River Kill Page 3

"Jesus, John," I said.

  "I'm sorry, Stuart. Sometimes I just need to say it out loud. And you know one of the worst things? It was just so Goddamned demoralizing. I mean, one minute we're walking in the country, telling jokes and feeling pretty macho about the whole thing. And then, in the space of a few rotten minutes, our whole world fell apart. I mean, it's like they were never even there. It's like some fucked up dream, except there's gunpowder in the air so thick you can barely see through it, and people all around you are screaming. It took me a few minutes to realize that I was injured as badly as I was and that I was one of the ones doing the screaming."

  John reseated his hat and adjusted it to his liking. I shifted from one foot to the other, not having any words handy that might sound like comfort or insight or anything.

  "Enough of that shit," he said. "I didn't mean to get carried away." He opened the sliding door and used some levers to engage a hydraulic lift that smoothly hoisted his chair up and into the van. When he was positioned behind the wheel, I circled around and stood by the open driver’s window.

  I said, "Thanks for lunch." He stuck his hand out the window and we shook again, but this time his strength seemed almost like that of a normal man, like he had maybe put the rest of it into his story, and it might be a while before he got some back again.

  "No sweat, Stuart. Hey, thanks for listening. I didn't mean to be a burden. As it is, I probably won't sleep tonight."

  "No trouble at all," I said. "Next time lunch is on me. I'll even supply the story." John started the van, and I watched him drive off, thinking I probably wouldn't sleep tonight, either.

  I weaved my way through the afternoon traffic from my office to Weymouth Landing, and at 4:10 I made a left turn onto Tipton Road. I wasn't too crazy about a tour of StanMel Circuits, but John seemed adamant, and I guess the customer is always right. Besides, I genuinely liked the guy.

  I rounded a twist in the road and stomped on the brakes. The entrance to StanMel was blocked by two police cruisers, their lights splashing against the dark alley that led down to the plant. A small crowd was clustered around one car, talking to the officer who was sitting in the driver's seat and writing on a notepad. Another officer was directing traffic, trying to make order out of chaos.

  I parked well back from the melee and strolled up. The officer directing traffic was Buddy DeLacorte, a guy I used to be friendly with when I was on the force. He nodded in my direction and waved a few cars through. I crossed the street and we shook hands.

  "Long time, Stu," he said. "Where the hell you been hiding?"

  "I've been around," I said. "What's happening, Buddy?"

  "Had an accident inside the plant. It's funny. Up until today, I didn't even know this place existed. You can't really see it from the road."

  An ambulance emerged from the entrance with its lights flashing and siren wailing. Buddy cleared a path for it and the driver made a right turn toward Quincy Avenue. I could see an attendant through the rectangular windows in the back, working feverishly over someone.

  "Guess it was pretty serious, huh?"

  "Yeah," said Buddy. "Guy fell down some stairs on the loading dock. Massive head injuries. And the poor bastard had enough problems already."

  "Why do you say that, Buddy?"

  "Guy must've been riding a wave of bad luck. Someone that was inside said this person was in a wheelchair, for Chrissakes."

  "A wheelchair? Are you sure they said a wheelchair?"

  "Yeah," said Buddy. "That's what they said. You know, sometimes life don't make no Goddamned sense."

  But he was talking to thin air because I was sprinting toward my truck. I fired it up and found first gear, chirping the tires as I spun it around, my frenzied mind fumbling with directions for the quickest way to South Shore Hospital.

  Come on, John.

  Chapter 4

  Mr. Barcom has lost a lot of blood, and he's in shock.

  No, you can't see him.

  Are you related to Mr. Barcom?

  No, he never regained consciousness.

  The official cause of death will be listed as complications from massive head injuries.

  Do you know anyone that can sign these forms, please?

  I sat in the cab of my Toyota, double-parked in the emergency room lot at South Shore Hospital, and rewound my brain, trying to sift through all the events that were crammed into the last couple hours. John Barcom had been taken from StanMel Circuits by ambulance after tumbling down the concrete steps that connected the loading dock with a spare equipment storage room. He was found by someone who had just returned from lunch. I spoke briefly with one of the EMTs, who told me John never regained consciousness during the ride over.

  I watched a red Corvette pull smoothly into the lot and slide into a vacant space. The driver unfolded himself from behind the wheel and walked briskly toward the emergency room entrance. A robin pecked at a tiny patch of earth, its beak probing insistently until it extracted a wriggling earthworm. My gaze traveled back to the visitor while my mind drifted aimlessly in a sea of random thoughts.

  Why hadn't I listened to John? He seemed certain he was singled out, was spooked enough to consult someone on the matter, and I just blew him off. Was it my fault he was dead?

  "Could you move your truck, sir?"

  I jumped, startled back to the here and now by a uniformed security guard that stuck his head through the passenger window.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your truck, sir. We need you to move it. We have two ambulances on the way, with rush hour accident victims from Route 3. We're going to need to clear this area. Please sir, if you don't mind."

  I started the Toyota and found first gear, heading out of the parking lot with no particular destination in mind. One of my old haunts, Lulu's, was just around the corner, and I wanted nothing more in the world right now than a beer. No, ten beers, and maybe that wouldn't be enough. Twenty would be more like it. I swung into the lot and found a parking spot, sat with the engine idling and put my head on the steering wheel.

  Jesus, John. Why weren't you more insistent?

  Jesus, Stuart. Will you ever develop the ability to see things that are dangling right in front of your nose?

  I bounced my head on the hard plastic of the steering wheel, blew out a sigh, then put the truck in reverse and backed out. I floated back to Fairshore Square in a daze and found a spot for the truck in the back of my building.

  A cool rush of air greeted me when I pushed open my office door. I stuck my face in the cold stream of the air conditioner for two minutes, then sat down and propped my feet on the desk. I had things I should be doing, but I really wasn't in the mood.

  I retrieved a beer from a case in the corner, a pilsner, and popped the top with a church key that was laying on my desk. I drained it in two giant gulps, wincing at the warmth of it, then went back and got four more.

  I opened another beer, and it did the same disappearing act. I placed the empty by my chair and reached for another full one. A tiny hiss escaped when I cracked the seal, barely audible over the thrumming air conditioner.

  My phone rang and I let it go to voicemail. Curiosity got the better of me, however, and I punched in my code.

  Apparently, I’d missed some calls while I was in the emergency room. The first voice was a secretary from Capital Insurance, saying they had a job for me. I scribbled a note while the next message played.

  I heard the voice of my best friend, Billy Cardell, which never fails to bring a smile to my face.

  "Hey, Stu," he said. "Feel like a boat ride?" I could hear the big diesel engine of his lobster boat rumbling in the background. I hung up with voicemail and dialed up Billy.

  "Billy boy," I said. "How's the fishing?"

  "Man, Stu, the fishing sucks. I'm working way too much for way too little."

  "Aren't we all?" I said. "Funny you called. I was going to come down and see you tomorrow."

  "Why wait?" he said. "I'm at the dock."

  "I can b
e there in forty-five minutes. What's shaking?"

  "We'll talk when you get here." He broke the connection and left me alone with my bottles of beer and taunting demons.

  I scooped my keys off the desk, shoved the beer bottles back into the case, and twisted the key in the lock on the office door.

  On my way down the stairs, I shook my head and smiled, marveling at how fate had decided my circumstances once again, allowing me to dodge a freight train instead of laying down on the tracks.

  Billy Cardell is the only black lobsterman I've ever known. Fishing for a living is a profession that's usually handed down through many generations, each one passing on secrets and advice to the next, and each one sliding further into debt than the last.

  Billy is an anomaly. His father cut hair in Decatur, Georgia for forty years before he retired and never made it closer to Massachusetts than Myrtle Beach.

  Billy and I were in the Navy together, stationed in Connecticut. He got out about a year before I did, but instead of moving back home to Georgia he decided to stay in New England, making a living collecting lobster from the ocean floor. Most years were lean for him, as they were for many fishermen these days, but Billy didn't mind because he was doing something he really loved.

  When times were tough he dug his heels in and rode it out. I remember him losing almost all his traps during one fall hurricane and pumping gas and plowing snow all winter just so he could have a go at it again in the spring.

  He worked harder than just about any man I knew, providing everything his wife and their son needed. Billy himself didn't need much. He had his Ocean and most days that was enough.

  Billy was bent over in the stern of his boat when I got there, fussing with a lobster trap that looked older than I was. I stepped onto the deck and eased up next to him, sliding a container of coffee in front of his nose and making him jump.

  "Jesus, McCann, you scared the shit out of me," he said.

  "That's a lot of scare," I countered.

  Billy took the coffee I offered and pried the lid off. "You look like hell," he said. He tested his coffee, grimaced, then slurped at some more.

  "You're not the first person to tell me that."

  "Let's take a ride," he said, moving toward the pilothouse. "We can check a few traps that're close."

  I grunted and he fired up the engine, churning water behind the boat. I loosened the stern line while Billy did the bow, and he pulled smoothly away from the pier. We slid by moored boats of all sizes and varieties as he angled his boat out of the marina. I sipped coffee with one hand and used the other as a shield against the sun reflecting off the shimmering water.

  Just as I was getting my sea legs under me, Billy slowed the boat and idled next to one of his buoys. He made some motions with his arms, pointing at a gaff standing straight up in the stern. I yanked it free and attempted to snare the line, steadying myself against the rail while the boat yawed in the rolling waves. On the third try, I managed to snag it. I braced myself and hauled hard, but there was no resistance.

  I fell backwards on my rump and sat there for a moment, waiting for Billy's good-natured ribbing. It never came. Instead, he left the pilothouse and rushed to my side, grabbing my elbow and helping me to my feet.

  “Are you okay, Stu?"

  "Yeah, I’m alright,” I said. “What the hell was that?”

  "I'm sorry. I should've warned you. That's makes about a dozen this week."

  "Someone's messing with your traps?"

  "Yeah," he said. He pulled on the warp that had made a fool out of me, coiling line in his big hands until a cinder block broke the surface. He hauled it onboard and let it thump to the deck.

  "See? The trap’s cut free. The block holds the marker in place and you never know until you start hauling.” Billy dropped the loose coils to the deck.

  "So how long has this been going on?" I said, rubbing at my backside.

  "A few weeks, I guess."

  "Why? Any other problems?"

  "I don’t know, but yes," said Billy, plucking off his battered Red Sox cap and twisting it in his big, powerful hands. “Couple of flat tires, two days in a row. Kinda seemed odd to me.”

  "Have you pissed anyone off lately? Do you have any idea who might be responsible?"

  "Just a hunch. Nothing definite."

  "You should go to the police. At least make out a report, get something on paper."

  "No," said Billy. "I can't prove anything, at least not yet." He pushed himself to his feet and turned back to the pilothouse.

  I followed behind him. He reached for the squealing radio and turned down the volume. Seagulls had zeroed in on the idling boat, squawking and diving at the tops of the waves, searching for morsels they thought we should be providing.

  "I can look into it, Billy. One of my strong points is discretion. Just say the word."

  "Thanks, Stu, but no." Billy slipped the engine in gear and pointed his boat toward another of his pots bobbing in the distance.

  We checked six more without incident; each time Billy insisted on hauling the lines himself. When he ran out of traps that were in close to shore, he pointed his boat at Hull Gut and skirted the far side near Peddocks Island. He eased around skillfully and adjusted the throttle until the boat was barely moving in the outgoing tide. The sun was an orange fireball sinking behind the Boston skyline.

  "I can't come out here without making a few casts," he said, pulling a spinning rod from a rack above his head. He walked to the stern and heaved a floating plug into the churning water, popping it steadily back to the boat. The lure left a wake of bubbles on the surface. Billy made half a dozen more casts without a strike, fanning the area behind the boat, then propped the rod against the pilothouse and turned to me.

  "Well," he said, "I guess you didn't come out here to watch me fish. What's on your mind, Stuart?"

  "I thought you'd never ask," I said. "Do you remember an accident off the coast of Hull, oh, around the middle of May? Guy fell in and drowned?"

  "A lobsterman found the boat," said Billy, picking up the rod again, making little adjustments to the reel's drag.

  "That's right. I'd like to talk to this guy, and I was hoping you could steer me in the right direction."

  "Burton Lawler. Part time lobsterman, part time drunk. Got a tiny place on one of the Alphabet streets. You can't find him there, try the Seashell on Nantasket Avenue. He spends more time there than he does on the ocean." Billy made a long cast and began working the lure back, his face contorted into a grim mask. When the lure bumped the boat, Billy offered the rod to me. I grinned like an eager eight-year-old and took it.

  "Thanks, Billy," I said, launching the lure toward a spot that he'd already covered.

  "What you want with Lawler?"

  "Up until today, I was working for a guy who was good friends with the man who drowned. He wasn't buying into the popular theory about it being an accident."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think what I always did. Sounds like the guy fell in and gargled with saltwater. But the man was adamant, and I couldn't turn him down."

  "Why do you say ‘was’? Did he fire you?"

  "No," I said. "I ate lunch with him this afternoon, and tonight he's dead." I brought the lure back to the boat without exciting a fish and handed the rod back to Billy. I rested a haunch on the gunwale and related the circumstances surrounding the death of John Barcom.

  "Holy shit, Stu," he said. "What now?

  "He paid me five hundred dollars and he damn sure didn't get his money's worth. I'm going to poke around a little."

  Billy stowed the spinning rod in the overhead rack and revved the engine, pulling smoothly away from the Gut and back toward Pemberton Marina. When we were approaching the pier again, Billy and I shook hands.

  "If you need my help, I can always make time," I said.

  "I appreciate it, Stu. Let me go it alone for now."

  I reluctantly agreed. Billy dropped me at the pier, and I watched as he brought
the lobster boat around and made it fast to his mooring. I waved from beside my truck as Billy paddled his dingy toward the

  pier.

  Now what, McCann? I had a dead client and a friend who seemed to be having some sort of trouble, although he didn't appear to want my help.

  Oh yeah, and a thirst that was almost primeval in its intensity.

  I fired up my truck and spun the tires in the parking lot gravel. I needed to talk to someone, and Heather's beautiful face popped into my head.

  Chapter 5

  I threaded my way back to Fairshore on route 3A as dusk silently cloaked the South Shore. At a traffic light near Hingham Harbor, I searched through my contacts until I found Heather's home number and punched it up on my cell phone, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel until the light turned over. She picked up on the third ring.

  "It's me," I said. "Don't hang up."

  "What's going on?"

  "I need to talk."

  "Hang up and dial 0. The operator will help you."

  "I'm serious this time," I said.

  "Sounds it." She blew a sigh into the phone. "Okay, give."

  "I'd rather meet somewhere."

  "Stu, if this is just your way of..."

  "Damn, Heather, I need some help. Please."

  "All right," she said. "Pick a place."

  "Lulu's. Pick a time."

  "I need an hour."

  "I'll see you there," I said. "And thanks."

  She hung up on me again. I was starting to get the feeling she enjoyed doing it.

  A line of clouds that had been moving in from the west began releasing a few fat drops. Lightning flashed in the distance, and a clap of thunder rattled the air. I decided not to take it as an ominous sign. I tossed the phone on the seat next to me and pointed my truck toward LuLu's.

  The parking lot was about half-full when I swung my Toyota into a space near the back of the building. The rain had intensified on the ride. I switched the truck off and sat for a moment, listening to the drops thrumming on the roof.

  LuLu's is located near Columbian Square in Weymouth, right around the corner from South Shore Hospital. It's a traditional sports saloon, with all the trappings. Two pools tables, which receive constant use, are off in a little room out back. There are four dart lanes along one wall, with league shooters shouting and cheering and blocking the way to the bathroom two nights a week.