The Wolf in Winter

  'Anyway, Jude would have wanted me to have it. He couldn't take it with him. If he could've talked, he'd have told me so.'

  God, Shaky hated Brightboy. He wished that he'd kicked him hard enough to drive his balls up into his throat and choke him.

  'Even if he'd given this to you, you wouldn't have deserved to have it,' Shaky told him.

  Inside the bag he found the last of Jude's money – $43, still wrapped in the same rubber band – and Jude's toothpaste and comb. The wipes were gone. Strangely, the book Jude had been reading at the time of his death, an architectural history of early churches in England, was also among the books stolen by Brightboy. Jude had ordered it specially, Shaky remembered. The people at Longfellow Books had found a paperback copy for him, and refused to accept payment for it. Jude had picked it up days before he died, just after returning from his most recent trip north. Shaky had put it down to another manifestation of Jude's magpie intellect, but his friend had been different about this book. He hadn't wanted to discuss it with Shaky, just as he hadn't wanted to tell him exactly where he'd gone when he'd left Portland those fnal two times.

  'Bangor?' Shaky had pressed him.

  'It doesn't matter.'

  'Your daughter still up there, you think?'

  'No, I believe she went . . . someplace else.'

  'You fnd her?'

  'Not yet.'

  Jude had begun to mark the pages as he read. Shaky ficked through them, and some bus tickets fell out. He tried to grab them, but at that moment the wind came up again from out of nowhere and snatched the tickets away. It blew them into some briars, and Shaky tore the skin on his right hand trying to retrieve them. He almost gave up, but he hadn't come this far to let anything slide that might help the detective. He knelt down and reached into the bush, ignoring the pain and the damage to his coat.

  'Damn you,' he whispered. 'Damn bushes.'

  'No,' said a voice behind him. 'Damn you, you fuck.'

  The sunlight caught the bottle of Old Crow again. This time it didn't roll away, but shattered against Shaky's skull.

  Shaky came back to consciousness as the paramedic tended his wounds. Later he would learn that a driver had come into the lot to turn, and spotted him lying on the ground. The driver had believed him dead.

  'We'll need to get you stitched up,' said the paramedic.

  He and his colleague wore blue plastic gloves that were stained with Shaky's blood. Shaky tried to rise but they held him down.

  'You stay there. We got you.'

  Shaky felt something in his right hand. He looked and saw the bus tickets crumpled in his fst. Carefully he put them in the pocket of his coat, and felt his fngers brush against the piece of paper with the detective's number on it.

  'You got someone we can call?' said the paramedic, and Shaky realized that they didn't know he was homeless. He had laundered his clothes only a day earlier, and showered and shaved at Amistad while they were drying.

  'Yes,' said Shaky, and despite the blow to the head he recited the detective's cell phone number from memory before promptly losing consciousness again.

  19

  By the time I got to Maine Medical a doctor had picked the shards of glass out of Shaky's scalp and stitched him up. He was woozy from the mild sedative that they'd given him but he wasn't going to be kept in overnight. X-rays had revealed no sign of skull fracture. He'd just have a hell of a headache, and his scalp looked like it had been sewn together by Victor Frankenstein.

  He silently pointed me to his possessions, which were contained in a plastic bag. The nurse told me that, before his lights went out behind the warehouse, he insisted that the medics retrieve his book. That was in the bag as well.

  'A history of early English churches?' I said, waving it at Shaky as he lay on the gurney, his eyes heavy. 'I have to say that I'm surprised.'

  Shaky swallowed hard and gestured at the water pitcher nearby. I poured him a glass and held it to his mouth. He only dribbled a little.

  'It was a friend's,' he said.

  'Jude's?'

  He nodded, but it clearly made his head hurt because he winced and didn't try to do it again.

  'Coat,' he said.

  I went through the pockets of his coat until I found the bus tickets, along with the scrap of paper containing my cell phone number. The tickets were for two Portland–Bangor round trips with Concord, and then two further onward round trips on the Cyr Bus Line that connected Bangor to Aroostook and points between, this time from Bangor to Medway in Penobscot County.

  'Where did he get the money for these tickets?' I asked Shaky. 'From earlier loans he called in?'

  'Guess so,' said Shaky. 'And bottles and cans.'

  Portland's homeless, like most people in their position, made a little money by scouring the trash for drink containers. Tuesday evenings were particularly proftable, since Wednesday was pickup day for recycling.

  'Did he say why he wanted to go to Medway?'

  'No.'

  'But it must have been something to do with his daughter?'

  'Yeah. Everything had to do with his daughter these last few weeks.'

  I looked again at the tickets. The main reasons to go to Medway were hunting, fshing, snowmobiling and skiing, and I couldn't see Jude doing any of those, whether they were in season or not. Perhaps his daughter had ended up there, but at this time of year there wasn't a whole lot happening. The snow might eventually start melting, but a lull would follow before the summer tourists started arriving.

  I ficked through the book. There was something there, something that I couldn't quite grasp. It danced at the edge of my awareness. Maine and English churches.

  Then it came to me: a tower with an ancient church, an English church.

  'Prosperous,' I said aloud, and a nurse gave me a curious glance. 'But what the hell would Jude be doing in Prosperous?'

  It didn't take long for the police to fnd Brightboy. He'd bought himself a half gallon of Caldwell Gin and found a quiet spot in Baxter Woods in which to drink it. He hadn't even bothered to ditch the items that he'd taken from Jude's basement. After they cuffed him and put him in the back of the car, Brightboy told them, without prompting, that he wasn't sorry for hitting Shaky with the empty Old Crow bottle.

  'I'd have hit him with a full one,' he said, 'if'n I could have afforded to.'

  When he was questioned at Portland PD headquarters, once he'd sobered up some, Brightboy could add little to the sum of knowledge about Jude's death, and Shaky didn't want to press charges over the assault, arguing that 'Jude wouldn't have wanted me to.' Then again, Jude was dead, and he wasn't the one who'd been smacked over the head with the Old Crow.

  A bed was reserved for Shaky at one of the shelters, and the staff had agreed to keep an eye on him for any signs of concussion. He looked comfortable when I spoke to him about Brightboy, but an emergency shelter didn't seem like the best place in which to try to recover from a head injury. As good fortune had it, Terrill Nix was one of the respondents to the initial assault, and between us we agreed to see if something could be done to move Shaky up the housing placement list in return for his efforts in tracking down Brightboy.

  The police continued to question Brightboy about Jude, and what he might or might not have seen in the basement. Brightboy didn't prove too helpful on that count – not out of unwillingness, but because he had seen nothing beyond Jude's corpse and the consequent open season on his possessions. The cops could have charged Brightboy with petty theft, for the total value of the cash and items taken from the basement was less than $500, and for interfering with a possible crime scene, but in the end the decision was made just to put him back on the streets. The court and prison systems were overburdened as it was, and a spell behind bars was unlikely to impact much on Brightboy one way or another.

  Macy joined Nix while I was at the hospital, and I mentioned the bus tickets to her, and the book on church architecture.

  'What the hell would someone like Jude be doing in Prospe
rous?' she said.

  'You know,' I replied, 'those were almost precisely my own words.'

  'Let me guess,' said Macy. 'You're going to pay a visit to Prosperous in the near future.'

  'Probably.'

  'I've talked to my lieutenant,' said Macy, 'and his view is that this is all just complicating what should be kept simple. We have enough to keep us busy for the next twelve months without adding Jude to the list. He thinks we should let it slide for now. I'll keep an open mind on it, though. If you fnd out anything solid, you let me know. Terrill?'

  She looked to Nix for his view. I had to admire the way that she worked. There were detectives who wouldn't have bothered to cut a patrolman in on a discussion like this, let alone seek his opinion. The potential downside was that it could make the detective look indecisive, or lead to a situation where patrol cops might feel they had the right to drop in their two cents' worth without an invitation, but I got the impression Macy wouldn't have those problems. She didn't give too much. She gave just enough.

  Nix took the path of least resistance.

  'The more I sleep on it, the more it looks like Jude took the drop of his own free will. I spoke to one of the psychiatrists at the Portland Help Center. He said that Jude suffered from depression for most of his life. It was one of the reasons why he couldn't hold down the permanent housing they tried to fnd for him. He'd just get depressed and head back to the streets.'

  I understood their position. Jude wasn't a pretty USM sophomore, or a nurse, or a promising high school student, and the narrative of his death, however incomplete, had already been written and accepted. I'd been there myself, once upon a time.

  'Did someone ask Brightboy about a knife?' I said. I was still troubled by how Jude had cut the rope, assuming he had even done so himself.

  'Shit,' said Macy.

  She slipped away and made a call. When she returned, she looked troubled.

  'Brightboy had a penknife in his possession when we picked him up, but he says it's his own. He didn't recall seeing a knife at the scene. He could be lying, though, and he admits that he was out of his skull for most of the time he was in that basement. I don't think Brightboy remembers much of anything, even at the best of times.'

  But she seemed to be talking to convince herself more than me. I let it go. The seed was planted. If it took root, all the better.

  Macy left with Nix. I watched her go. A passing doctor watched her too.

  'Damn,' he said.

  'Yeah,' I replied. 'My sentiments exactly.'

  The next time I saw Macy, I was dying.

  20

  Apall hung over the house of Harry and Erin Dixon after the departure of Chief Morland and Hayley Conyer. A visit from either one of them would have been enough to unnerve the Dixons at the best of times, for they were the two most powerful citizens in Prosperous, even allowing for the fact that Morland did not sit on the board. But a visit from both of them, especially under the circumstances, was suffcient to push Harry and Erin to breaking point.

  They had let the girl go because they wanted to be free of this madness – and perhaps because she reminded them of a daughter that they had never had, but for whom they had always wished – and now they were being drawn deeper into the town's insanity just because they had tried to do the right thing. In a way, Erin thought, it might be the shock to the system that they needed. Something of their torpor, their acquiescence to the town's edicts, had already been challenged, or else they could not have acted as they had in freeing the girl. Now, faced with the prospect of kidnapping a replacement, any remaining illusions they had were being profoundly dissipated.

  As their vision grew clearer, so too did their desperation to get away from Prosperous increase, but so far neither had spoken about what was being asked of them. To a greater, in the case of Harry, or lesser extent, in the case of his wife, they were like children, hoping that, by ignoring the problem, it might go away, or some other solution might present itself. Harry, in particular, had sunk into denial. He found himself almost wishing that some stray girl – a waif, a runaway – might pass through Prosperous, or be picked up at the side of the road by one of the selectmen: a safe, older man like Thomas Souleby or Calder Ayton who would offer her a ride into town and buy her soup and a sandwich at Gertrude's. He would excuse himself to go to the men's room, and a conversation would ensue behind closed doors. A woman would approach the girl, a mother fgure. Concern would be expressed for her. A place to stay would be offered, if only for a night or two until she had a chance to clean herself up. There might even be work for her in Gertrude's, if she wanted it. Gertrude's was always shorthanded. Yes, that would work; that would do it. That would take the pressure off Harry and Erin, and they could continue to plan for their eventual escape. Yes, yes . . .

  A day went by. Harry avoided speaking with his wife, fnding excuses to be away from her. That was not how their marriage had survived for so long. True, Harry might sometimes be a reluctant participant in conversations about feelings, hurt or otherwise, but he had come to accept their value. While Erin could not know the direction of his thoughts, she understood him well enough to guess them.

  Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me . . .

  He sometimes quoted that particular piece of scripture – Luke 22:42, if she remembered correctly – in times of mild diffculty, like when she asked him to take out the trash if it was raining or, occasionally – and annoyingly – when they were about to make love. Her husband had his weaknesses. She had no illusions about them, just as, she assumed, he was aware of her own in turn, although she liked to think that hers were venal, and of less consequence. Harry disliked confrontation, and was poor at making serious decisions. He preferred to have the responsibility for the latter taken from him by circumstance, for then he would not be to blame if the consequences were negative. Erin had never said it aloud, but some of their fnancial problems might have been avoided had her husband demonstrated a little more backbone, a pinch more ruthlessness.

  But would she have loved him as much if he had? Ah, there was the rub.

  Like her husband, she attended church every Sunday. Most of the people of Prosperous did. They were Baptists and Methodists and Catholics. Some had even embraced roadside churches whose denominations were unclear even to their adherents. They believed, and yet did not believe. They understood the difference between the distant and the immanent, between the creator and what was created. But Erin derived more consolation from the rituals than her husband. She could feel him zoning out during services, for he had little or no interest in organized religion. Sunday worship was a form of escape for him, but only in the sense that it gave him some peace and quiet in which to think, daydream or, occasionally, nap. But Erin listened. She didn't agree with all that she heard, but so much of it was unarguable. Live decently, or else what was the point in living at all?

  And the people of Prosperous did live decently, and in most matters they behaved well. They gave to charity. They cherished the environment. They tolerated – no, embraced – gays and lesbians. Entrenched conservatives and radical liberals all found their place in Prosperous. In return, the town was blessed with good fortune.

  It was just that, sometimes, the town needed to give fortune a push.

  But had her husband listened a little more attentively to what was being said at services, and perhaps read the Bible instead of just picking up random quotations from it, he might have recalled the second part of that verse he so loved to throw her way as she began to nuzzle his neck late at night.

  nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.

  It was the town's will that had to be done.

  'We need to talk about it,' said Erin as they sat at the table to eat an early dinner. She had made a pot roast, but so far neither of them had done more than pick at it.

  'There's nothing to talk about,' said Harry.

  'What?' She stared at her husband with absolute incredulity. 'Are you out of your mind? They want
us to abduct a girl. If we don't, they'll kill us.'

  'Something will turn up,' said Harry. He forced himself to eat some of the pot roast. It was strange – or maybe it wasn't strange at all – but ever since he and Chief Morland had buried the girl, Harry had experienced something of a turn against meat. He was consuming a lot of cheese, and bread smeared with peanut butter. The pot roast tasted so strong that he had to force himself not to spit it back on the plate. Somehow he managed to chew it for long enough to enable him to swallow. He separated the meat from the vegetables and potatoes, and proceeded to eat them instead.

  'They won't kill us,' he said. 'They can't. The town has survived by not hurting its own. The board knows that. If they kill us, then others will start to fear that it might be their turn next. The board will lose control.'

  Or they'll tighten it, thought Erin. Sometimes it was necessary to make an example, just to keep the rest in line, and most of those in town – the ones who knew, the ones who participated – would have little time for anyone who put the present and future of Prosperous at risk. Any townsfolk who might have some sympathy for the Dixons' predicament were those most like themselves, the ones who were secretly struggling. But there was no chance of them turning against Prosperous once the Dixons were gone, not as long as Chief Morland and Hayley Conyer didn't show up at their door and demand that they go hunting for a young woman. Young men didn't work as well. Prosperous had learned that a long time ago.