Page 100 of The Instruments of Darkness

“What are you thinking?” asked Louis.

“That it never ends.”

“If so,” said Louis, “it’s not for want of us trying.”

CHAPTER LXIV

Mattia Reggio’s conversation with Ellar Michaud was drawing to a close. Reggio hadn’t learned much from it, other than that Michaud gave him the creeps and he’d be glad to quit his company. Before he did so, though, he was going to ask him one last question: namely, why Michaud, or a car registered to him, had followed Colleen Clark from Cumberland County Jail. As preparation, Reggio’s right hand now lay on his right thigh, the pad of his thumb touching the grip of his revolver. Reggio’s heart was beating fast and the gum was gone from his mouth. He couldn’t even remember getting rid of it.

“I want to thank you for your time, Mr. Michaud,” said Reggio, “even if I think you’ve learned more from me than I’ve learned from you. With that in mind, and before I go—”

A cool gust of air brushed the back of his head. Reggio hadn’t even heard the door open behind him. What he had taken for a kitchen closet must have been another entrance. A hand came to rest on his left shoulder, and a gun barrel nudged his skull, just hard enough to let him know it was there.

Dumb. He was so fucking dumb.

“Put your hands flat on the table and keep your head down,” Michaud instructed.

Reggio did as he was told.

“Look,” he said, “there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”

Footsteps descended from above, and another woman joined the first, although Reggio could see only plain brown shoes, tan tights, and the hem of a worn beige dress.

“He wears it on his right side,” said Michaud.

Reggio’s gun was taken from him.

“If you’re carrying another weapon, better tell us now,” said Michaud.

“I only ever needed one,” said Reggio. “For peace of mind.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Like I said, we have a misunderstanding.”

Reggio saw metal flash by his right eye as a carving knife was driven through the back of his right hand, impaling it on the table. Reggio screamed.

“Consider that,” said Michaud, “a first step toward enlightenment.”

CHAPTER LXV

I dropped Angel and Louis at their place and left them to their own devices for the rest of the night. My plan for the following day was to head up to Dexter to look for the man named Maynard Vaughn, who had made the straw purchase of the money order used by Mara Teller. Along the way, I intended to call at the Kopper Kettle to speak with Beth Witham, the waitress who was said to have dated Stephen Clark, a relationship that might have involved domestic abuse. Finally, there was the matter of a conversation with Bobby Ocean. That would be the morning’s first work.

I was due to meet Sharon Macy in an hour at the Grill Room, but only for drinks and appetizers, the Grill Room being nobody’s idea of a venue for a cheap date. The bar mixed a good old fashioned, which was Macy’s cocktail of choice. Lately, Macy—she didn’t like being called Sharon, even by me—had been cutting back on liquor and bar food for health reasons, so she preferred to order one old fashioned and make it last.

Macy and I had dated casually a few years previously, but circumstances and timing had dictated that we never went further, and any intimacy was limited to kissing and fumbling. It was like being back in high school, but with more bills and responsibilities. Subsequently, we drifted apart but continued to exchange nods in passing, before coming together again after a couple of guys tried to blow up my car in the parking lot of the Great Lost Bear. Macy and I had even ended up in bed, breaking long dry spells for both of us. Since then, we’d been circling each other, if less cautiously than before, in a benign form of orbital decay.

A difficulty for Macy was her position in the Portland PD, notably her role as liaison with the governor’s office and other state and federal law enforcement agencies, which made it inadvisable for her to be seen on the arm of a private investigator whom many of those same agencies would like to have seen deprived of his license, or jailed. For that reason, we were discreet about where we met and avoided restaurants and bars frequented by police. No cop was likely to be eating at the Grill Room, not unless they were on the take, so we’d deemed it relatively safe, aided by dim lighting and a reserved space by the bar that allowed us to see first without being seen.

I had not yet had a chance to bring up with Macy the subject of Sabine Drew, and was wary of doing so. Apart from the fact that Macy undoubtedly held strong feelings about her due to the fallout from the Edie Brook case, both of us were mindful of trying to keep our private and professional lives separate, however futile this might ultimately prove. After all, I wasn’t sure my personal and professional lives were separable even to myself, never mind the complicating factor of another human being operating in a sphere far removed from my own. Macy was career police and unlikely to cash out after twenty-five years to open a bar. We were both in our respective vocations for the long haul.

Macy and I hadn’t met since I’d agreed to work the Colleen Clark case for Moxie, but she couldn’t but be aware of the problems posed for us by my involvement. I knew she respected Paul Nowak as AG, and relations between his office and the Portland PD were currently better than they’d ever been, thanks in part to Macy’s efforts. She was also loyal to the force, but I needed to know more about the Edie Brook affair, and wanted to establish what, if anything, the oxygen thief Furnish, lead investigator on the Clark case, had accomplished in terms of proper legwork. Steady Freddy had shared that he wasn’t a fan of Furnish. This wouldn’t have troubled Furnish, since he was enough of a fan of himself for two people, but Freddy had also suggested that Furnish was willing to drag his heels to please the AG’s office. I suppose I could have tried raising these subjects with Macy as pillow talk, but she might have smothered me in retaliation. I was less in danger of a slow, agonizing death at the bar of the Grill Room.

I freshened up at home, and spoke briefly to Colleen.

“I want to go back to my own place tomorrow,” she said. “I appreciate your kindness in letting me stay here, but I feel like a specter inhabiting the wrong house.”

“Your mother raised again the possibility of staying with her for a while. I told her I’d put it to you.”

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