Next thing Henry knew, someone was hammering at the screen door, every blow striking at his temples. He rose groggily. Rubbing a hand through his hair, he wondered if he’d imagined the noise. The bottle of rye was still open on the floor, and its fumes almost made him wretch. He was screwing the cap back on when the knocking resumed.
“Coming!”
Shouting made his forehead throb. No sign of the dog, and the bowl was still full. The clock on the cable box said it was 10:24 a.m.
Henry opened the door to be greeted by the face of Anna Shoat, as if she’d stepped straight off the pages of his newspaper. The photo’s harsh caption flashed instantly to mind: Anna Shoat, who has refused to comment.
“Are you Henry Mattick?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Anna Shoat. I’m the—”
“I know who you are.”
“Of course.” She nodded, resigned to her notoriety. He looked up and down the street, to see who else might be out there to witness her arrival on his doorstep.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re all gone.”
“Who?”
“The reporters, the cameras. First day I’ve been left in peace since it happened. May I come in?”
“Sure.”
He stepped back to allow entry, feeling callous and impolite. As she stepped inside he hazily realized that she, too, had been a part of his overnight dreams, although his only clear memory was that she had moved just as she was moving now—with a brisk, nimble assurance.
Turning to follow her, he saw with fresh eyes the forlorn nature of his lodgings. The only seating was a sagging gray couch and a green corduroy easy chair. There was a scuffed coffee table, a wall-mounted television with wires dangling from the back. He’d hammered together a set of bookshelves out of unfinished pine, large enough to hold a three-month supply of reading. The ceiling had cobwebs in every corner, same as when he’d moved in, and the dingy off-white of the bare walls was a perfect match for the thin beige carpet, which was so new that it still smelled like chemicals. Make a place bleak enough and no one will want to visit. That had seemed like a pretty good plan until now. He could have used some help from Scooter, if only to demonstrate that, yes, he did have a warm and fuzzy side.
“It’s just temporary,” he said of the house, but her eyes showed only exhaustion as she settled into the green chair. Henry took the couch.
“Can I get you something? Coffee, maybe?”
She shook her head.
“I hear you’re some kind of investigator?” she said.
“Was. And not really.”
Now where had she learned that? Probably from Stu Wilgus, a nosy retired lawyer from Baltimore. Henry had let himself be drawn into conversation with the man a few weeks ago in the checkout line of the general store—yes, they still called it that in Poston. Henry had sensed even then that he was revealing too much.
“Was. Okay. But supposedly you’re looking for work?”
“I’m between jobs, but that’s by choice.”
“Oh.”
She nodded and put her hands on her knees, like she was on the verge of leaving. Then she sighed and sagged into the chair.
“I ask because I’m looking for somebody who…” She paused, searching for the words. “Somebody who can help me understand this. You know, at first they wouldn’t even let me see him. Can you believe that?”
“Willard, you mean? Your brother?”
She looked up abruptly, eyes shining with gratitude.
“Thank you for calling him that. My brother. The whole damn week no one else has done that. Not even the pastor. ‘What shall we say at the service about Willard?’ The police, too. ‘What are your wishes for a lawyer for Willard?’ Never once ‘your brother.’ Like we’re no longer related. I’m not even convinced he did it.” She thrust out a hand, as if to halt that train of thought. “Check that. Of course he did it. That’s indisputable. But not of his own mind. He couldn’t have. That’s why I’m here. I need someone to help me figure out why, and I’ll pay for your services.”
“I think what you need is a doctor. A psychiatrist, maybe, to examine him.”
“If I thought that was the answer, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I don’t think he’s reachable that way. I’m not sure he ever has been. And after this? A closed book. Right now I’m only interested in what I can do, and my best hope is to figure out what he was up to in the days before it happened. Learn where he was, who he saw. Retrace his steps to find the trigger, the thing that set him off.”
“The cops were no help?”
“What do you think? And, really, why should they care? Their only job is to figure out who did it, and Willard definitely did it.”
“What about a PI?”
“A friend gave me a name in Baltimore. I called but he said he’d be wasting my money. When he told me his rates, I agreed. The travel expenses alone would wipe me out. So, to be blunt, that’s another reason I’m here. I’m thinking you might be cheap, or at least affordable. You won’t have to travel, for starters. I can pay seventy-five a day, plus mileage, for up to a month. I know it’s peanuts, but if you’re not making anything right now, well…”
“Money’s not the issue.”
She nodded, like it was the answer she’d expected. Then she exhaled loudly, seeming a little less burdened after unloading her sales pitch. It occurred to him that she hadn’t had anyone to talk to since arriving in Poston. Mom and Dad were gone, her friends were in the city. She hadn’t seen the neighbors in ages, and that left only cops, newshounds, the pastor for a church she hadn’t attended in years, the creepy funeral director, maybe an estate lawyer. By default, Henry Mattick had become her sounding board.
Henry felt almost honored. It helped that his throbbing hangover was beginning to fade. But, for reasons of his own, he knew he wasn’t the right choice, and he wanted to find a gentle way to tell her as much.
“I’m really not a professional.”
“Still, it was the U.S. Attorney’s office in Baltimore, right? Isn’t that where you were working before?”
“Stu Wilgus must have told you that.”
“He was at the funeral. One of the few who had the guts to come.”
Or the curiosity, Henry thought but didn’t say.
“Well, like I told Wilgus, I wasn’t even full-time. A contract job, then I was out on my ass.”
“Before that you worked for some congressional committee, right?”
“Right.” He wasn’t happy she knew all this, and he must have let it show.
“Sorry. I looked you up online.”
“Must have looked pretty hard. Look, the gig with DOJ, mostly what I did was watch a lot of investigators do their work, but I’ve never been trained as one myself.” Not exactly true, so he hedged. “Or not really. It’s like the old ad, ‘Hi, I’m not a doctor but I played one on TV.’ ”
“Fine, then we’ll make it fifty a day.”
“Well, let’s not get carried away.” This finally coaxed a fleeting smile out of her. “Seriously, I’d help if I could, but I doubt there’s a single thing I could find out that you couldn’t find out on your own. Chances are your brother just snapped. I’m not saying that to discourage you, I’m saying it because I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“With his hunting, that’s one place.”
“What do you mean?”
She leaned forward, renewing her pitch.
“Last time I talked to Dad, maybe a month ago, he said Willard had started hunting on his own. It made Dad a little nervous, but he figured maybe it was good for him, a sign of independence. I asked where he went, how he got there. Dad didn’t have the slightest, which to me was kind of alarming. He never once came back with anything, but there were always a few rounds missing. And the other thing was, Dad never heard any shots. So he wasn’t hunting our land.”
“Maybe he was just walking a long way.”
“Dad figured he was meeting somebody with a car.”
“Did he ask?”
“Yes. Willard said no, but he wouldn’t look Dad in the eye, and that wasn’t like him.”
“Who were his friends?”
“None. He’s never had any. That’s one reason Dad didn’t push it. If he finally had a friend, why spoil it?”
“Unless he was walking the whole way.”
“Willard didn’t like long walks. Besides, our property’s only forty acres, and the woods run out at Hallam Road. He would’ve crossed into someone else’s land inside fifteen, twenty minutes.”
Henry locked on to that image: Willard emerging from a stand of pines onto a gravel lane, his breathing labored, boots caked with mud and wet leaves. The thought took him back to the edge of town, where he again saw Willard with his spray can, raised on his tiptoes to log the new total. He looked up to see Anna staring at him, awaiting a response.
“Let’s say he did go off with somebody else,” Henry said. “Even then, unless somebody saw them, or knows who it was, it’s just another dead end.”
“So we ask around until we find somebody who saw them. Then we’re one step closer to finding out who put the idea in his head, or confused him enough to do what he did.”
“Why does this friendship, if that’s what it was, have to be something sinister? From what you’ve said, it sounds like exactly what he needed.”
“Then maybe his friend dumped him, and that’s what set him off. Or Dad found out, or Mom, and they put an end to it, so he got angry and killed them. Either way, it’s a step toward an explanation, and that’s all I’m looking for.”
“Have you asked him?”
She nodded and again looked at the floor.
“They let me see him late yesterday, after the funeral, but he barely said a word. I walked in and he perked right up, actually smiled and said, ‘You came back!’ Then he asked where Mom and Dad were, and what was I supposed to say to that?”
“What did you say?”
“I told him they were dead. I guess I should have been nicer about it, gentler. But, Jesus Christ, he’d fucking killed them. He just kind of crumpled, his whole face. Then he turned around and wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t say another word.”
“You think he’d forgotten? Or blanked it all out?”
“Maybe. I’m seeing him again tomorrow. I’ll take you with me, if you want.” She paused, sinking back into her thoughts. “He looked terrible. He hadn’t bathed or shaved or combed his hair. He asked if I could bring him a toy.”
“A toy?” It put a lump in his throat.
“One morning he kills our parents. Then he’s asking for his model of the Millennium Falcon.”
Henry let that sink in for a few seconds before speaking again.
“The numbers he painted, that whole thing with the sign. Did you ask about that?”
“Oh, that part’s easy.” She flicked her hand dismissively. “Willard counts everything. Keeps tallies and writes them down everywhere. On paper, on pieces of wood, whatever’s handy. Lists and running totals for all kinds of stuff. How many tubes of toothpaste he’s used, how many bars of soap. How many cardinals on the bird feeder. The number of times he saw Elmo on Sesame Street.”
“But the number itself, well…”
“Because he subtracted three?” She shook her head and almost smiled. “That’s one where the assholes who always made fun of him were probably right. He just got it wrong. He’s not used to adding or subtracting. He’s too busy notching up the latest totals. Half the time you can’t even figure out what he’s counting. He can’t always spell the words, so sometimes he uses little symbols that only he understands. A compulsion, that’s what the shrink said.”
“He’s got a shrink?”
“Wrong word. He went to a doctor for a while, more like a counselor or therapist, somebody who worked with the developmentally disabled, and it was years ago. It was as much for us as it was for him, to help us understand the way he was, and how to keep him happy. Mom thought it did him some good.”
“What did you think?”
“It did explain all the lists. She said it was normal, and gave him focus, a sense of purpose.”
“Have you been to see her?”
“He stopped going when he was around seventeen.”
“Too bad.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought that a few times, too. But even with her, it wasn’t like he ever really opened up. Like I said, a closed book.” For a second or two her eyes had a faraway look. Then she refocused on Henry. “So what do you think?”
He shook his head.
“This isn’t my area of expertise.”
“All I’m asking for is a week of your time. One week, when all you’re doing now is sitting here in front of your TV, doing shots of rye.”
Well, at least she was observant.
“Look,” she continued. “It’s either you, or I take potluck from the Yellow Pages over here on the Eastern Shore. Dial G for gumshoe, and hire some rube who tails cheating farmers for a living. Yes, I’m grasping at straws. But right now you’re my only hope.”
She laughed bitterly and shook her head.
“I sound ridiculous, don’t I? ‘Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.’ That’s his favorite movie, as you might have guessed from the toy request. Although I’ll be damned if I repeat that in public unless I want CNN using it in their latest stupid theory: Murder boy had Darth Vader fixation.”
She sighed.
“Maybe I’m losing my mind. My apologies for bothering you.”
“No, it’s okay. And I can see why you’d want answers. I understand that.”
“So you’ll do it then?” The light returned to her eyes, and for a moment the jury in him wavered, edging toward a yes vote. Then the naysayers spoke up: You’re falling for the face. This isn’t why you’re here.
“Let me sleep on it.”
She should sleep on it, too, he thought. Maybe by tomorrow she would feel better simply for having talked things over, and that might be enough.
“Okay,” she said. Then, glancing down at the rye. “But maybe you could sleep on it with a clearer head than last night.”
“It’s not a habit.” He was a little unnerved by how badly he wanted her to believe him.
“I wouldn’t sweat it. The neighbors have plenty of theories about you, but none of them seems to think you’re a drunk.”
He escorted her to the door, and then pulled back the curtain to watch her depart. She was walking up Willow, back toward the murder scene. A morbid part of him wanted a peek inside the house. But he had no intention of taking her up on the offer, even though he, too, would like to know what made Willard Shoat snap.
Instead, he would give Anna a contact or two from his past—people with similar skills who might even agree to her bargain rate. He would offer to let them stay here, gratis, to help cut costs. As for Henry, the best thing now would be to pack up and get moving. But first he had to make a phone call. There was no landline, so he picked up his cell phone and punched in a number with a Washington area code. The first ring had barely started before someone picked up—Mitch, who must have recognized the incoming number.
“Mattick. Been wondering when you’d call.”
“I figured it was your turn.”
“What, worried we’ll stop paying you?”
“The opposite. Nothing really left to do here, the way I see it.”
“That’s for sure. Who’d have guessed it, huh?”
“If you really want to know, the whole thing’s given me the heebie-jeebies. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Understandable. We’re at a loss, too. Just when you think you’ve got an easy, uneventful assignment, huh?”
“Tell me about it. One thing you should probably know. Her daughter was just over here.”
“Anna?” He said it almost like he knew her.
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“She wants to hire me.”
“Hire you?”
“To look into things. She thinks someone must have put the idea in her brother’s head. Controlled him somehow.”
Mitch paused, digesting the news.
“How’d she hear about you?”
“How wouldn’t she, the way this place is.”
“What do you think of her theory?”
“Same as the cops, probably. She’s grasping at straws, looking for anything to make her feel better.”
“Maybe so. But it’s perfect, don’t you think?”
“Perfect how?”
“For keeping you on the payroll, now that you’ve actually got an excuse to snoop around in a way you never could have before.”
“Mitch, she’s dead.”
“But the reason we hired you isn’t.”
“And that reason is?”
“We’ve been over this, Mattick. I’ve already told you all you need to know.”
“Nothing, you mean.”
“Just do the job. The one we’re paying you for, and the one she’ll be paying you for.”
“I don’t even know what you could still want at this point. Not that I was giving you much to begin with.”
“Isn’t it obvious? If this actually gets you into the house, then take a look at everything she left behind. Phone bills, finances, letters, appointment books—anything, recent or ancient. Don’t worry about relevance, we’ll know what’s important. Make copies when you can, and forward them.”
“I don’t know, Mitch.”
“You didn’t turn her down, did you?”
“No, but…”
“Good. Make her happy. Accept her offer.”
“And if there’s a conflict? Between what she wants and what you want?”
“There won’t be. After the way this whole thing just got turned on its head, we’ll be happy to let her take this wherever she wants. Anything we get out of it now is gravy. Trust me, Mattick. It’ll be hand in glove. Hand in glove.”
Sure, he thought, as they ended the call. Henry had heard those kinds of assurances before. He looked out the front window, but the street was empty. By now Anna Shoat was probably back inside the house where she’d grown up, surrounded by silence, spooked and lonely. How long did violence linger in the atmospherics of a place where something terrible had happened? He supposed he would find out soon enough.
It troubled him, the idea of intruding. Even on the off chance Henry was able to help, he wanted nothing to do with deceiving someone so vulnerable. With any luck, she’d do them both a favor and give up. He’d phone Mitch again, tell him sorry but no deal, and then pack his bags.
Henry walked to the bedroom and pulled his suitcase from beneath the bed. He cleared out his T-shirts and boxers from the chest of drawers and piled them inside. Then he sat on the bed and reconsidered. When you said no to people like Mitch, they just shrugged and found somebody else. And that was a problem. Henry didn’t want just anybody doing this, now that Anna was part of it—sad and abandoned Anna, with a face a jury would love. She deserved better.
He put his clothes back in the drawers and slid the suitcase beneath the bed. Returning to the living room, he grabbed the bottle of rye and set it on the highest shelf in the kitchen. He turned on the television, watched blankly for a few seconds as a guy with a loud voice demonstrated the many uses of a folding ladder. Then he switched it off, placed his hands on his knees, and stood. There was work to be done. If he was going to do this, then he had better do it right.