Page 4 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Because one feeds into the other,” I said.

“If I can’t prove her innocent,” said Moxie, “proving someone else guilty will serve nearly as well.”

We stood to go. Moxie pulled a mask from his pocket and put it on to pass through the line of people by the door. The mask was black, with the words CALL MOXIE written on it in white, along with his number.

“I got a trunk full of these,” he said. “I’m determined to get some use out of them—and fuck what that CDC says about COVID, because I still wouldn’t want anyone north of Bangor coughing on me. And mark my words, there’ll be something else along soon enough. You know, if COVID had given people warts or facial blisters, every fucking person in this state would have been fighting for a jab and a hazmat suit. You want a box of these masks, just in case?”

“It’s tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Well, if you change your mind, just ask. I’d offer to get some made up for you as well, because it pays to advertise, but they might make you look kind of conspicuous on a stakeout.”

The morning mist had matured to drizzle as we stepped outside. The lowering sky was the color of factory smoke, distant birds like charred fragments ascending.

“When can I talk to her?”

“Whenever you want. She’s at home. I told her she ought to move away for a while, but she refused. Not only is she quiet, she’s also stubborn as all hell. Takes after her mother. Colleen says she’s not going to let anyone drive her out.”

He looked sorrowful for a moment, even with his face partly obscured.

“Is that all there is to it?”

“No,” said Moxie. “She told me that she sleeps on the floor of her son’s room. I think she’s tormenting herself.”

A container ship made its way along the Fore River toward the Casco Bay Bridge. A solitary sailor stood on deck, but I couldn’t tell if he was looking forward or back, and the vessel was otherwise devoid of obvious crew. I glanced away for a moment, and when I turned back, the sailor was gone. Had the ship then plowed untended into the riverbank, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

“I take it you’ve already spoken with her at length?”

“I have, and my secretary has typed up the preliminary record. You can read it before you visit, if you think it’ll help.”

“I’ll wait,” I said.

Moxie’s notes would be useful, but the most interesting observations would be stored in his brain. We could compare notes later.

“Do you want me to come along with you?” said Moxie.

“No, I’ll speak with her alone first, if that’s okay with you.”

“If I had an issue with how you operate, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

We had reached Moxie’s car. I waited while he tried to locate the fob, the cut of all his suits long since ruined by years of storing keys, notebooks, and cell phones in pockets that were never meant to house anything thicker than a credit card. Moxie didn’t care. Even these aspects of his appearance, which seemingly spoke of a lack of attention, were carefully cultivated. Moxie’s whole existence was one long strategic play.

I thought about Colleen Clark and what was to come. I felt what I always did at such moments: the temptation to walk away, except I knew that if I did, I would never be able to retrieve what I’d lost.

“It’s going to be a bad one, isn’t it?” I said.

“I don’t think that boy is coming back,” said Moxie, “so it already is.”

CHAPTER II

Colleen Clark lived in the Rosemont area of Portland, not far from Dougherty Field. It was a locale in which one might have expected to find a prosperous young family, with all the advantages of suburban living while still being close to the center of the city. The Clark residence wouldn’t have been hard to identify even if Moxie hadn’t given me the street number: someone had daubed the words BABY KILLER on the front of the house in red paint. An attempt had been made to obscure it with whitewash, but the letters persisted in showing through. The drapes were drawn, no car stood in the driveway, and the garage door was closed. The front door was on the eastern side, away from the street. It was a peculiar arrangement, as though the plans had been misread, or the house had been dropped randomly on its plot from the air.

I parked a short distance away, but couldn’t see any sign of reporters. Perhaps the warning to Stephen Clark against engaging with the media had become a general advisory to the press and TV people themselves, now that a prosecution was imminent. It wouldn’t stop online trolls from posting their bile, but they preferred to operate from the safety and anonymity of their caves, and anyone who gave them attention deserved to have their electricity shut off. I was old-fashioned about reporting: if it wasn’t worth paying for, it wasn’t worth reading.

I spotted the patrol car just seconds before the officer at the wheel got out. His presence explained why the street was so quiet. Someone, possibly a resident with influence, had complained about the mob, and anyone who didn’t belong was now being sent on their way. Also, it wouldn’t look good if someone took it into their head to assault Colleen Clark, or not before a jury had the chance to find her guilty. I showed the cop my ID and explained that I’d been engaged by Colleen’s lawyer. I was now working on her behalf, so he’d be seeing a lot of me from here on out. He told me to wait while he confirmed this with Moxie and ran it by his superiors, before giving me the all-clear.

“When did that happen?” I asked, pointing to the ghost of the words on the wall.

“Two nights ago, before a car was assigned. We just started keeping an eye on the place this morning.”

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