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  “The other boy in the picture isn’t a brother?”

  She nodded slowly, still gazing off. “He was. He and my father died at sea.”

  He was taken aback, and felt badly for leading her there. “I’m sorry.”

  She turned toward him again, her expression sad but open. “I am, too. I loved them both, in different ways. José was wild and funny and full of beans; my father was just the opposite. A rock. I see a lot of Dad in Coryn—both of them so steady. Losing them pretty much kicked my family in the head. Steve and my mom never recovered.”

  “Where are they now?” Joe asked softy.

  “Mom still lives in Gloucester,” she said briefly.

  He considered asking more but realized that either it wouldn’t matter or that he’d find out later on. He hoped for the latter, if only because it meant some future for the two of them.

  “Steve’s in jail,” she then added, almost as a challenge.

  “Ouch,” he reacted. “That’s tough. I see what you mean—did all that start after the boat went down?”

  She looked at him in silence for a couple of seconds, her mug cradled in her lap. “I guess that’s right,” she then said. “You’re used to these sob stories.”

  She hadn’t said it harshly, but he answered with care nevertheless, feeling his way. “They aren’t sob stories, but I wish they were more rare.”

  She nodded silently and took a meditative sip of her tea. “I’m sorry,” she murmured afterward.

  “For what?”

  “That all came out wrong. My dad and José died years ago, when I was still in my teens. It’s not like it’s fresh—or how Mom and Steve turned out. I don’t know why I threw it at you like that.”

  “No damage done. We’ve got to get to know each other somehow. It won’t always be just right.”

  “Is it right, though?” she asked. “So far? I don’t want to come across as someone I’m not—including how I just showed up out of the blue.”

  “It feels right to me,” he told her simply. “You said from the start where you stood.” He laughed before adding, “And that it was basically nowhere in particular. I can live with that. I’m not without my own complications.”

  Her hand suddenly flew to her forehead. “Jesus,” she said, “that’s right. How are they doing?”

  He smiled back at her, wishing that were the extent of it. “I didn’t actually mean that, but they’re fine, or at least Mom is, physically, and Leo is still stable.”

  “But she’s taking it hard,” Lyn suggested.

  “They’re very close,” he answered.

  She got that distant look back into her eyes. “So were Dad and José.”

  “It was a storm?” he asked after a moment of silence.

  “Yeah. I almost wish it was something more dramatic, like in that George Clooney movie. But it was just run-of-the-mill, a carbon copy of all the other storms that kill fishermen year after year.”

  “Did they ever find them?”

  “Not them, not the boat. Nothing.”

  He stared at the fire for a while, reflecting how much harder that must have made it for the survivors, never knowing for sure what had happened.

  “God, what a life,” he finally muttered.

  “How come neither you nor Leo ever got married?” she asked after a while.

  “I did,” he answered, his eyes still on the flames. “A long, long time ago. She died of cancer. We never had kids.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Ellen,” he said, letting the name drift around inside his head like a childhood prayer, never to be forgotten. “I didn’t feel like getting married again after that.”

  He finally shifted his gaze to her. “What about you and Coryn’s dad?”

  Lyn half smiled. “Nothing quite so romantic. We were no match made in heaven. Barely lasted three years. He stuck around for Coryn for a while after that; then he lost interest. Neither one of us has heard from him in years.”

  “You still have his photo.”

  She glanced across the room. “Yeah, well . . .” She left her thought unspoken.

  Joe drained his mug, placed it on the coffee table, and stood up. “Guess I better get going.”

  She stood also. “You down here because of those two dead men I saw in the paper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it bad?”

  He smiled slightly. “Right now it’s just confusing. Might get bad, though. We’ve only started digging.”

  She escorted him to the pocket doors and out into the cooler, darkened room beyond. “I open next Friday, if you’re going to be around.”

  He cast her a look and draped his hand on her shoulder, enjoying the warmth of her through her shirt. “I can rarely make promises with my schedule, but I’d love to be there. What time?”

  “I open at six, but things probably won’t warm up till nine or later.”

  “You expecting a crowd?”

  “God, I hope so. It would be a killer to have nobody show up on opening night. I’ve been spreading the word the best I know how, but in the end . . .”

  He retrieved his coat from where he’d dropped it onto a nearby box, and opened the door to the landing before turning to face her. Now he placed both his hands on her shoulders. “You are so good at what you do, Lyn. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  She took advantage of his gesture to step into his arms and give him a hug. “Thanks, Joe. I hope you can make it, but I’ll understand if you can’t.”

  He leaned back enough to look down at her. Under his open hands, he felt where her ribs came in to join her spine, just above her waist, and briefly imagined what it might be like to have only bare skin to explore.

  “I’ll try my best,” he murmured, and kissed her, feeling her lips softening under his, then parting to let him in for the first time. His hands moved up her back, taking inventory, discovering that she wasn’t wearing a brassiere.

  He enjoyed her body being pressed up against his, and hoped this would eventually lead to where, he now realized, he was finally ready to go.

  “This is nice,” he said softly as they broke apart.

  “For me, too,” she whispered. “Come back whenever you want.

  JMAN: U hav a bf?

  Mandi144: no. had 1. loser

  JMAN: Y?

  Mandi144: 2 yung

  JMAN: for wat?

  Mandi144: wat do u think?

  JMAN: u r hot

  Mandi144: I feel hot

  JMAN: wanna do something about it?

  Mandi144: duh

  JMAN: Where in Vermont?

  Mandi144: Brattleboro. U?

  JMAN: not far – Erving

  Mandi144: kool. U sur Im not 2 yung 4 u?

  JMAN: ur just rite

  Chapter 15

  Willy slouched down in his battered pickup truck and pulled his soiled wool cap farther down above his eyes. Across the parking lot, barely visible under the single light over the bar’s entrance, the famed E. T. Griffis, a bulky, big-bellied man in insulated overalls and unlaced snowmobile boots, slowly got out of a vehicle much like Willy’s and shuffled across the hard-packed snow toward the door, greeting an exiting patron with a joke and a laugh before vanishing inside.

  Willy bided his time, waiting for the second man to get into his car and leave, before entering the freezing night air himself and heading for the bar.

  It was about what he was expecting—crowded, noisy, none too clean, and filled with the kind of people he’d come to see as extended family. For decor, the walls were lined with hubcaps, and the windowsills with empty bottles. The thin carpeting crunched underfoot with debris. It was the type of bar Willy had called home for years before realizing, at the very last minute—and with Joe’s then much resented help—that he was facing an alcoholic’s version of suicide.

  He selected a spot at the end of the bar, near where E. T. had planted himself between two similar-looking men, who were still greeting him. They we
ren’t effusive in style, reminding Willy of a pair of walruses congenially making room for one of their own, but there was an element of respect, as well. True, E. T. was visibly older than his mates, but, outward appearances notwithstanding, he was being awarded a muted homage for his elevated social status.

  Willy wasn’t surprised. Before he’d headed up here—he was in the Thetford area’s primary workingman’s bar—not only had Joe briefed him on E. T.’s history and neighborhood standing, but Willy had spent a few days on his own, soaking up all he could of the man’s lore and legend. The resulting portrait had been familiar. In most communities, there was some equivalent of E. T. Griffis—a man who, through hard work, reputation, money, or a combination of all three, had established himself as an icon of some sort. Usually, this archetype was a man with working-class roots, an easy way with his peers, and enough money that when the occasional deserving local hit a rough patch, he or she might be eased through it by a loan or gift that never went advertised but was somehow made known. Willy, born and bred in New York City, where he’d also briefly been a beat cop, had first met these pseudo paternal types as neighborhood gang leaders or mob subcaptains, feeding as much off the social glow as off the fear that had struck its match. There had also been a few that might have been termed non-“connected,” truly benevolent dons, but they had been harder to find, mostly because of the circles in which Willy had traveled.

  Here, in Vermont, this latter, benign phenomenon prevailed, although Willy was still, all these years later, trying to suppress a natural suspicion that the likes of E. T. Griffis were treated as they were because of some hold they had over their cohorts and admirers.

  Willy had acquired his cynicism the hard way.

  The bartender, a thin, tall man with glasses and a blank expression, placed an unordered glass of what looked like scotch before E. T. and, then, paused in front of Willy.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Ginger ale.”

  The barkeep turned away without comment, but Willy caught the glances from those within earshot, including E. T. A stranger didn’t come into a bar and order a soft drink unless he was a teetotaler, which wouldn’t make much sense, or a cop.

  The bartender returned thirty seconds later with a glass, which he placed on a coaster. “Two bucks.”

  Willy took a few crumpled bills out of his stained barn coat pocket, separated the money from some old receipts, two rubber bands, and an assortment of small bolts and washers, and paid the man.

  Willy waited until the barkeep had turned his back, and then reached into another, inner pocket, extracted a small bottle of amber fluid—actually tea—and poured a generous dollop into the drink. The flask bottle vanished as quickly as it had appeared, but not before the same onlookers had seen the quick and practiced gesture. Comforted by both the supposed alcohol’s surreptitious appearance and its owner’s seeming need to watch his expenses, the others at the bar allowed their suspicions to be lulled.

  He left his subtle communication at that, pretending to focus on his drink and the numbing comfort it promised, while in fact eavesdropping on the conversation around E. T.

  This wasn’t terribly difficult. Both its volume and its content made for easy listening. In essence, it was the same “guy talk” that Willy had listened to and participated in his entire drinking life, dealing with, in no particular order, engines, guns, dogs, women, a touch of politics, and how to use the word “fuck” as many times, and in as many ways, as possible. It was all as soothing, complex, and subtle as it was outwardly moronic, simple-minded, and gross—a distinctly male medley that was routinely dismissed by most women and academics.

  And which made Willy, in a moment’s distraction, think of Sammie Martens. As his companion of several years by now, she would not have fit into those judgmental categories—a character trait he valued greatly, not that he’d ever admit it. She was as highly tempered, competitive, and driven as he, and as good at holding her ground. This secondhand conversation would have been a natural for her to consider, had she been here, and one she could have joined at any point.

  Not that she was hard or vulgar. In fact, it was her contradictory femininity that most attracted him. It remained his particular secret—as was his inability to tell her—that he found her attractive, endearing, funny, smart, and a terrific cop to boot.

  None of which had anything to do with where he was at the moment, except that by the time an outburst of laughter snapped him out of his reverie, he realized that he was on his third bogus drink and had been here for over an hour.

  He gazed across at his reason for being here, having subconsciously tracked the entire conversation. He’d noticed that Griffis had participated halfheartedly only, as if his appearance had been stimulated less by pleasure and more by social obligation—a byproduct of being a local celebrity. Griffis was listening to one last story with a fixed smile on his face, while slowly pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his green work pants. Willy took this as his cue to simply leave some change as a tip and head out the door for the parking lot, the next step of his plan in motion.

  Walking seemingly without care, Willy checked the empty lot for any movement, crossed over to E. T.’s parked truck, quickly bent over and stabbed its front tire with a small knife, and then veered left toward his own vehicle, all in one fluid arc.

  There, he started the engine with his headlights off and waited, hoping that his reading of the social mores inside was correct, and that Griffis would be allowed to leave alone by his harder-drinking buddies.

  All self-confidence aside, Willy was nevertheless relieved when Griffis did emerge on his own and worked his way slowly—even sadly, Willy thought—to his truck.

  He pulled himself up behind the steering wheel, oblivious to the leaking tire, turned on the ignition, and lumbered out of the parking lot with Willy in slow and distant pursuit.

  Less than two miles up the road, E. T.’s truck eased over to the side, its brake lights signaling Willy’s efficiency.

  Willy slowly drew abreast, idling in the middle of the deserted road.

  “Great night for that,” he observed, looking at the tire.

  “No shit,” Griffis said, already out of his truck and taking in the damage. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Never does. You got a spare?”

  Griffis sighed. “Of course not.”

  “Too cold to change it tonight, anyhow,” Willy commented. “Be easier to deal with it in the morning. Wanna lift?”

  E. T. straightened slightly and eyed him more carefully, distracted from his tire, taking in this strange person’s gaunt, unshaven face, hollow eyes, and that odd, dangling arm he’d noticed earlier inside. “You were in the bar.”

  “Yeah. Butch Watters,” Willy said, adding, “You’re E. T. Griffis.”

  Griffis straightened slightly. “I know you?”

  Willy began applying his homework. “Nah. I drove a rig for Bud Wheeler a while back, in Bradford, right before you put him out of business by buying that gravel pit he used. Best thing that ever happened.”

  “You didn’t get along with Bud?”

  Willy laughed. “Nobody got along with Bud. I did worse than most.”

  “What’re you doin’ down here?”

  Willy pulled out his local trump card. “I’m staying with the Mackies on Five Corners Road. Don and I . . .” he paused tellingly before adding, “were in the service together. I’m sort of between things right now.”

  He made sure to keep his voice flat, unemotional, matching his appearance, as if uninterested in what he was saying. In fact, he was all but holding his breath, hoping the cover Gunther had set up for him with the Mackies would provide the nudge he needed.

  It helped, at least, implying that maybe Don and Sue Mackie were the neighborhood stalwarts—and old friends—that Joe had made them out to be. Either that, or E. T. had read between the lines of Willy’s inference of a war wound.

  In any case, the older man seemed to soften
his natural suspicion. “I oughta just call one of my guys out to take care of this.”

  But Willy could tell the fish was almost inside the boat. He let his pickup slip forward a foot. “Suit yourself. It’s your butt to freeze off.” He then asked a question his research had already answered. “You got a cell phone?”

  E. T. shook his head stubbornly. “Nah. Stupid things. Probably wouldn’t work anyhow.”

  “I can take you back to the bar,” Willy offered. “Seems kinda dumb, if you’re already half home.”

  That clearly did it. The older man finally nodded.

  “Right,” he said. “I guess I could do with a ride. Get my kid on this tomorrow.”

  Willy nodded without comment, feeding into the traditional New England version of a conversation, where the less you say, the less you have to explain later, not to mention that it’s nobody’s business anyway.

  “Where to?” Willy asked, as Griffis climbed on board.

  “Right. Up to the top, then left. I’ll show you from there.”

  After he approvingly watched Willy negotiate the steering wheel one-handed, E. T. stared out the front of the old truck’s smeared windshield.

  “Sue still have that cold?”

  “Pneumonia,” Willy said shortly to pass the obvious test. He doubted Griffis cared one way or the other about Sue Mackie’s health. “Antibiotics. Guess they’re working.”

  “Not from around here.”

  No shit, Willy felt like saying. “New York.”

  That brought a brief stare. “City?”

  “Yeah. Been bumming around a lot lately, though—like working with Wheeler.”

  The truck was grinding uphill, lumbering to overtake the feeble reach of its own headlights.

  “New York’s a long ways.”

  Christ, Willy thought. This was going to take a while.

  “Figured this would be a better place to die,” he said, risking a little melodrama in the hopes of speeding things up.