Page 20 of The Furies

“I’m not going to advise you against contacting Egon Towle and telling him about our conversation,” said Kepler. “If you choose to admit that you’ve shared his details with me, that’s your decision. It may even encourage him to see the error of his ways, and help him come to his senses before circumstances deteriorate any further. But any misfortune coming his way, he has brought upon himself—and you have strife of your own to manage, so your obligations to him are limited.”

That part about “strife of your own” struck Reuben as an odd thing to say: undeniably true, obviously, both as a general existential observation and in reference to his current predicament, but odd nonetheless. He was, admittedly, bound hand and foot, and down a valuable coin, but he was alive, and likely to remain so for the time being.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know you are.”

Kepler produced a roll of duct tape from the folds of his coat and commenced wrapping it around Reuben’s head, covering his mouth. Reuben tried to protest, but Kepler was too fast for him.

“In case someone comes by,” said Kepler, “because I really would prefer you to be silent until the time is right.”

Then Kepler did a curious thing. Just before he left, he picked up both of Reuben’s cats and carried them away with him.

2

The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister…

—Hilaire Belloc, “The Early Morning”

CHAPTER XXI

Dolors Strange’s coffee shop was called, not surprisingly, Strange Brews. I’d never darkened its door because I hadn’t wanted to drink coffee or eat a pastry prepared by someone with intimate physical knowledge of Raum Buker, not even if they’d scrubbed their hands with Lysol throughout the intervening years. Inside, as befitted its name, Strange Brews was decked out like a fortune-teller’s tent, all red drapes and overstuffed cushions, with crystals, incenses, oils, candles, and New Age books for sale alongside muffins, cookies, and doughnuts. The walls were hung with the kind of paintings and drawings that passed for art among people who dreamed of someday owning their own unicorn.

The place was devoid of customers when I arrived, but that might have been a direct consequence of the music playing in the background, which sounded like it had been composed for an elf’s funeral. Dolors Strange was working the register, assisted by a teenage girl with a high pain threshold for piercings. I sometimes wondered what I’d say if Sam decided that intensive body modification was the way to go. If she was committed to suffering, I could always suggest she join the Marines, or become a Browns fan.

Dolors Strange was in her midforties, but looked older. She had let her hair go gray, which suited her, with the result that the severity incongruous in her youth was now more appropriate to her years. No one would ever have called her beautiful, except possibly Will Quinn, but she was interesting-looking, perhaps even attractive in the austere way of certain graveyard statuary. She was checking the change drawer of the register, counting the coins with long, delicate fingers. Her nails were painted a reddish purple. The color matched the veins that stood out on the backs of her hands, as though deoxygenated blood was accumulating at her fingertips.

“Ms. Strange?” I said, reaching for my license. “I was hoping I could talk to you for a moment. My name is—”

“I know who you are,” she said, barely glancing up at me. “I read the papers. I can even take a guess at your business here. What’s he done now?”

“Who?”

“Raum. Why else would you want to speak with me? You can’t be running so short of conversation that you’re reduced to bothering strangers.”

She dropped the final r on the last word, the way certain Mainers did. It turned the comment into a kind of bleak pun on her own name. The kid with the piercings scowled at me, or it might have been the weight of metal dragging her features inexorably down.

“Raum does come into it,” I admitted.

“I’m not his keeper. You have an issue with him, go talk to him yourself.” She finished counting and gave me her full attention for the first time. “Unless you only do that when you have toughs to back you up. I heard how you and your friends once stuck a gun in his mouth.”

“The gun was a last resort,” I said.

“Not in your case, if what I’ve heard is true.”

“That stings,” I said.

“I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

“Plus, it wasn’t my gun. I’m very particular about where I put that.”

“I’m sure.”

She bagged some nickels and closed the register. Before she did, I spotted a few ones, and a couple of fives, but no larger bills. It caused me to wonder how well Strange Brews might be doing. It stood on an unprepossessing section of Main Street between two larger units—one empty, the other housing partly occupied office suites—and was set slightly too far back from the road, so that by the time drivers might have noticed it was there, they’d already have gone past it. Signs on the noticeboard indicated that Strange Brews hosted a monthly mindfulness group, and something called the Strange Knitters every second Tuesday, but I doubted there was much money in facilitating mindfulness, and it was hard to knit and drink coffee at the same time.

“Did Raum happen to mention that we met at the Bear not so long ago?” I said.

“He might have. He’s got no love for you, Mr. Parker.”

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