Trespasser (7 page)

Sarah leaned her elbows on her knees. “Where will you go if you leave Flagstaff?”

“A fellow I know has offered us some good land over toward Machias,” said Charley. “I was posted in eastern Maine when I was a young warden and have always liked the people. Once you get past Bar Harbor, the Down East coast is more like the whole state used to be back at the dawn of time.”

“You told me not to live in the past,” I said. “You said I’d miss out on the present if I did.”

Charley flexed the arm my father had shot as if it were giving him trouble. “I guess you could say that recent events have spoiled me on the present tense.”

“Let’s talk about happier subjects,” suggested Ora.

But her husband’s expression remained grim.

8

We’d just about finished dinner—Ora’s Indian pudding was as delicious as advertised—and Sarah was talking about the kids in her fourth-grade class. Two glasses of Pinot Grigio had made her a little tipsy, and now her complexion was glowing. “You never know what they’re going to say,” she was telling us. “And you don’t know if anything
you
say will have repercussions in their life.
Everything
is formative with them. And yet they can be so resilient, too.”

“Those children are lucky to have you for a teacher,” said Charley.

“There are days when I feel more like a social worker. I had to go buy a winter coat for one little girl who came in during a blizzard wearing just a sweater—and then her mother sent it back! She said she didn’t want charity.”

“That sounds like my mom,” I said. “When I was a kid, she never wanted to admit how poor we were.”

A phone rang in the next room. I’d left my cell in its holder, still attached to my gun belt. The sound carried from the bedroom closet: a worrying, faraway cry of alarm.

I set down my beer bottle.

Sarah put both hands on the table. “You’re not on duty tonight, Mike.”

The phone rang again. Everyone was staring at me, waiting for me to react.

“Please, let it go,” Sarah said.

I was positive the call concerned Ashley Kim. Was she phoning me back finally? Or had Hutchins managed to track her down? Maybe it was MaryBeth Fickett, calling from the town office. I found myself turning to Charley for backup. “I’m expecting a call about a deer/car collision I’m investigating,” I explained.

The phone rang for the third time.

“I don’t see any harm in him taking it,” the old pilot said to his wife.

I nearly kicked over my chair, I rose so quickly. “Excuse me for just a minute.”

“Please, Mike,” Sarah said, her voice rising.

But I was already gone.

*   *   *

The caller was MaryBeth Fickett. In the darkened bedroom, I glanced at the luminous green numbers on the alarm clock.

“I hope you’re not still working at this hour,” I said.

“If I am, it’s your own fault.” The Seal Cove town clerk was a very large woman who had the helium-pitched voice of a little girl. “Did you honestly expect to leave that message and not pique my curiosity? The answer to your question is, I don’t have a record for anyone named Kim owning property on the point. But you said this woman lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, there’s a Hans Westergaard from Cambridge who has a summer place out on the point. It’s that big new house at the end of Schooner Lane. I know because Bill was the stonemason on the project. He says Mr. Westergaard is a professor at the Harvard Business School.”

“It can’t be a coincidence.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” said MaryBeth. “I have his home phone number in Massachusetts. His wife gave it to Bill because she kept changing her mind about the design of the fieldstone chimney. Mrs. Westergaard is a … perfectionist.”

“I thought you were going to use another word.”

She tittered in that girlish voice of hers. “I was.”

The overhead light snapped on. Sarah stepped through the doorway of the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

“What did you say his telephone number was again?” I reached for the notepad beside the bed and scribbled the number down on a piece of paper.

“You’d better let me know what you find out!” said MaryBeth.

“I will,” I promised.

Sarah waited until I’d hung up before she spoke. Then it all came out in a torrent. “I can’t believe you just got up from the table like that. I don’t mind you working. I’ve come to terms with your job. But when you’re off duty, I expect you to make an effort at being emotionally present.”

“The call was about that missing woman from last night. I think I know where she is.”

“But you already said it was a state police matter. You swore you’d stop this cowboy shit if I moved back here, remember?”

“I remember.”

What else could I do except follow her? But first I tore off the note with the Westergaards’ phone number on it.

*   *   *

Charley and Ora were waiting silently at the table. From the set of her chin and his own cowed expression, I wondered whether my friend had just gotten a scolding, too.

“Sorry about the interruption,” I said.

“I hope it wasn’t an emergency,” Ora said.

Sarah neatened her napkin, spreading it flat across her knees again. “No, it wasn’t anything important.”

The room was roasting. On my way to the table, I made a detour at the woodstove. “Does anyone mind if I turn down the heat?”

“Not at all!” said Charley.

I was dying to call Professor Westergaard and ask him about Ashley Kim; I just needed to concoct an excuse to leave the room again.

Ora put her hands on the place mat and began twiddling her thumbs. “So, Sarah was telling us she was approached about a fellowship down in Washington, D.C.”

Before she moved back in with me, Sarah had applied for a yearlong position with the national office of the Head Start program. To her surprise, she was offered the job, which she rejected. I hadn’t asked her to turn down the fellowship, but I hadn’t encouraged her to accept it, either. When she informed me of her decision to stay in Maine, I was secretly overjoyed.

“Is it something you’re going to pursue?” Charley asked Sarah.

“No, not right now.”

Ora touched Sarah’s sleeve. “Why not, dear?”

“I couldn’t possibly move to Washington,” replied Sarah. “It would be a fantastic opportunity, but after what happened, I just can’t—” She wouldn’t look at me, but I could see that her eyes were watery. “Well, you know. After what happened, I just can’t leave Mike here alone.”

I went to take a sip from my beer bottle but found it empty. “I’m going to get another beer. Would anyone like anything?”

Charley rose stiffly to his feet. “Let me help you with some of these dishes.”

He followed me into the kitchen with a stack of bowls and plates.

“So what’s the scoop with that phone call?” he whispered.

“It’s a long story.”

He wagged his thumb at the door leading out to the back porch. “Well then, let’s step outside. It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit in here.”

The temperature had plunged after darkness fell, and there was a crispness in the air that harkened back to the depths of winter. Overhead, the constellations were as clear as illustrations in a textbook. It took no imagination at all to connect the dots and see Orion, the hunter, with his lethal club and broad belt.

As concisely as I could, I told him about Ashley Kim’s disappearance and my tense encounter with the Driskos. He listened carefully, rubbing his lantern chin the whole time, the very model of thoughtful attention. “So you suspect the young woman was headed out to this fellow Westergaard’s house?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“And these Drisko fellers showed up to snatch the deer?”

“I don’t know if they arrived before or after she left—but yes.”

“Do you have Westergaard’s phone number?”

“I have his number in Massachusetts.” I reached into my pocket for the note I’d scribbled in the bedroom. I heard the door creak open behind me and felt warmth from the kitchen rushing out into the night like a hot breath upon my neck.

“What mischief are you men up to out here?” asked Ora. She had to lean forward in her wheelchair to hold the door ajar.

“Just getting some fresh air,” her husband said.

“Could you come inside for a moment, Mike?”

“Sure, Ora.”

“Don’t stay out too long,” she told her husband.

Charley snatched the note from my hand and gave me a wink. “You’d think I spent my life as an accountant and not a game warden.”

In the bright light of the kitchen, I towered over Ora. I’m not sure how she stayed active, paralyzed as she was, but she radiated the vitality of a woman who swam a mile each morning. The house was strangely quiet.

“Where’s Sarah?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s in the powder room. I think she needed a moment to herself.” She paused deliberately. “Is she feeling … all right?”

“She’s had some stomach issues.”

Whatever Ora was fishing for, she hadn’t hooked it. “I wanted to ask you about your mother.”

“My mom?” The request took me by surprise. During the hunt for my father, it seemed the whole world believed he was guilty—everyone except his son and ex-wife. I’d realized that my mom still loved my dad in a twisted way that defied understanding. “I haven’t seen much of her,” I explained. “We didn’t have a service for my father. The state took care of the body—cremated it. They asked me if I wanted the ashes, but I said no.”

“What about your mother?”

“I don’t know if she took the ashes.”

Ora frowned with consternation, as if I was failing to understand an obvious question. “I mean, do you know how she’s doing? Your father’s death must have been very difficult for her.”

The concern in Ora Stevens’s wide-set eyes made me feel embarrassed that I’d been so slow to catch her meaning. “She was still emotional when I saw her in Scarborough over the holidays,” I explained. “In her heart, she sees my dad as a tragic figure and blames Brenda Dean for turning him into a monster. We haven’t really spoken about what happened, to tell you the truth.”

“You should,” Ora said with sudden vehemence. “Grieving comes to people in a variety of ways. I’ve seen it in my own family. And, of course, Charley and I have watched friends pass as we’ve gotten older.” She reached out for my hand. “Have you spoken to anyone yourself? You must know Deborah Davies, the Warden Service chaplain. She was very helpful to Charley.”

“Charley?”

“After our accident, she came to see him.”

I found this revelation startling. “He never told me.”

“I think you’d find the reverend easy to talk to.”

I squatted down on the linoleum so that I was at eye level. She smelled of whiskey and rose water. “I appreciate your concern, Ora, but I’m OK.”

“Forgiveness can be hard,” she said in a tone that made me wonder if she was speaking of the plane accident that had paralyzed her or of something else. “It takes real effort.”

I shook my head with disdain. “I can’t ever forgive my father.”

“I’m not talking about your father, Mike. I’m talking about you.”

At that moment, the door blew open and the gust carried Charley into the room. I spotted a cell phone in his hand. “Mike and I need to go out for a bit.”

“What’s happening?”

“I’ll explain when we get back.”

“Of course, Charley. Whatever you need to do.”

Sarah appeared in the kitchen door, looking flushed, anxious, and confused.

“Mike and I need to take a ride, Sarah.”

“A ride? Where?”

“Parker Point,” said Charley. “I think something might have happened out there.”

9

We grabbed our coats and stepped out again into the frigid night. I’d fastened my badge and my holster to my belt—the Warden Service required that all wardens be armed whenever we drove our state trucks. The rules also prohibited us from reporting to duty while impaired by alcoholic beverage, but I felt perfectly sober. As I reached into my pocket for the keys, however, Charley clamped a hand around my wrist. “Are you all right to drive?”

The question irked me. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a few pops.”

“I’m fine, Charley.” But my telltale breath drifted in the cold air.

He looked hard at me but didn’t speak again until we were backing out of the driveway. “I couldn’t find a local number for Hans Westergaard, so I tried him at home in Massachusetts.”

His insatiable curiosity always amused me. “You just can’t help yourself from butting into these situations, can you?”

“My mother always said I had an inquisitive nature.”

“Was Westergaard home?”

“No, but his wife was.”

“Uh-oh.”

“She told me Ashley Kim was her husband’s research assistant.”

“That’s a new term for it.” The truck hit a frost heave, which brought the seat belt tight against my chest. “I’m guessing there’s more.”

“Mrs. Westergaard said he left yesterday for an international monetary policy conference at Bretton Woods in New Hampshire. She hasn’t heard from him since.”

“What makes you think this is anything more than a case of him screwing around?”

“There was a tone in her voice.”

“I bet there was!”

Charley raised his collar up around his throat and rubbed his gloved hands together. “It was something else. She seemed panicked. ‘Is Ashley missing, too?’ she asked. I thought that was an odd word for her to use,
missing
.”

“Should I call the dispatcher?”

“Let’s see what we find first,” he said. “Hopefully, we’ll discover those two lovebirds snuggled up in their nest, and that’ll be the end of the mystery.”

“If we do, I’m going to give her hell for leaving the scene of an accident. You can bet on that.”

“I have no doubt.” Charley laughed.

*   *   *

The drive from my house in Sennebec down the peninsula to Seal Cove usually took twenty minutes, but I kept my foot on the gas and we made it in fifteen. The headlights cut a narrow path through the dark, making me feel as if I were wearing blinders. We passed the accident site after we turned onto the Parker Point Road. I indicated the ill-omened stain in the road. Charley gave a solemn nod.