A Matter of Mercy Page 19

  Chapter 18

  Rid was so worked up he’d actually turned the wrong way on Route 6, forgetting that he’d been headed to the marine supply in Orleans. Now he found himself with his shorts in a twist and aimed toward P-town for no reason at all except that he’d wanted to head the truck away without having to pass CiCi and her car. Every single damn time he saw that woman he ended up with his heart pounding mad and his truck bed filled with guilt. He’d left her standing there, her mouth half-open like a bitten apple. Like she was talking but nothing was coming out. Just as well. It wouldn’t have been good, he knew that much.

  He dried his coffee-covered hand on the ratty towel he kept on the floorboard for Lizzie when she’d been swimming in the bay, finishing it off with a couple of swipes back and forth against his jeans which were way cleaner than the towel. Traffic was non-existent. He took a breath, then another, trying to calm down. He’d had the impulse to call Tomas, but squelched it. Sometimes he got tired of Tomas telling him what to do, for one. There were times Tomas acted as if he was the only one with a working brain.

  When Rid got to the Truro town line without having turned around, he decided to just go to the marine supply up in P-town. He was halfway there now anyway. What the hell had Caroline been talking about? Stalking her? Like he’d consider it. Jesus. Trying to drive her out? Rid shook his head in disgust. Obviously, the woman knew nothing about him. That was more lunatic Mario’s style.

  Oh Christ. Mario.

  His mind did a yoyo reel. Mario had threatened Pissario. Maybe Mario thought Caroline was an easier target. It would be just like him. Was it even possible that CiCi was telling the truth? But she’d pretty much admitted that she was in on the lawsuit, hadn’t she? All that stuff about how this was her home. She sounded like Pissario, talking about his stinking rights. A lot that asshole knew anyway. When had all this started? Rid tried to lay out a mental time line but the line wouldn’t go straight, wouldn’t even stay just one line, but forked and turned all wavy, doubled back and looped into knots. Like his stomach right now.

  He crossed over onto 6A where the roads ran close together near Beach Point. All the cottages lined like soldiers along the beach were deserted; you could fly down this road as fast as Route 6 if you felt like it now, but he’d wanted the change of scenery and thinking time, so he slowed a good deal from highway pace. He’d not had the thought consciously until the Provincetown sign was smack in front of him and then the road split, Bradford Street to the right and Commercial Street to the left. The marine supply was on Commercial Street but there he was, veering to the right.

  He leaned to flip open the glove compartment, pulled out the paper Moonface had given him. Terry DiPaulo 290 Bradford Street. Just check on things at this address, Moonface said. She needs anything, you help her.

  Tomas said, “Don’t go near the place. It’s a set-up.”

  He drove past the house deliberately, turned around in a driveway, passed it again, turned around again a quarter of a mile back the way he’d come from, and this time pulled over to park fifty feet east of the house and on the opposite side of the street.

  What was he supposed to see? It was a house. An old Cape house with cedar shakes. Fenced, a bit ramshackle, but not falling down. The yard should have been mowed again in late fall, but it was too late now. The shrubbery could use pruning. So what? So could his own. In the small yard, a child’s swing set had an unused look, as all children’s play equipment does in winter. This set seemed to be for a toddler; the seats were the kind that harness a small body like a parent’s arms. The house didn’t appear particularly lived in, but didn’t look abandoned either. Most of the windows were covered, but not so much as to make it look as if the world had been refused entirely. Curled on the passenger seat next to him, Lizzie stretched, shifted position and sighed as she resettled in her sleep. The tags on her collar jangled softly one against the other. Rid stroked her head without taking his eyes from the DiPaulo house. “Atta girl, good girl,” he murmured. “I have no idea what the hell is going on.”

  His lukewarm coffee tasted of earth and age. The truck windshield was dirty, big streaky fans left by the wipers, which annoyed him, and it annoyed him that he had let Moonface control him this much. It was easier to be annoyed than to be afraid.

  His thoughts shifted back the confrontation with Caroline. Now that he was mad at Moonface again, it was easier to study her in his mind’s eye and see she was truly frightened. What the hell was Mario thinking? They’d all agreed not to do anything illegal, especially with Lorenz working behind the scenes. His impulse was to go have it out with him, but he didn’t want to hear Mario run his mouth. It’s not like it was going to be the truth coming out if it didn’t serve Mario’s purpose at the moment, partners or not. He and Tomas had already proven that much the night Mario sank his truck.

  Pieces of an idea began to occur to him, shifting into different patterns as he turned them like a kaleidoscope and studied various ways the pieces could dovetail. But there were too many. He’d just have to leave the pieces in disarray. He started his truck and drove back to Wellfleet in the bleak of December without remembering to go to the marine supply in P-town and get the rope he needed. He hadn’t eaten yet that day, either.

  * * * *

  That afternoon he hung out at the Oyster bar, not that he didn’t have plenty to do at home with cages to repair, fourth quarter taxes in a mess, and the giant tangle of HAASAP paperwork for which he had no talent or patience. He needed to get more firewood cut, too. He hardly had enough for himself yet, let alone enough to sell. (And he’d promised his sister to bring a load “for Mom,” although surely his lily-livered brother-in-law could dirty his hands enough to take care of keeping his own house warm if it came down to it.) But he was here because Billy would have the police scanner on, for one, and for two, the local cops hung out there themselves when they were off duty and hiding out from their wives. This was going to take some time to finesse. He didn’t want anyone knowing what he was after.

  “Hey, Billy. Gimme a draft, will ya?” He’d hung his jacket up and settled at the bar. “And a Reuben, huh? With fries and a couple extra pickles.” Then, in a casual tone, he cast his first line. “Saw an accident up on 6A. Who was it?”

  Billy’s face registered surprise, then he narrowed his eyes. He was the one who took the town’s pulse. “Squad cars there? Nothing on the scanner....”

  “Maybe someone was trying to keep it off his insurance record. Only one of the cars looked messed up. But maybe you just missed it.”

  “Nah. It’s a graveyard in here.” Graveyahd, it came out. South Boston never wears off. The local accent wasn’t nearly as broad. “I’ve had the scanner on all morning,” he said, skeptical.

  “Huh. Dunno, then. Anything interesting for the flatfoots lately?”

  “Some peeping Tom calls, not last night, though. But you’ll love this one. That Pissario guy up on the bluffs reported vandalism.” Billy gave Rid a sidelong flirtatious look and flipped his wrist, the other hand on his waist in a caricature pose. “Honey, I know that’ll just break your heart, you being best friends and all. I’m sure you just have no idea who might want to do any damage up there now, right?”

  He’d gotten more than he bargained for. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit. Do they know who did it? I mean did they catch anyone?”

  “No arrest yet.” Again, that infuriating grin from Billy. And his dangling right earring shone and winked in the window light, which made it worse.

  “Hey, wipe it off, will ya? If you’re thinking I had something to do with that, think again.”

  Billy feigned innocent surprise. “Oh no. Certainly not you. Your name wasn’t mentioned on the scanner as someone to pick up for questioning. But you’d know the person who was.”

  That had to mean Mario. Goddammit, why couldn’t he just stick to their plan?

  “I’m pretty sure Mario was with Tomas last night anyway.” A lie, but he needed to get to what he really wan
ted to know. “Still, I suppose an alibi won’t count against Pissario’s money.”

  “Hey, our cops are locals. They’ll be looking for a way not to hang it on him. But they’ve got to make it look right.”

  “What’s the peeping Tom stuff about?”

  “Dunno. It’s a chick over on the horseshoe beach at Indian neck. She’s called in a bunch of times is all I know. They’ve never found anybody on her property when they get there. I think they’re getting sick of her. Maybe she’s cuckoo.” Billy twirled his forefinger around the side of his head along with a cross-eyed lolling tongue grin. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt today, with darts. It looked like a woman’s XXL.

  “They think Mario’s in on that, too?”

  “I dunno. Didn’t hear one way or the other. Ask your partner. Hey, I bet your sandwich is sitting under the heat lamp waiting on me to pick it up. You’d think Chuck could give a holler, wouldn’t you? Lemme check.” Billy disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  Rid took a deep breath and tried to quiet his mind enough to sort through what he’d learned, but there wasn’t enough time. The doors swung again, and Billy appeared with his food, setting it down hard and then sliding some silverware in Rid’s direction. “He actually bitched at me for letting it sit there after it was done, can you believe it? So what? He’s got two broken legs and couldn’t have brought it out here himself? Like the grand master chef has anything else on the grill. Thinks he’s special….” Billy kept muttering, wandering down the bar, wiping the wood as he went.

  Rid leaned way over to pick up a Provincetown Banner someone had left on a table behind him. He opened it and tried to look engrossed. He needn’t have. Billy had wandered over to the restaurant side where he was sharing his outrage with Jannie Stonegood, who served as both hostess and cashier during the off-season. Rid was free to try to put together something that resembled a plan.

  * * * *

  He’d frittered away the afternoon as if minutes were just so much sand blowing around, unable to concentrate on all that needed to be done while he waited for darkness. It was absolutely unlike him, and added another layer to the frustration he was working on, to say nothing of how it was filled with anxiety.

  This close to the winter solstice, moonrise was around four, and before five, the afternoon light gathered its skirt over to one side to reveal the blaze of sunset. Evening stars had taken over by five forty-five. Rid waited until six, then headed out to his truck with a full thermos of coffee, two shrink-wrapped sandwiches and a Hershey Bar he’d picked up at Cumberland Farms. “No, girl, you stay home,” he said first, as Lizzie automatically scurried to her feet and tried to get out the door ahead of him, but even as she reluctantly backed up, he said, “Oh, what the hell. You can come. You’ll just have to stay in the truck, but you’re used to that, aren’t ya?” The dog’s tail swung in furious pleasure, thumping against the door jamb as she scampered out. Right behind her, Rid suddenly thought of something else, went to the storage closet beneath the stairs and pulled out a small beach blanket and a backpack.

  “Okay girl. Let’s roll,” he said, catching up with Lizzie who was waiting for him at the passenger door. “I’ll drive, you take shotgun,” he said as she made her leap onto the seat the instant he opened the door.

  It was only a five-minute trip. He turned down King Philip Lane as if he were headed to his grant, but instead of making the right turn that would have taken him to the access road, he went straight, and where the little road turned off, at Blackfish Creek, to Hiawatha, which in turn would become the access road, he pulled over and parked. “Nap time, girl. I gotta work now.”

  Lizzie jumped through the cleft in the two front seats to the back. She knew these words and this drill. Rid poured some water into the bowl on the floor of the back seat from the two-liter bottle he kept there, and pulled a biscuit out of his pocket. “I’ll be back,” he said, caressing her ears. “You be a good girl.” Opening his glove compartment, he pulled out the small high- intensity flashlight there, and stuck it in his back pocket. He took a blanket, his thermos and the sandwiches—one tuna salad, one roast beef—stuffed them in the backpack, cracked the driver’s side window and locked the truck. Then he started to walk back up toward the access road, pulling the backpack into position as he went.

  Once headlights cut through the blackness ahead and he melted into someone’s yard, taking refuge behind a hedge. He crossed the access road, and then started to work his way into the woods, staying on property lines as best he could. There wasn’t a lot of underbrush; it was all tall pines, sandy yards, but still, oaks, especially, growing where there was more light. The closer he got to the water, the more beach plums and wild roses there were, and the harder it was to make his way.

  He kept a wide berth of CiCi’s yard. Down close to the horseshoe beach, a lot of people let much of their land go wild. If they bothered with grass, they only mowed the smallest spot around their house, maybe clearing areas for vegetables and flowers, a private area for sitting outside with garden furniture and a patio table with a bright umbrella, that sort of thing. Most of the older houses also had wraparound porches, often screened. But they’d let the larger parts of their yards go wild over the years as the crowds of summer people swelled and were ever more intrusive. There’s not much vegetation that’s less hospitable when you’re uninvited than the daunting impenetrability of beach plums and rose hips.

  “Shit,” Rid muttered. “Ow,” and then a moment later, “Goddammit. Whoever is trying to freak her out—if anyone is really trying to freak her out—she could, of course, be a goddamn liar trying to freak me out. Probably Pissario’s the baby’s father. But if someone is trying to freak her out, he wants her to know it, because he’s sure as hell going in from the road or right up off the beach path, not this ass-breaking way. With my luck, she’ll spot me, call the police and this will be the one time they’ll be on the ball. Then I’ll be the one accused of the whole fine mess, and any rusted-out prosecutor could make the case stick.”

  During his diatribe, it occurred to him that the idea that Pissario was the baby’s father, did not make him happy. But he pushed that thought away, rolling over it as if it was so much sand beneath his truck’s oversized tires.

  He had to retreat and detour several times, finally sneaking up CiCi’s neighbor’s path to the beach, keeping his body as close to the ground as possible. “I’d have been great in special forces. Too bad about those felony convictions,” he said, still talking to himself as he did out on the flats. He’d wanted to set up a watch point in the woods above CiCi’s house but now realized he wasn’t going to be able to get there from here. He’d way underestimated the amount of ground pine, for one. He was climbing on the bushy stuff and it was killing him. If he stuck to his plan, he would have had to approach from her road, which was a couple lanes closer to the water than King Philip, paralleling it, and less than a half-mile long before it dead ended. He didn’t want to go in from there; most of the yards were filled with tall pines, their needles silencing the ground, but there was nothing to give him any cover. And it would risk a ruckus of dogs. He ended up walking all the way down the rutted, axle-breaking Hiawatha Lane to where it became the sandy access road to the grants, listening intently for any oncoming vehicles so he could duck into the vegetation on the left where there were no houses, only a marshy inlet. Finally, he was at the Y, where he would normally turn to the left to reach his grant. He went to the right, to the horseshoe beach itself and cut back up toward CiCi’s house, which did not put him at a secure, let alone high, observation point.

  He reached the ragged hem of her property from the water side, brambled with ground and stunted pitch pine, and impossible to lay low on. There’d be nothing to see except the ankles and knees of the rose hips and beach plums if he tried to sit down here and keep watch. Closer to and sheltering the house was a stand of tall pitch pines, further obscuring the view. She had all kinds of outdoor security lights around the p
lace. The porch light was on, and there were lights on over the driveway and her mother’s studio, plus a yard light between the studio and the house.

  Still on his feet and well back in the darkness, Rid hunched down, completely frustrated. He’d have to come back and try to figure this out in the daylight by walking Lizzie down the horseshoe beach and scout the place in advance. Maybe he’d just have to risk coming in from above, carry a pocketful of dog treats to pacify any barkers he stirred up. The approach he’d tried tonight wasn’t going to work.

  Just like that, it happened while he was standing there making alternate plans. At first he didn’t see anything. He heard a crack, or a crash, and the sound of glass shattering. Rid jerked his head toward CiC’s house, a reflex. Nothing. But then, yes. A shadow, literally a shadow, running up her driveway. Ten seconds later a sedate motor—it sounded like a truck, though from this distance Rid couldn’t be sure—drove off at a speed suggesting nothing amiss here.

  Rid’s first instinct was to barrel toward Cici’s house, to see if she was all right. At the very least she must be terrified. She’d told him the truth. If she was in with the lawsuit, it didn’t make sense that Pissario or somebody with him would target her. Oh God. Mario. Rid stopped short as he circled back to a fear he’d had before. Could it be? Some perverse sense of loyalty to Rid, plus Mario’s own conclusion that Caroline was involved in the suit? Hell, until thirty seconds ago, he’d thought the same thing. They were paranoid about all the waterfront landowners.

  What was he going to do? Obviously, she’d called the police. How would he explain his presence in her yard? Oh yeah, Officer, I was here watching to see who is trying to harass or hurt her. No really, it’s not me. I was here with my sandwiches and my thermos and my nifty blanket to sit on for an entirely different reason. Yeah I saw the guy. No I can’t identify him. No, not his vehicle either. Might be one of my partners, though. I’ll talk to him for you and get it stopped if you want. How’s that for a deal? Yeah, the cops would sure eat that line up from an ex-con. Holy shit. I’ve got to get out of here. If they cruise the area, and see me, what am I going to say I’m doing here? Oh, God. What if they spot my truck? Lizzie’s in it big as life, not that they’d have to run my plates to know it’s mine. What if they ask CiCi about me? She already thinks it’s me. She accused me herself. Do not pass go, go directly to jail.