Page 93 of The Instruments of Darkness

Sabine set aside the pizza to sing a lullaby to the dead child.

CHAPTER LXII

Reggio sat at the pine table in Ellar Michaud’s kitchen. The interior was cleaner than he’d expected, but gloomier than he would have been willing to tolerate in a home of his own. It was a consequence of the trees that crowded to the west of the house, blocking out the last of the evening sunlight; and the size of the windows, which were smaller than the room justified. The table was handcrafted, and the chairs too; they were rustic without being crude and their joinery, like the kitchen cabinetry, looked solid and true.

The two men passed through an uncluttered living room on the way to the kitchen, although the former was as crepuscular as the latter. The couches and chairs were mismatched, while the wallpaper reminded Reggio of a funeral home. A small bookshelf held assorted hardcover volumes: Reader’s Digest works on housekeeping, gardening, and cooking, along with a set of encyclopedias that looked old enough to have antedated the moon landings, or even the Second World War. There was no fiction, and no Bible, which was unusual in Reggio’s experience of rural Maine. Neither could he see any religious iconography on the walls, only the kind of paintings and prints familiar from thrift stores: anonymous, bland depictions of landscapes and animals—art for those who either didn’t like it or mistakenly believed that they did.

The kitchen reeked of stewed meat and boiled vegetables. Bare sanded boards formed the floor, and Reggio spotted flecks of blood and small white feathers on the chopping block beside the sink. He had deliberately positioned himself so he could see both the front door, via the living room, and the kitchen door that opened into the yard. Michaud took the seat opposite, his back to the window. Reggio had put a piece of fresh gum in his mouth before leaving the car, and was now rolling the foil into a ball with his fingertips. Fucking nervous tic: he’d have made a lousy poker player.

“Is this your handiwork?” he asked Michaud, indicating the kitchen cabinets and the furniture.

“The joinery is, but my father made the table and chairs. They’re by way of being heirlooms now.”

“You live here alone?”

There had to be a woman around. The place had that feel, even had the laundry hanging on the line not confirmed it, but Michaud didn’t reply to the question.

“You said you had something to tell me about those newcomers living over on Hickman’s land.”

“I know Lars Ungar, or I know of him,” said Reggio. “He’s the one with the swastika by his eye.”

“I’m familiar with him,” said Michaud, “and his taste in prettifications. What about him?”

This wasn’t the speed or direction of conversation that Reggio favored. He’d come here to find out more about the driver of the car that had followed him from the county jail, but he was no Scheherazade, and there was only so long he could spin out a yarn. Even so, he didn’t need Michaud trying to bring him directly to the point.

“Look, Mr. Michaud, let’s be clear on this: I want to help you, but I was also hoping that you might be able to help me. Whatever information I have to offer may require something in return.”

“I don’t know nothing about those people, beyond that I don’t like them sharing my air.”

“Lars Ungar has done time,” said Reggio, “but not for the things he ought to have. He raped a woman up in Winterville a couple of years back, and she wasn’t the first, but nothing came of it.”

If Michaud considered this to be a grave moral or criminal error on Ungar’s part, he hid his disapproval.

“So?”

“Are you comfortable with having a rapist living so close to your holding?”

Michaud shrugged. “If I had a mind to, I could walk into the Junco in Gretton and point out men I know for sure to have abused women. If I was to put it to them, they wouldn’t even have the grace to look ashamed.”

Reggio made a mental note to give the Junco a miss, whatever the hell kind of establishment it was.

“There’s a difference between knowing what acquaintances may be capable of,” he said, “and leaving yourself and yours vulnerable to the predations of strangers.”

“Who says we’re vulnerable?”

“You have guns?”

“This is rural Maine. What do you think?”

“Well,” said Reggio, “I understand how that might make you feel more secure, but here’s the thing.” He leaned forward, as though to take Michaud into his confidence. “Rumor has it that Lars Ungar and his people also have guns. Lots of guns. You could even say that, with them, it’s by way of being an occupation.”

CHAPTER LXIII

Angel and Louis arrived in Portland shortly after 7 p.m., having become embroiled in snarls of traffic before and after Boston. They freshened up, and let some sea air into their apartment, but by then it was too late for us to pay a visit to Bobby Ocean at his place of business, and confronting him at his home after dark struck me as unwise. If Bobby was intent on stirring up trouble, he’d take any opportunity offered. I wouldn’t have put it past him to summon the police and claim trespass or intimidation before we’d even managed to ring his doorbell, assuming he didn’t decide to cut out the middleman by shooting us himself.

On the other hand, Antoine Pinette was a regular at a place called the Capital over in Thornton Heights. Due to a reputation for violence, the Capital was known locally as the Murder Capital, and rarely did a weekend go by without someone being carried out feetfirst by paramedics. With the closure of Sangillo’s Tavern back in 2015, the Capital counted as one of the last of Cumberland County’s true dive bars. The Fulcis had wept when Sangillo’s Tavern lost its liquor license—Dave Evans had wept, too, but only because it meant that the Fulcis would be spending more time at the Great Lost Bear—but not even Tony and Paulie were sufficiently nostalgic for mayhem to darken the door of the Capital. Its interior smelled of dust, urine, and drain cleaner, the floor was permanently littered with fragments of shattered glass and broken dreams, and even the furniture had tattoos. In recent years it had also become a clubhouse for Pinette and his people, making it still less desirable as a hostelry for the masses, were such a thing possible.

If getting in Bobby Ocean’s face on his home territory had been rejected as unnecessarily provocative, squaring up to his alpha dog in a bar notorious for its savagery might have been considered foolhardy in the extreme, but Pinette had to be dealt with. Even if we approached Bobby first, his natural reaction would be to summon Pinette soon after, with orders to salve his master’s wounded pride by stirring the pot some more, maybe by taking another run at Colleen Clark’s house. But by making Pinette aware of the consequences of his actions, we might be able to give him pause for thought and potentially defang Bobby along the way.

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