Damaged Goods: A Jack McMorrow Mystery Page 4

  A couple arrived with a teenage boy, the father rigid, the mother patting the kid on the back. Galway cops came and went, then two Waldo County deputies pulled in, followed by a state trooper, a young woman. She adjusted her broad-brimmed hat and went into the courthouse just as Roxanne’s Subaru pulled up.

  She was with a guy in khakis and a blazer. They got out, retrieved their briefcases from the back seat, and started up the walk. As they neared the door, an old Chevy pickup came down the block from downtown. It was dark green, patched on the doors. The exhaust was loud and the motor throbbed as the truck rolled up to the curb.

  It was the truck I’d heard on our road.

  A woman got out of the passenger side, took a canvas tote off the seat and slammed the door shut. She was wearing glasses, baggy jeans, and sneakers, a shapeless print shirt. Her hair was long and straight, nondescript brown, and tied back in a ponytail.

  She crossed in front of the truck and walked toward the entrance. The truck pulled away, started down the block. I eased down in the seat as it passed, got a good look at Mr. Satan himself.

  He was forty, maybe younger, but thin and hawk-nosed, a face out of the Depression-era Dust Bowl. At a glance, I saw a green work shirt, a tattoo on his left arm. He was wearing sunglasses. He was smiling, a self-satisfied grin, as if everything was going according to plan.

  The truck rumbled away, and a minute later it rumbled back. He parked across and up the street from me, in front of a turreted old Victorian house, now apartments. He shut off the truck’s motor and sat.

  He didn’t appear to notice me, didn’t look in my direction. His gaze was fixed on the courthouse doors. I watched him—and the courthouse. The radio played Beethoven, a violin concerto; the three smoking women came out, lit up in unison, raised their heads, and blew out a big puff. It hovered over them as they walked down the block, got in an old Ford Taurus, and left. Then it was Vivaldi and the couple with the kid. The mother was crying, wiping her eyes, and the kid was hanging his head. The father walked ten feet ahead like they were suddenly not related.

  Mister Satan watched the door.

  For a while nobody came or went. Gulls flew over, headed for the bay. Vivaldi gave way to Strauss, a sappy waltz. I shut off the radio. Then the courthouse doors swung open. Roxanne came out, followed by her colleague in the blazer, two deputies and the woman trooper, another older guy who looked like a lawyer. They all walked to the street, paused, and talked.

  Where was Mrs. Satan? Still inside?

  The lawyer was talking to Roxanne; she was shaking her head, disagreeing. Her face was hard, a look I’d seen before. No deal, no way.

  The cops said something, then started for their cruisers. The lawyer started walking up the street toward downtown. Roxanne and the blazer guy got in her Subaru as the cruisers pulled away.

  Mister Satan started his truck. I started mine.

  Roxanne pulled out, started north, headed for the road that would lead to Route 1 and south to Rockland. The Chevy approached the courthouse as Mrs. Satan came out of the front door, but her husband didn’t slow, didn’t even seem to look at her. He passed the courthouse, following Roxanne. As I fell in behind them, Mrs. Satan started walking up the block.

  Roxanne turned, headed up the hill and out of town. She was driving fast, as she did when she was upset, agitated. The old truck accelerated, puffing blue smoke. I cruised along a hundred yards behind the Chevy, saw Roxanne signal to make the left onto Route 1.

  The truck’s blinker went on. We all turned, merging into the summer traffic, moving slowly southward in a tourist procession.

  A mile from town, Roxanne swung out and passed. The truck pulled up close behind a slow-moving Mercedes with New Jersey plates. I closed in as he pulled alongside the Mercedes, smoke trailing behind the pickup as he passed and pulled back in. We crossed a bridge and the Mercedes braked, turned off to the left. Cars pulled into the procession from side roads, restaurants, and I was five cars back now, watching Roxanne and Mr. Satan pull away from me.

  A tractor-trailer with a yacht on a flatbed pulled out ahead of my group of cars, followed by a wide-load warning car with flashing yellow lights.

  I grabbed my phone from the seat, dialed Roxanne. I got her voice mail.

  “Your Satan guy. He’s following you in a green Chevy pickup,” I said. “I’m a few cars back. If he gets close, call the police.”

  I put the phone down. Slapped the wheel. The boat hauler slowed on an up-grade, then pulled to the side. I pulled out, punched the accelerator, and passed.

  One car. Two. Three and four, and then the truck began to edge back into the travel lane. There was a car coming in the other direction and I floored the truck, hit the horn. The wide-load car swerved right and the driver flipped me off as I passed. The truck and boat kept moving to the left, and I hit the lights as the car sped toward me.

  It swerved right. I passed it in a blare of horns from all sides, kept the gas down, hit eighty just past Northport. Slowing for ferry traffic in Lincolnville, I called Roxanne again, got voice mail. Probably reporting back to Rockland about the hearing. I passed an old couple in a Volvo wagon, saw the man shake his fist as I pulled back in.

  I picked up the phone again, started to punch in 911.

  And I saw the Chevy, a glimpse, a mile ahead.

  We were north of Camden, traffic slowing for hikers turning into Mount Battie. I was two cars back as we eased down the hill into Camden. Mr. Satan was separated from Roxanne by a box truck hauling lobsters. We rolled past the big captains’ houses, into the downtown traffic, cars slowing for shoppers on Main Street, braking at the sight of gift shops.

  The Chevy swung around a BMW, pressed up close behind Roxanne. A gaggle of shoppers crossed in front of me, taking their time. I eased through them like they were sheep in a road in Ireland, a woman saying, “What is your problem?” and then the BMW turned right.

  I sped up, closed on the Chevy, now just six feet from Roxanne’s bumper. I could see Mr. Satan reaching for something on the truck seat, turning away from the road, then back. A big knot of shoppers, all khaki shorts and polo shirts, stepped into the crosswalk in front of the truck and he slammed on the brakes. As he waited, I pulled over, parked in front of a hydrant. Got out and trotted up to the Chevy.

  I yanked the passenger door open. He looked up wide-eyed as I grabbed the sawed-off baseball bat from the seat, slid in, and sat.

  I slammed the door shut. Held the club across my lap.

  “Okay, Beelzebub,” I said. “We’re gonna have a talk.”

  Chapter 6

  “Take the next right and pull in someplace,” I said.

  He looked at me and smiled, that same smug grin. His eyes were a pale gray that looked almost white against his dark, weathered skin. The crosswalk cleared and he eased up to the intersection, took a right on the red light, pulled in behind the shops in a space that said “Employees Only.” He put the truck in park and reached up and shut off the engine.

  “You’re following the people from the state,” I said.

  “I’m looking for my children,” he said.

  “What’s this for?” I said, waving the club at him.

  “We have a dog. He’s turned mean. Sometimes he won’t let us get to the truck. I need to hold him off.”

  “Bullshit,” I said.

  He smiled again. Shrugged. His hands were still on the wheel and I could see his arm muscles flexing. Long, sinewy arms. Hands tanned, with pale scars. On the left wrist was a tattoo of a snake. There was something on the right hand, but I couldn’t make it out.

  “Back off,” I said.

  “I have a right to my own children,” he said.

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  “The judge is a Judeo-Christian puppet. He’s a pawn of the Christian dictators.”

  “Should have thought of that sooner.”

  “I also have a right to practice my religion. And there’s only one road south from Galway. I have a right to drive
down the road.”

  “Tell that to the judge, too.”

  Another slow shake of his head.

  “It’s all so predictable,” he said. “The Jews invented Christianity to keep the masses in check, keep them down. Now they’re all threatened when the true religion surfaces. It scares all of you to the bone. You Jews. Papists. Perpetrators of the Nazarean hoax.”

  “Your religion is your business,” I said. “Show up in court, have your say. Just stay away from her.”

  “You work for the Jewess,” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “She must be afraid,” he said. “That’s what happens when you build your life on lies. Nothing frightens a liar more than the truth. And Father Satan is the whole truth. The only truth. In ancient Egypt, he was an ancient religion. But he’s been slandered by the Jews and the Christians for centuries. Muslims, too. Nothing but lies. But his true nature has been revealed to some of us.”

  “Goody for you.”

  “You’re one of her minions.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I am, just so you get the message. Stay the hell away.”

  “Hell. Ha,” he grinned. “Hell is a Jew-Christian invention. There’s no such thing. No fire. No devils with horns and pitchforks. All a fabrication. Bullshit. Invented to keep the people ignorant and afraid. It’s true. I’ve done research.”

  “A little Internet is a dangerous thing,” I said.

  “Did you know Father Satan has minions, too? They’re called demons, but true believers can communicate with Satan directly. There is no Christian hierarchy for Satanists. No kissing the Pope’s filthy feet. Sending money to some whoremonger television minister. Praise the lord and screw the harlots.”

  He smiled, pleased with that line.

  “Whatever. But if you come near Ms. Masterson, if I think you’re going to try to hurt her, I’ll stop you.”

  He turned toward me for the first time since the moment I’d climbed into the truck.

  “I won’t let my kids be turned into Christian slaves,” he said.

  “So feed them,” I said.

  “First thing a Judeo-Christian ruler does when confronted by a society that won’t buckle under. Steal their children and enslave them. The French and English did it to the native peoples here. Spanish in Mexico. European conquerors did it to most of Africa. It continues today. Aboriginal children in Australia. Stolen away, brainwashed with the whole preposterous Christian hoax.” His eyes were shining.

  “Do what you want,” I said. “Run around the woods in a goddamn robe. Sacrifice a goat, pal, I don’t care. But don’t ever come near my house again.”

  His smile melted away. His eyes still shone. “Terrible things befall those who mock Satan,” he said. “It’s true. I’ve seen it happen. Diseases. Accidents.”

  “Terrible things happen to anybody who threatens my family,” I said. “I’ve seen that happen, too.”

  His smile reappeared, like I was amusing. His eyes narrowed as though he were examining me. A woman walked by and frowned at us, parked in somebody’s space.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” he said.

  “Jack,” I said. “What’s yours?”

  “Harland,” he said.

  “Okay, Harland. Last warning. You come near her, you’d better hope you’re right about Hell.”

  I reached for the door handle, pulled it, and the door creaked open. I got out of the truck, still holding the club. He reached for the key in the ignition.

  I looked back at him and the motor started.

  “I’m not alone, Jack,” he said, over the rumbling. “You’d be surprised to find out how many of us have come to know Satan. You don’t hear about us because we don’t proselytize, sell a package of lies to the ignorant masses.”

  “Good for you.”

  He looked at me as I swung the truck door shut. No smile, just a hard, unblinking stare like a mask had fallen away. “But we’re right here, all around,” he said. “Right in your own backyard.”

  Chapter 7

  I was back in my truck, still parked on Main Street. While I was talking to Harland, Roxanne had called back. Six times.

  I rang her number, waited with the billy club on the seat, the tourists tromping by, boat shoes and whale belts.

  “Jack,” Roxanne said. “What happened? I was on the phone, but I didn’t see any truck.”

  “He stopped in Camden.”

  “Harland Wilton?”

  “Yeah. We talked.”

  “You talked to him? Jack, you can’t—”

  “He was stuck in traffic. It seemed like a good opportunity. Where are you?”

  “The office. Jack, what did you say to him? Oh, God, I could get—”

  “I don’t think he’ll complain. I took his billy club away.”

  “Jack—”

  “He says you kidnapped his kids to make them Christian slaves.”

  “Right, but what were you doing in Galway? How do you even know who he—”

  “I went over to see if I could find Mandi.”

  Silence, the first of the conversation.

  “Just to follow up. Then I swung by the court, see if I could get a look at them. He dropped his wife off, then parked and waited outside for you. When you left, he trailed you out of town, all the way to Camden.”

  There was a long pause. “You there?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “So how was court?”

  “She read this thing in court that said we were persecuting her because she’s a Satanist. Said the judge was a puppet of the Jews and the Pope.”

  “Interesting legal strategy. Bit of a gamble.”

  “Worship however you want,” Roxanne said. “Just don’t have your kids rooting for food in garbage cans. Don’t whip them with belts.”

  “Guy have a job?”

  “Flag person for a construction company.”

  “Huh. What’s he do? Get Satan on his walkie-talkie? He says he can talk directly to him, you know.”

  “They’re totally whacko,” Roxanne said. “Both of them.”

  “Yeah, but I have to admit parts of it are kind of interesting, in a paranoid sort of way. Egyptians, Satan getting slandered by Christians.”

  “How long did you talk to him, Jack?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “Did you—”

  “Threaten him? I said if he came near you, I’d stop him.”

  There was a voice in the background, somebody in the office in Rockland.

  “This puts me in a very difficult position, Jack,” Roxanne said, her voice hushed. “I mean you can’t just—”

  “I did,” I said. “And I will. This guy isn’t just your average angry parent.”

  “I know.”

  Another pause.

  “Where’s Sophie?” Roxanne said.

  “With Clair and Mary.”

  “Did you—”

  “Tell them? Yes.”

  Roxanne let out a long, audible breath.

  “I’m stopping in Galway on the way home,” I said. “A few more questions for Mandi and then I can write that story, move on to the next one. You can think about staying home.”

  There were more voices in the background, a man and a woman.

  “Not today, Jack,” Roxanne said.

  “Then soon,” I said.

  “I gotta go,” she said, and I started to tell her I loved her but she’d hung up. I put the phone down on the seat by the club and started the truck, turning at the light. Harland was gone.

  I’d danced around the question with Mandi—or maybe she had danced around it with me—but Myra at the Times would zero in on it in a minute: “What does she actually do with these men? Yeah, I get all this companionship stuff, but are they paying her for sex or what?”

  I assumed, but as newspaper editors said, when you assume you make an ass out of you and me.

  A half-hour back to Galway, traffic slow and steady, cars pulling in and out as tourists stopped to spend mo
ney. I drove, one hand on the wheel, my mind jumping from Mandi to Harland and back. Escorts and Satanists. They’d love me at the Maine Chamber of Commerce.

  I turned off Route 1 and drove into town, calling Mandi as I sat at the light on Route 3. The phone went right to voice mail—no message, just a beep. I told Mandi I had a couple more questions, and I was in Galway. Did she want to have coffee?

  She didn’t call right back, and I drove down the hill into downtown, quieter now, late on a Monday morning. A few people were coming and going and I drove slowly all the way down to the harbor, where the boats were riding on their moorings, bows pointing south. I stopped and looked out, watched a lobster boat coming in from the bay, a cloud of gulls hovering over the stern like bugs. I started back up the street and parked in front of the pizza shop.

  I called. Got voice mail again.

  Got out of the truck and looked over at Mandi’s apartment.

  It was nearly noon and her shades were drawn. A late night? An early start to the day? I turned and walked up the block, crossed at the corner, and started back. As I approached Mandi’s door, I slowed.

  The door was open, more than just a crack. I paused at the doorway and peered into the gloom of the hallway. There was a beer can on the floor, Bud Light.

  I looked more closely.

  At the bottom of the stairs there was a wine bottle, empty, lying on its side.

  A big party the night before? The door left open by departing guests?

  I couldn’t picture it, but then I’d only seen the Mandi she’d wanted to show me.

  I hesitated, looked up and down the block. I pushed the door open and it creaked. As I stepped in, something brushed past my feet.

  The black cat, skipping up the dark stairwell like a ghost.

  I waited. Listened. Nothing.

  Why was the cat out? Should I let it back in?

  I stepped into the hallway, left the door open behind me. Listened again and started up the stairs. At the landing, I paused. Listened again. I heard the cat crying, but the meow was faint. From inside the apartment? The door still open?