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.
The sign for Schooner Lane was brand-new and marked PVT for private. The road had been plowed and sanded over the winter. I figured that Professor Westergaard employed one of the local caretaking companies that watched over the seasonal homes in Seal Cove. The snow had thawed and refrozen a few times since the plow last went through; the lane was as slick as a bobsled run.
There were no other homes on Schooner Lane, just a dense, bristling mass of spruces. At the bottom of a slight hill, the road curved and came to rest in the driveway of a large cottage. The remaining snowbanks along the edges of the drive showed that the caretaker had made a visit after the last big storm. No vehicles were visible, but a car might very well have been tucked away inside the three-bay garage.
As we rolled to a stop, a motion-sensor light sprang on, illuminating the impressive building from the fieldstone foundation to the fieldstone chimneys. The mansion was obviously new. The building frame and casements had recently been painted a deep kelly green, and the cedar shingles still retained a pinkish hue. The architect’s design might have been an attempt at a postmodern Maine cottage, but something about the place brought to mind the House of Usher.
“There’s a light on upstairs.” Charley pointed to the second story where the faintest hint of illumination brightened one window.
The rest of the house seemed utterly dark.
I reached into the backseat and found the Maglite. It was as long as my forearm and as heavy as a steel club.
When we slammed the truck doors, the sound echoed like gunshots in the night. I followed Charley up the frozen drive-someone had recently sanded it-to the front door. We paused a moment on the granite step and exchanged quizzical expressions. Then Charley pushed the bell, saying, “Let’s see who’s home.”
We could hear the muffled, electronic chime of the bell through the glass transom above the door.
In the quiet, I became aware of the crashing of waves in the dark beyond the house. The ocean was an unseen but uneasy presence that made me think of a dragon sleeping in a dark cave.
After a minute of silence, Charley tried again.
I dug my bare hands into my pockets. The air was sharp and cold and stung my cheeks.
