Page 131 of The Instruments of Darkness

The car that had come close to striking Sabine Drew was already vanishing into the dimness at the edge of town. There was no need to follow it. I knew where it was going.

“If Pinette is up here,” I said, “it’s to do with Bobby Ocean and that map on his office wall.”

“But not Henry Clark?” asked Angel.

“I’ve never pictured Pinette as a child abductor.”

Yet something Sabine had said at the Great Lost Bear came back to me: Evil finds its own. It forms clusters.

As the words returned, so did Sabine herself, walking quickly back to the car. Angel opened the rear door for her.

“The boy was brought through this town,” she said. “He left ripples behind.”

IN DEXTER, CHIEF LYLE Drummond was talking to a woman named Jen Blackmore. Like Maynard Vaughn, Blackmore lived on the margins, but her engagement with social services was more conditional and sporadic. Liquor was her demon and would kill her in the end. Regardless, she’d so far managed to survive beatings, exposure, and accidentally setting herself on fire, not to mention the damage alcohol consumption had inflicted on her body. Blackmore was in her forties, but looked sixty and smelled ripe. Still, when she was sober, or as near to it as she ever got, she was capable of clarity. She was also cleverer than she let on, and noticed more than some people in Dexter and its environs might have liked, and forgot none of it. Right now, she was telling Drummond about Maynard Vaughn.

“He got into a car,” she said, “down by the lake.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“Light blue Chrysler. I’ve seen Maynard in that car before, or one like it. I took heed on account of how Maynard wasn’t habituated to motor travel. That was way, way back, and there were two women in the car with him, one older, one younger. This time, I saw only the younger one.”

“And what happened?”

“The car pulled up, the driver said something to Maynard, he got in, and the car drove away.”

“Was Maynard under duress?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“I don’t suppose,” said Drummond, “that you happened to spot the license number?”

“I didn’t have my glasses on,” said Blackmore. “I mean, I could see it was Maynard, but those letters and numbers were beyond me.” She eyed Drummond slyly. “Might there have been a reward, if I did get the plate number?”

“I’d have done right by you.”

Blackmore grinned at Drummond, revealing more gum than teeth. The remaining dentition didn’t look like it would be occupying oral real estate for very much longer.

“How right?”

“Twenty bucks?”

“Huh,” said Blackmore. “A twenty, just for a number.”

She whistled and produced a cheap cell phone from one of the pockets of her coat.

“That means a picture of the car has got to be worth at least fifty.”

CHAPTER LXXXV

Gretton had one motel, the Bide-A-While, with room rates so low we’d either traveled back in time or would be consumed alive by vermin in the night. Optimistically, if nothing else, the town also boasted two inns. Judging by the pictures on its website, the first promised prison mattresses and food to match, while the second screamed Gay Couple Heading for a Messy Divorce. We picked the latter.

“What now?” asked Angel, as we drove to the property.

“We find somewhere to eat,” I said, “then start making inquiries. If Reggio came here, he might have talked to someone. A stranger, especially one with questions, would have enough novelty value to be remembered. We may also be able to find out what Antoine Pinette and Bobby Ocean are up to, because it can’t be anything good.”

Which was when my cell phone received a call from a concealed number.

“Parker,” I said.

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