Lester was waiting in his car outside Parole and Probation. The parking lot overlooked a restaurant and a small marina, while the Department of Corrections had chosen a bright pink building that had once housed a chocolate factory. All told, it was an unexpectedly pretty spot, at the confluence of the West and Connecticut rivers—a shallow flooded area called the Retreat Meadows—a favorite of anglers and boaters in the summer, and skaters during the cold months. Les himself had driven the family down from Springfield a couple of times for winter outings, enjoying how Brattleboro, unlike his hometown, continually found ways for its populace to engage in its rural surroundings, often just a stone’s throw from the business district.
Now, of course, it was warm and sunny—a far cry from skating or ice fishing weather—and he had the window down to enjoy the breeze, waiting for his unsuspecting interview subject to appear from a scheduled meeting with his parole officer.
Les had been here for under ten minutes, and was just starting to unwind and let the sunshine sink in, when he saw a big man in a T-shirt step into the bright light.
Karen Putnam’s husband, Todd, fresh from jail, squinted as he fumbled for the dark glasses hooked into the crew neck of his shirt. He was a muscular man, dressed in clothes one size too small, but he’d slacked off enough to ruin the overall effect—the gut struggling not to hide the belt buckle, the back of his tattooed arms flapping just a little as he moved. The cheeks beneath the glasses were slightly gaunt, the big shoulders a bit drooped. While clearly still the bull in his own mind, he appeared to be drifting toward the edge of the pasture.
Curious about what all this fading testosterone might become during a delicate conversation, Les opened his car door, hitched his gun more comfortably under his jacket, and strolled across the lot to meet the man.
“Hi,” he said, drawing near. “You Todd Putnam?”
Putnam hooked his thumbs in his belt, swelling his arms slightly. “Maybe.”
Les didn’t offer his hand, but kept his tone friendly. “Lester Spinney, I’m from VBI.”
“Good for you.”
“You got a minute?”
“I got a choice?”
“Sure,” Lester said agreeably. “You want to set up a better time?”
Putnam put on a show of considering the offer, glancing off into the distance as if contemplating some calendar in the sky.
“Okay,” he finally said.
Spinney pointed to a weather-beaten wooden picnic table at one end of the lot. “Let’s sit.”
He didn’t give Putnam an option, leading the way. He wanted the man sitting, his legs trapped between a table and a bench seat, and far from his own car, which was now parked beyond Lester’s. Spinney was tall and could be fast, but this man had thirty pounds on him, and a reputation for using them—any signs of aging notwithstanding.
“You aware of the Wayne Castine killing?” Les asked after Todd had settled in place.
Putnam pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and extracted one of its mangled denizens.
“Yeah.”
“You know the man?”
A lighter appeared from the other pocket. “Nope.”
“You ever hear about him before he was killed?”
The cigarette was carefully placed between his lips before Putnam ignited the lighter and deeply inhaled the first pull.
“Nope,” he exhaled.
Lester smiled. “How’d you hear about his murder?”
“News.”
“Not at home?”
That made him pause. He moved his gaze from the smoke coming off the cigarette’s tip to Lester’s face. “What?”
“You didn’t hear about it at home?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”
“He’s been to the trailer. I assumed there’d been some discussion about it.”
Lester’s instincts worked faster than his brain, making him lean backward before he even saw the fist coming. As a result, Putnam’s swing fell short, just grazing Lester’s nose as he tipped over and fell off his bench.
“You son of a bitch,” he heard the man snarl, and fully expected him to come vaulting over the table.
Instead, Putnam added, “I’ll kill that whore,” swiveled away from the picnic table with surprising ease, and started to run.
“Damn,” Lester muttered, “not another one.”
He rolled to his feet and gave chase, pulling his radio free at the same time.
The parking lot was located on a flat stretch of land, between the water and Brattleboro’s busy “miracle mile,” named the Putney Road. Putnam headed for the latter, straight up the embankment.
Slipping on the grass in his city shoes, Spinney breathlessly gave dispatch a quick call for help, amazed at both his luck at not getting clocked this time, and the stupidity of parolees who were prone to hitting cops and then running for it.
“Putnam,” he shouted. “Stop, for Chrissake.”
It didn’t do any good. Putnam reached the Putney Road and a solid line of traffic, and cut right, parallel across the bridge and toward downtown, Spinney a hundred feet behind him.
Lester considered simply letting him run. Todd Putnam wasn’t a public menace, hadn’t done any damage to Les, and would be easy to find, given his parting words.
But that, of course, was the catch—Putnam was guaranteed to harm his wife if he found her before he was caught. Plus, Spinney had to admit, he was officially irate.
They pounded down the length of the bridge, Spinney’s better condition and lighter weight shortening the distance between them. Sensing this, and perhaps hoping for better luck over broken ground, Putnam took advantage of a small break in the traffic to cut between two cars and switch to the east side of the road, closer to the railroad tracks running parallel.
Lester did the same, loping along at a steady gait, pacing himself more to outlast the other man than to actually catch up to him. Spinney had been in enough chases to appreciate everyone being too tired to fight in the end.
But Putnam was clearly aware of his own flagging energy. At the end of the bridge, still hugging the road, he saw a chance to improve his odds. At a pull-off equipped with a war memorial and a flagpole, Putnam again cut left, and headed directly east, this time straight for the railroad tracks perched on an elevated berm.
“Shit,” Lester muttered, hearing sirens approach. He retrieved his radio and issued a quick update as he followed suit, now fifty feet to the rear.
“God damn it, Todd,” he then shouted. “You got nowhere to go.”
Putnam ignored him, his feet digging into the slope bordering the tracks above.
Neither one of them saw or heard the train.
It was on them, out of the south, like a mechanical nightmare, in the proverbial blink of an eye. All noise and blur and heart-stopping surprise.
Todd Putnam had both hands resting on the near track, lifting himself up off the embankment, when he saw it just to his right—a monster bearing down.
As the engine’s air horn exploded in warning, he threw himself backward, straightening briefly like a man surrendering, before being blown back down the slope onto Spinney by the passing gust of wind.
Both men, in a tight embrace, rolled to the bottom just as two patrol cars came skidding to a stop nearby.
For a moment, numbed and deafened, everyone froze, suspended in time.
And then, it was over. The short passenger train vanished across its own bridge headed north, and Lester and Putnam were left sprawled like two tired wrestlers.
As two uniformed cops approached with guns drawn, Lester reacted first, pushing Putnam away from him.
“Todd, you sorry son of a bitch. What the fuck were you thinking?”
Putnam just lay there, staring up at the sky, blinking.
“Did you see that?” he asked quietly.
Lester rubbed his face with both hands and got to his feet. The cops holstered their weapons and began chuckling nervously.
“Yeah,” Lester conceded. “I did. And you’re under arrest.”
Never fond of using a phone while driving, Joe was becoming a master at it. With the cell plugged into his cigarette lighter, he step-by-step shepherded Steve and Maria Silva through the move into a local motel, all the while aiming his car toward Bangor. Lyn had remained out of touch, and Joe was by now convinced that—angered and adrenalized—she’d returned to Bangor to beard Dick Brandhorst in his den.
With that in mind, he also called Cathy Lawless back, as promised, and more fully explained why he was headed to Maine. He mentioned the name Dick Brandhorst.
He heard her typing into a computer on the other end.
“We have him as a person-of-interest on a bunch of cases,” she reported. “Always on the money side of things.”
“No record?”
“Nope, which is probably how he can function as a financial advisor. I don’t know that side of the law very well, but I’d guess getting a license for a job like that would be tricky with a rap sheet. You really think Lyn’s headed there to confront him? You don’t have any proof he trashed the boat, do you?”
“Not that I know of,” Joe conceded. “And I know what you’re thinking.”
She laughed. “That would be a first for almost anybody. What’s that?”
“That Lyn’s the one likely to get arrested if she hands the guy his head.”
“It crossed my mind,” Cathy agreed. “How ’bout I call in a favor and have one of Bangor’s finest keep an eye peeled for her at Brandhorst’s office door?”
Joe hesitated, fearful of the reaction once Lyn found out. He equivocated. “Just to watch and not stop her? You got a deal. Have them call me as soon as she’s spotted and we can go from there.”
“Right.” Cathy’s voice was ironic. “Just in case she’s carrying flowers instead of a sledgehammer? I’ll tell them to use their own discretion.”
Lyn killed her engine in a parking lot near the Coast Guard station at the base of the Moosabec Reach Bridge in West Jonesport, and slung her gun-weighted bag over her shoulder before stepping out into the evening’s salt-scented warmth.
She was tired and nervous. Her first stop, in Jonesport proper, had predictably been a bar—akin to the one in Gloucester—where, true to expectations, she’d found the local version of her own Harry Martin, and asked him how to find Wellman Beale.
That part hadn’t been difficult. Her veiled rationale had been commercial, which no one in that setting was going to obstruct—especially coming from an attractive woman.
However, she also understood the potential fallout of her approach. She might get what she’d come for—a meeting time and place, arranged by a go-between—but it was guaranteed to be accompanied by a follow-up phone call she’d never witness, concerning details she wished she knew.
She looked around, half expecting a dark-windowed sedan with its engine idling, but all she got was a variation on the scenery she’d grown up with—water, boats, gulls overhead, islands in the distance, and that near cloying odor of most working-class maritime harbors, of rotting fish, diesel oil, and brine. The one striking variation was the bridge, leaping from the mainland to an island, two football fields offshore—a single slab of concrete, supported by a string of support piers.
At long last, perhaps because of the absence of any threat, she also began to experience real fear settling in.
There was a pay phone by the railing overlooking the docks. Without hope of success, she crossed over to it and dialed Joe’s cell number.
“Hello?”
Her eyes widened with relief. “Joe. You’re there.”
He sounded equally relieved. “Thank God. Lyn. I’m heading your way. I’m already in Maine. Where are you?”
“At a pay phone in Jonesport, near the Coast Guard station. What’s been wrong with your cell?”
“It died and I didn’t notice. I’m really sorry. I talked to Steve and got the lowdown, but he had no idea where you’d gone and said you’d lost your own phone. I had him take your mom to a motel for a while, just to be safe, but what happened? Why’re you in Jonesport?”
“I got mad,” she admitted, at once embarrassed and relieved. “The whole thing with Steve’s boat finally pushed me over the edge. It was like a violation.”
She could almost hear him trying to connect the dots. “And so you called that cell phone? The number Brandhorst gave you? That brought you to Jonesport?”
Now that she was admitting it out loud, she almost cringed as she explained, “No, I decided to blow off the whole Brandhorst gambling debt thing—that sort of misses the point, anyhow. I’m here to meet Wellman Beale—try to settle what happened to my dad and José.”
She half expected an explosion from the other end. Instead, there was another measured silence, followed by his calm, almost soothing voice asking, “Lyn, have you hooked up with him yet?”
“No, I just got here.”
“He’s a bad guy,” Joe said quietly. “And I can’t be but an hour or two out by now. How ’bout some company?”
She smiled at his wording. It was like he was coaxing someone back off the edge of a windowsill.
“It’s a deal,” she said gratefully. “To be honest, I was having second thoughts.”
“I’m on my way,” he told her. “Just stay put and keep low till I get there. See you in a bit.”
Comforted, she replaced the phone, just as a voice said behind her, “You Lyn?”
Startled, she whirled around to find a large, bulky man with a broad face, bland to the point of caricature. His hint of a smile struck her as utterly threatening.
“Who’re you?” she asked.
“You’re looking for me,” he answered her. “You stupid, or trying to be smart?”
“Mr. Beale?”
His eyebrows rose. “Mr. Beale? I like that.” He reached out and took her elbow.
She immediately pulled away. “What’re you doing?”
The smile faded. “You wanted to meet? I got a boat over there; couple of comfortable chairs. But time’s money, and now’s the time. Now or never, like they say.”
She pointed to a bench by the railing overlooking the docks. “How ’bout there?”
“How ’bout you kiss my ass?”
She stared at him. A pretty bad guy, Joe had said. She had no doubts now.
Surprising her, Beale took a step back, turned, and began walking away, saying only, “Suit yourself.”
“Wait,” she blurted, before she could stop herself.
But he didn’t, forcing her to abandon the phone kiosk and follow him.
“Why not the bench?” she asked the back of his bowling ball–shaped head. “I’m just not comfortable wandering off with you.”
He kept walking silently, heading for a ramp leading down to the docks.
She gave up, deciding to at least go as far as his boat, if only to see what the setup might be.
In single file, they reached water level, chose a dock that projected out at ninety degrees, and traveled its length to the very end, where a forty-eight-foot boat with a fully enclosed wheelhouse lay gently bobbing.
Without hesitating or looking back, Beale lightly hopped into the stern and entered the wheelhouse, leaving Lyn standing uncertainly on the dock.
He stuck his head back out briefly. “You coming? I’m gonna get a beer. You want anything?”
He was already gone as she answered, “No, thanks.”
Looking through the wheelhouse windows, she saw him cross to the cabin bulkhead near the bow, descend the ladder, and vanish from sight.
She waited a moment, unsure, and then gingerly placed one sneakered foot on the boat’s rail, feeling its familiar give and take as the hull rode the gentle water. She glanced around, taking in the Moosabec Reach Bridge again, now looming overhead and looking much bigger than before. Just beyond it, the largest of the Coast Guard boats was slipping free of its moorings, heading out to sea, its trim and uniformed crew bustling about.
She wished they were coming over here.
Reluctantly, she stepped onto the stern and looked around. All the familiar trappings were in place, minus the usual stacks of lobster pots. But the bait barrel, the ropes and gaffs, and the snatch block were all familiar, comforting sights. It was cleaner than she was used to—not really like a working boat—but there was nothing wrong about it, either.
She poked her head into the wheelhouse. This was pretty fancy—benches, fine cabinetry, a fridge and microwave, all the latest electronics. It made The Silva Lining look like a rowboat. She could hear her lackadaisical host banging around in the cabin, whistling to himself—a sound she found at odds with her first impression of him, and therefore a little soothing.
She stepped fully into the wheelhouse. “Mr. Beale?”
The whistling continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, which she found believable, depending on what he was doing down there.
She approached the top of the ladder and squatted down to see into the dimly lit cabin.
“Mr. Beale?”
He came out at her like a shark leaping out of the sea, exploding from the darkness behind him, his large hand open and his powerful fingers grasping like teeth. He seized the front of her T-shirt and dragged her like a duffel bag straight down the ladder, twisting her around so that her heels bounced on the steps, her bag went flying, and her shoulder blades scraped the decking. She stared up at his empty eyes as he hauled her to the front of the cabin, using her shirt and brassiere like a suitcase handle and lifting them up around her neck.
He dropped her in a pile and stepped away as she scrambled to flatten her back against a bunk base, pulling her clothes down in a panic and tucking in her knees. There was a gun in his other hand.
The thin smile had returned. “Don’t be so full of yourself. I’ve seen better tits before.”
“What do you want?” she asked, hating the tremor she heard in her voice.
“What do I want? You’re the one snooping around. Not that it matters. We’ll talk later. Stretch out on the floor and roll over.”
“What’re you going to do?”
He laughed. “I’m gonna pull your clothes off and butt-fuck you. Is that what you want?”
She tightened up into an even smaller ball.
But he shook his head. “Fuckin’ broads. Always thinking we want to jump your bones. Just roll over, girlie. I’m gonna tie you up and gag you till we get out of port. You’re too fuckin’ skinny for me, anyhow.”
He reached out to a shelf near his head and retrieved a roll of duct tape.
“I won’t make any noise or try to escape,” she told him, eyeing the tape.
“You bet your ass, you won’t,” he agreed. “Now roll over like I said, or I’ll do it myself and maybe forget that I don’t like ’em skinny.”
“Where’re we going? Your island?”
He paused and studied her. “You know about that, huh? I figured as much. Nah. We’re going for a little trip up north. You ever been to Lubec?”
“No.”
“Right on the border. Easternmost point of the United States—the only thing they got to brag about. Lubec’s where the country runs out of gas; looks it, too. Now roll over before I get mad.”
Unwillingly, she straightened out and did as requested. Wincing as he knelt down, Beale straddled her hips and taped her hands together.
“The floor hurt?” he asked after he’d finished.
She nodded.
Keeping her face down, he slipped one hand through her legs and around to the front of her crotch and the other between her breasts, and lifted her effortlessly, despite her squirming, onto one of the berths lining the hull.
“There,” he said. “Stay put and mind your manners. I hear a peep out of you while I’m at the wheel, and I’ll hurt you like you never dreamed.” He put his face inches from hers. “You believe I can do that?”
She nodded once more.
He straightened. “Fuckin’ A—wouldn’t be the first time.”
He looked around, noticed the bag on the bottom step, and picked it up. He weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, reached inside, and extracted her nine-millimeter. “Cute,” he said before finally heading up the ladder and locking the bulkhead behind him.
In a matter of minutes, the powerful engine came alive in a roar, and they headed out to sea.
All Lyn could think of was Joe. And what an idiot she’d been.