Page 100 of The Lie Maker

“Don’t even joke.”

“I love you.”

“Right back atya.”

My route was going to take me around to the north side of Gilford. I found Southbend Road, a paved two-lane stretch, outside the town proper. If my phone was right, the trailer park was about a mile ahead, on the right. The houses were well spaced out, and the numbers hard to find, especially now that it was dark.

The woods opened up, and illuminated under two bright streetlights was a sign that said trailwind acres. I hit the blinker, slowed down, and turned in.

The park consisted of one street about three hundred feet long with a broad, paved apron at the end for turning around. Lining both sides, front ends to the road, were about thirty mobile homes, all placed on an angle, with space between them for cars and covered patios. As best I could tell from the glare of the Beemer’s headlights, this was a well-kept neighborhood. Many of the units were adorned with small gardens and plenty of kitschy accoutrements, like garden gnomes and pinwheels.

I drove slowly, looking for unit 12. The even-numbered residences were on the left side. I had unit 11 to my right and looked across the grassy median that ran down the center of the road and spotted a “12” under the front bay window of a trailer clad in pinkish aluminum siding. I went down to the end of the road, made the turn, then came to a stop out front of the residence of one Frank Dutton.

I felt a hammering in my chest.

The lights were on inside the trailer, and there was a light over the front door, which was, of course, as with all mobile homes, on the side.

Lights on would suggest someone was home, and not on the run. And there was a car sitting in the slot between this trailer and the next one. A silver Chevy, and attached to the back, the license plate I had seen on the car my father had been driving. If my father had changed vehicles since our last encounter, he could have taken the plate to the new one.

I got out of the car, went to the front door, and knocked. I could hear muffled footsteps inside, and then the door opened.

It was a woman. Late sixties, early seventies, I figured. Short, plump, silver haired, and looking at me through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

And I thought: Shit.

If the man who lived here was my father, then who was this? A wife he’d never mentioned? A girlfriend? And if she was someone special to my father, how much did she know about him? Did she know what he’d done? Did she know he’d had a family that he walked away from? Did she know he had a grown son?

And was I going to have to be the one who brought her up to speed?

“Yes?” she said.

“Hi,” I said. “I was—is this Frank Dutton’s place?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you... Mrs.Dutton?”

“Yes, I am. Can I help you with something?”

“I was wondering, is Mr.Dutton in?”

“He sure is,” she said. “Who should I say is calling?”

“Uh, Jack.”

“Okay, Jack. Just a second.”

She left the door open an inch, took a couple of steps back into the trailer, and said, “Frank! Someone here to see you!”

The hammering in my chest persisted. I tried to calm myself. After all, there was no way this could be my father. I mean, this man was here. And I knew from Gwen that he wouldn’t be.

I heard steps coming, and then the door opened wide.

“Can I help you?” Frank Dutton asked.

I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that this man was not Dad, unless Dad had lost forty pounds, become round shouldered, and grown a mustache.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jack. Jack Givins.”

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