Page 86 of The Instruments of Darkness

I made contact with Moxie Castin on my way to my appointment with Colleen Clark’s therapist. Moxie was unhappy to learn of the incident at the Clark house, and even less happy to learn that Antoine Pinette had probably been responsible, which also implicated Bobby Ocean.

“That fucking Ocean family,” said Moxie. “The sooner the line dies out, the better.”

I’d been working on Moxie’s dime when I first came into conflict with the Oceans, so we both had reason to be wary of any further involvement with its patriarch. Then again, Bobby was the one inviting renewed acquaintance through the use of firebombs.

“I’ll have to beard him,” I said.

“Pinette or Bobby?”

“If Pinette’s the monkey, Bobby is grinding the organ. But two separate conversations may be in order.”

“If Antoine Pinette’s a monkey, it’s one with sharp teeth,” said Moxie. “No lawyer in town will touch him, and it takes a lot for a lawyer to turn down hard cash. I’m not sure your talking with him is going to do us a lot of good.”

I’d already begun asking around town about Pinette’s latest rackets: to be forewarned was to be forearmed, which was an apt saying in this instance. I was hearing that Pinette’s criminal interests now extended to illegal firearms, and not just discounted pistols from the trunk of a car. Pinette, it was said, might have a line on military-grade weaponry, for the right people and the right price.

“I wasn’t planning on confronting him alone,” I said.

Moxie absorbed this information. He knew what it meant. Bobby Ocean might have hated me for what happened to his boy, and despised Moxie for his part in it—as well as for his bloodline, which wasn’t pure enough for Bobby’s liking—but he reserved most of his fury for the man he considered to be the primary instigator, the one who ignited the conflagration that ultimately consumed his son: Louis.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be tempted to hold off,” said Moxie. “They may just be trying to stir up mischief.”

“This time,” I said. “But later, who knows? Bobby holds us all responsible for his boy’s death. He’s not about to let that slide, which means he’s always going to be looking for opportunities to come at us.”

I heard the sound of a soda can opening on the other end of the line: Moxie resorting, in a moment of stress, to his namesake drink of choice.

“Even if you meet with Bobby,” said Moxie, “he’ll deny all knowledge of the attack.”

“Let him. But if he has any sense, he’ll back down. He won’t want me nosing around in his affairs, and we don’t need him as a distraction. I feel like I’m being pulled in ten different directions as it is.”

“You know,” said Moxie, “you seem worryingly eager to renew acquaintance with Bobby.”

“It’s going to happen one way or the other,” I said. “And I don’t like waiting.”

CHAPTER LVII

Colleen Clark’s therapist, Blaise Veilleux, worked out of a neat cottage in Pownal, a small town north of Portland. Veilleux was a stern woman with features that didn’t settle naturally into an expression of empathy, and the blazing eyes of a zealot. She showed me into the room in which she conducted her sessions: a small, studiedly neutral space with two chairs, a couch, and a console table on which stood a box of tissues and a bottle of hand sanitizer shaped like a dove. She offered me a glass of water or herbal tea. I stuck with water. I didn’t want to ask for the wrong kind of tea for the time of day and come off like a rube.

If Lyra Shapleigh had demonstrated a marked reluctance to be called as a witness in the impending trial, Veilleux was the opposite. Even during the call to establish a time for our meeting, she told me she was marking likely trial dates in her diary. From my research, I knew that she worked with various women’s support groups and family charities across Maine. She was frequently quoted in newspaper and magazine features about domestic abuse, coercive control, reproductive rights, and issues related to motherhood, including postpartum depression. I’d even caught her on a couple of news shows. If she wasn’t quite a celebrity, she was becoming well-known, and gave every impression of relishing it.

As soon as I sat, she began asking when she might be required to provide a deposition and why Moxie Castin himself wasn’t present to hear what she had to say.

“I mean,” she concluded, “sending an employee suggests a possible lack of engagement on his part.”

Moxie, I thought, had dodged a bullet, and not only because he didn’t drink a lot of water, or go in for herbal tea. Still, there was some element of truth to what Veilleux had said—in general terms, if not specific. By taking care of the preliminary interviews, I could save Moxie time that might otherwise have been wasted in recording statements from witnesses with nothing useful to offer, but my impressions would also help lay the groundwork for his own line of questioning. I tried to explain some of this to Veilleux, emphasizing the second part over the first, but she wasn’t convinced. She poured me water from a jug, accompanied by a lot of sighing and frowning. I wouldn’t have wanted her as my therapist. I wouldn’t even have wanted her standing too close to me in line at the post office.

“How long have you been treating Colleen?” I asked, once she’d quieted down, and I’d made it apparent that I wasn’t uncomfortable with silence.

“About a year,” said Veilleux. “Colleen also gave me permission to consult with her physician.”

“Lyra Shapleigh.”

“That’s right. Have you spoken to Lyra?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“She was helpful.”

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