bomb techs found other explosives in the area. I’m glad you’re okay, Peyton.”

“I might interview some people, Mike.”

“Do what you think you need to do.”

She was watching Tommy punch, moving slowly, emulating Stone’s movements. What would have happened if she’d not stopped to drink from her Nalgene bottle? What if she’d have been a few feet closer to Pete McPherson? What if the boot she couldn’t get out of her mind had been her own?

Where would that leave Tommy?

“They found another IED,” Hewitt said. “The reports I’m getting say these weren’t high-tech explosives.”

“You’re thinking they could’ve been made in the cabin?”

“I’ll see what the bomb techs say, but it seems possible.”

“Are the FBI and CIA letting you play?” she asked.

“I think so. Wally Rowe has his ties, and he says we’re useful.”

“How flattering. Did you talk to Kvido?”

“We haven’t found him yet. He seems to have gone for cigarettes and not returned yet. Learn any more about who spoke to Matt Kingston at the school after you did?”

“No,” she said; then: “Mike, Matt Kingston can place Freddy St. Pierre at the cabin with a guy with an Eastern bloc accent, who could be Simon Pink or Kvido Bezdek, at the time of the murder.”

“I know. I read your report. His disappearance smells bad, Peyton.”

She knew it did.

Wednesday at 9:20 p.m., Tommy was in bed, and State Police Detective Karen Smythe sat on Peyton’s living room sofa, her bare feet tucked beneath her. In khaki short-shorts and a sleeveless blouse, she looked much more like the University of Maine cheerleader she’d been than a detective.

Peyton added more Pinot to Karen’s glass and set the bottle between them. “Who does your hair?” she asked.

The bottle of Pinot was their second.

“Millie Davis in Houlton.”

“She add the highlights?”

Karen nodded.

The windows were open, and a large moth tapped against the screen. Peyton looked up at the darkened window.

“Tommy’s a sweet kid, Peyton. You’re lucky.”

“I know.”

“You ever miss being married?”

“Not to Jeff.”

“What, then?”

“I miss aspects of marriage.”

Karen giggled and drank more wine. “I bet I know what those aspects are.”

“Again, I don’t miss Jeff.”

Both women laughed.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Peyton said.

“You, too. So these aspects you miss … is that where Stone Gibson comes in? I hear you had lunch with him.”

“Your sister talks too much.”

Karen grinned. “Stone is cute.”

“He is.”

“You seeing him?”

Peyton shrugged. “I was seeing Pete Dye for the past six months. I think that just ended.”

“You think it ended?”

“It ended.” Although, Peyton had to admit she hadn’t given it much thought over the past few days. She looked at the white gauze on her leg. In fact, her relationship with Pete Dye seemed a long time ago.

“Everyone is looking for Kvido Bezdek,” Karen said.

“He’ll turn up. I’m more concerned with finding Matt Kingston.”

“How well do you know Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall?”

“Not very. I knew her well when we were kids. We had coffee a couple times this week. I’m trying to figure her out.”

“She seemed—I don’t know what—during the discovery session.”

“Neurotic? Desperate for something?” Peyton shrugged. “All of the above? Her father was terrible to her, verbally abusive.”

“Not hard to believe, given what you and I witnessed.”

Peyton poured herself another half-glass of wine. “Karen, she’s not like we are.”

“Drunk?”

“I’m not drunk. Sherry seems to be looking for something. Searching is probably a better word. And she’s been that way, I would imagine, her whole life. She left here to attend Harvard, to show her father what she could do. But it wasn’t enough.”

“For him?” Karen asked.

“For her, I think. That’s why she’s still searching. I’m not sure exactly for what. But I know it goes back to her childhood, to her father.”

“She seems to have it all—career, kids, and she’s married to a doctor. Well, a dentist, technically, but still.”

“That’s a stereotype,” Peyton said. “Defining women by their relationship to men.”

“True. And her relationship to men is unstable. I hated the way her husband treated her during that meeting.”

“If he patted me like that, I’d have broken his hand,” Peyton said. “But Sherry was more concerned with what Stephanie DuBois thought of her. She was trying to prove something to Stephanie, trying to show her that they were equals.”

Karen drank some wine. “Problem is, you need to believe it yourself, first, before you can prove it to someone else.”

“Yes.”

They were quiet. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. A window fan pulled cool night air into the room.

“What do you think she’s searching for, Peyton?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot. And I don’t know for sure. But it might be something you and I take for granted.”

“What do you mean?” Karen asked.

“I’m not sure. Just thinking aloud.”

Karen finished her glass of wine. “If I have another,” she said, “I’ll need to sleep here.”

“That’s what the guest room is for.”