Page 83 of The Instruments of Darkness

“Did John Wayne give you a name?”

“Beth Witham. He thinks it’s Witham with an i, but he couldn’t swear to it. She lives in Topsham now. Last he heard, she was working weekdays at the Kopper Kettle. He said it might be worth your while talking to her.”

“That was helpful of him.”

“Do I detect a note of hesitation?”

“So far, helpfulness has been rare when it comes to Colleen Clark, for obvious reasons.”

“All the more cause to be open to breaks. John Wayne told me that no one who knew Stephen Clark from those days has any great fondness for him. John Wayne’s sister is convinced she smells a rat. When she read about the case, the first thing she said to him was ’stephen did it,’ and even the appearance of that bloodied blanket hasn’t altered her opinion.”

I thanked Dave and stopped to make a note of the two names—John Wayne Akers and Beth Witham—on the writing pad attached to the dashboard. Dave was right: under the current circumstances, I’d accept help, whatever the source.

Topsham was just shy of thirty miles north of Portland, but I’d still have to set aside a couple of hours to travel there and back to speak with Witham, assuming Akers was as solid as Dave maintained. The Kopper Kettle opened only for breakfast and lunch. I could aim to cross paths with her at her place of employment the next morning. Right now, I wanted to check in at the Clark house, and speak with Tony.

TRUE TO STEADY FREDDY’S word, the police had begun a new search of the Clark property, this time using a cadaver dog. To offer some element of privacy to those inside, and also to ensure that no graphic images of human remains made their way onto the Internet, a barrier tarp had been erected at the front of the property, and a no-fly zone for drones created by order of the court. That wouldn’t necessarily stop people from trying to use them, but the police would have to act if they did.

I doubted the searchers would find anything beyond old squirrel bones under the Clark dirt, but the search had attracted a media presence, as well as assorted locals—the Robacks to the fore, though not Alison Piucci—and a handful of lookie-loos from farther afield. I wondered if Mara Teller might be among them, but a quick recce of the other faces turned up only hostile men and hard women.

Tony was on duty when I pulled up, the monster truck casting a literal pall over the lawn and a metaphorical one over the lives of the neighbors. That truck was hard to ignore. Tony jumped out to greet me, and the ground shook as he landed.

“I saw I missed some calls,” I said.

“Paulie had a problem last night.”

“What kind of problem?”

Tony led me past the cop in the yard, a patrolman who knew us both by sight and reputation. There were scorch marks under the living room window, and blackened flowers in the beds beneath. To my right, I saw two officers working a grid with the cadaver dog.

“A firebomb, lobbed from a passing car,” said Tony. “Two guys: one driving, one throwing. Paulie used an extinguisher on the flames, but by then the car was gone.”

“Was Paulie in the truck?”

“No, I took the truck home. He was in the Explorer.”

That might have explained it. The Explorer was a lot less conspicuous.

“Did he get a license number or make of the vehicle?” I asked.

“He didn’t get a look at the plate, though he thought he might know the car. It was a gray sedan, but the driver’s door was black. He’s seen it around the Old Port. He thinks it belongs to Antoine Pinette.”

Antoine Pinette was a racist and committed anti-Semite, but far from unintelligent, which made his shortcomings even more reprehensible. Lately, he’d assumed responsibility for what passed for security in the world of Bobby Ocean and his Stonehurst Foundation. Bobby and I had history. His son—Billy Stonehurst, aka Billy Ocean—had once burned out my car and nearly set fire to my home. The kid was now dead, and his father had compiled a long list of people he held responsible, me included. His son’s passing had driven any semblance of humanity from Bobby, who was now mired in racial hatred and the politics of the far right. If Antoine Pinette was pitching firebombs at the Clark home as part of his deal with Bobby Ocean, it was as much an attack on me as on Colleen. Bobby was sending a message: he hadn’t forgiven, or forgotten.

“Where’s Paulie now?”

“At home, asleep.”

“You sure about that?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Mr. Parker.”

“When he wakes up, you tell him from me that he’s to keep his distance from Pinette,” I said. “That goes for you as well. If you see Pinette, cross the street to avoid him. I’ll take care of this.”

“What if they try again?”

“I’ll set things in motion today,” I said, but I couldn’t hide my frustration. I had enough to keep me occupied without reentering the world of Bobby Ocean. Neither would Moxie be pleased to hear that Bobby had involved himself in the Clark affair, if only by proxy. I was becoming stretched, which wouldn’t be helpful to Moxie or Colleen. Sometimes, you had to know when to ask for more help. I stepped aside from Tony and called New York. The conversation was brief and to the point. When I hung up, Tony’s face had brightened considerably.

“Are they coming?”

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