Joe fumbled at his waist, wrestling to extract his pager from behind the car’s seat belt, without also steering into the ditch. Keeping the road in sight, he raised the device before his eyes and squinted at the number on the screen. Sammie Martens had text-messaged him, “In case you think all is quiet, your cell phone died.”
“Damn,” he muttered, and went through the same contortions to free his phone from its clip. Sure enough. He plugged the recharger into the car’s cigarette lighter and tried again—no bars.
He glanced at the passing countryside, recognized where he was, and calculated where he’d be able to find a public phone. Cell phones might have been around for a while, but across large swaths of Vermont, poor reception still made sure they were occasional luxuries at best—assuming they’d been recharged.
Fifteen minutes later, he parked across from the pumps of a Mobil station and walked into a minimart.
The clerk glanced up from behind the counter. “Coffee’s fresh; bathrooms are in back.” He pointed to the far wall.
“Just need a phone,” Joe told him, already heading that way.
Sam picked up on the first ring. “Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”
“Hey there,” Joe said. “Got your page. Sorry about the phone.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Thought you’d like to know.”
“Anything cooking?”
“We’re collecting interviews and DNA swabs from the Putnam trailer tribe, doing pretty well. Willy hit a home run with Dan Kravitz, who turned out to know a lot. He gave us a good picture of everybody under that roof. Where are you, anyhow?”
“ ’Bout an hour out,” Joe told her. “I saw Hillstrom and smoothed Allard’s feathers a little. Did you just page me to let me know the phone was flat?”
“Not only,” Sam reassured him. “It’s Lyn. She called a couple of hours ago, then about an hour ago, and a third time just now. Never left a message, but she was pretty worked up the last time. You guys okay?”
“Yeah,” Joe said absentmindedly, his brain already racing. “She’s got some family problems I’ve been helping with. No big deal. I guess something blew up. I’ll give her a call.”
“You got it,” Sammie said. “See ya soon.”
Joe hung up, pulled out a small address book, and looked up Steve’s number in Gloucester.
His voice was tense. “Yeah?”
“Steve? It’s Joe.”
“Where you been, man?”
“My cell phone died. What’s going on?”
“Somebody trashed my boat. Ripped it all to hell.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah. It happened last night.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Lot of good that did. Wilkinson spent more time looking for what I might be smuggling than trying to find out who did it.”
“Brian Wilkinson?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“Back when I first met your sister. So he didn’t give you much hope?”
“He didn’t give me much anything. Guy’s a loser.”
Joe didn’t pursue that. “I’m really sorry, Steve. Is Lyn there?”
Steve’s voice grew more anxious still. “That’s the point, Joe. She’s gone. She tried calling you a bunch of times, and then she split.”
Joe gripped the phone tighter. “What do you mean? Where?”
“I don’t know. She just said she had to give somebody a piece of her mind and she took off. Why didn’t you have your phone on, man?”
Joe didn’t bother explaining himself again. Lyn’s brother was no monument to rational stability, despite his recent improvement, and Joe knew that the additional pressure of their mother’s condition was already challenge enough.
“Steve,” he said. “How’s everything else? Is Maria okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s got the TV.”
“And other than the boat, you haven’t been harassed?”
“No. Why should I be?”
Joe ignored him. “Why do you think you were targeted?”
“I don’t know that, either. I figure some of the assholes I used to hang with. If that’s true, they’re gonna pay.”
That told Joe that Lyn hadn’t explained anything to him. “One step at a time, Steve,” he counseled. “Was anything missing? Maybe it was thieves.”
“No way. It was weird. They tore stuff apart, like some of the cabinets, but they didn’t take anything.”
“They were looking for something, maybe?”
“Could be. The boat was with a drug runner for years. He mighta stashed stuff on board.”
Joe checked his watch. “All right. I’ll call Lyn on her cell and . . .”
“Won’t work,” Steve interrupted. “She didn’t take it. She couldn’t find it when she was leaving.”
Naturally, Joe thought. “Okay, not to worry. I have a vague idea where she might be headed. I’ll see if I can’t find her—right now. I’ll have my cell recharging in the car, so you should be able to reach me if she calls or anything develops. In the meantime—and I don’t want to alarm you or anything—but I think you and Maria should go somewhere to stay for a while. Just a couple of days.”
“What? Why?”
“Just to be on the safe side. I’m mostly thinking of Maria,” he lied. “You don’t want her shaken up any more than necessary.”
“By what?”
“I’m just being cautious—since we don’t know what they were after on the boat.”
Steve moaned softly. “Oh, shit.”
“Steve,” Joe spoke with authority. “Don’t get worked up. Just do it, okay? I’ll pay for it later, but for the moment, go to a motel and stick her in front of a TV there, all right?”
“I hate this.”
“I know, but it’ll make me feel better knowing you two are in a safe place. So, do this, okay? No screwing around?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good man. I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of Lyn. What motel will you go to?”
“The Clipper Ship, I guess.”
“Got it.”
Joe hung up and flipped through his address book one last time.
“Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. How may I direct your call?” a female voice asked him a minute later.
“Cathy Lawless, please,” Joe told her. “Tell her it’s Joe Gunther, Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”
In a style not unlike Sammie’s, Cathy picked up the phone almost immediately. She’d been working the same drug case where Joe had stumbled across the Silva lobster boat.
“Joe,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re headed this way again?”
“Not officially, Cathy, but I am fishing for a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“I’d like whoever’s out there to keep an eye peeled for an ’02 Honda Civic, dark blue, with Grateful Dead and Planned Parenthood bumper stickers next to the right taillight. Vermont registration.” He gave her the plate number.
“Who is this?”
“Name is Lyn Silva.”
Cathy didn’t miss the connection. She had a cop’s memory and a suspicious mind. “Your girlfriend? What’s going on?”
“It’s long and complicated and I have to get going,” Joe told her. “This is more along the lines of a protective thing. Somebody trashed the family lobster boat; we don’t know why, and I’m afraid she might be in danger.”
“This tie into Wellman Beale?”
Joe surely hoped it didn’t. “I don’t know, Cathy. Anything’s possible. What happened to him?”
“He’s out,” she said bluntly. “Back on his island, and probably back to running drugs. Is this a case yet, Joe? I mean on the books?”
“No. The Gloucester PD has the vandalism of the boat, but that’s it, and they probably think it’s teenagers.”
“And you know it’s not?”
He demurred. “My instincts say it’s not, but I don’t know, and I gotta go. I’ll call you when I hit Maine, Cathy. I promise. I’m aiming for Bangor, which is where I think she’s gone, in case that helps. Just spread the word to keep an eye out for her and let me know if anyone gets lucky. You still have my cell number?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Okay. Thanks. See you soon.”
Her response was suitably ironic. “I can hardly wait.”
Lyn was not headed for Bangor. That had been her initial thought, but the farther she drove up the interstate, the more she began rethinking the idea. Dick Brandhorst, who was clearly behind the vandalism of The Silva Lining, was no doubt looking for her to react exactly the way she was—or had been. The better idea, Lyn saw now, was to stop playing his game. Joe had suggested turning the tables by getting him to expose why he was interested in her. But with the vandalism of the boat, and the implied threat to her family, Lyn was more inclined to embark on a plan wholly her own—something direct, unequivocal, and which right now was feeling immensely more satisfying.
She’d tried several times to share this new idea with Joe, but failing in that, she’d yielded to impatience and an oddly stimulating sense of higher mission. Perhaps something of her father’s and brother’s reckless spirit was lurking inside after all, but whatever the source, she was going for straightforward retaliation. And not against Brandhorst, either; she had no clue what his actual role was, nor was she sure she cared. She was shooting higher. Joe had mentioned that Wellman Beale lived on an island off of Jonesport, Maine. As far as she could figure, Beale was the one solid connection to José and Abílo’s disappearance, even if the authorities hadn’t been able to act on it.
She unconsciously reached out to the passenger seat beside her and felt for her father’s old nine-millimeter pistol she had tucked into her bag.
Well, she wasn’t an authority. And she wasn’t bound by their rules.