Page 23 of The Furies

“What do you think?”

It was difficult to know how to respond to the Stranges’ singular sexual arrangements, past or present, without sounding prurient or prudish. Theirs was the kind of entanglement that made a man want to grab David Crosby by the scruff of the neck halfway through a rendition of “Triad,” his ode to troilism, and shout, See, David, this is why you can’t go on as three.

“Could we talk inside?” I said.

“Raum wouldn’t like it.”

“Raum doesn’t have to know.”

Ambar Strange folded her arms. It was cold, so she had reason to shiver, but in this case the weather didn’t strike me as the cause.

“He’ll know,” she said, and her voice was very small.

I brought to mind again her sister, and the giveaway tremor. I saw Raum scratching at his tattoo until it bled. I counted three fearful people, but I couldn’t say if they were all frightened of the same thing.

“Ms. Strange,” I said, “what’s he doing back in Portland?”

“He served his time. Why wouldn’t he return here?”

Because I’m a trained investigator, I noticed she was avoiding the question.

“Do you know where he was incarcerated?”

Because it never hurt to be sure, and Ambar Strange could save me some digging. Also, facts were one thing, but personal testimony sometimes trumped them.

“East Jersey State Prison.”

“Any idea why?”

“For getting caught.”

“Funny. Other than that?”

“An accident. Ask him yourself.”

“It’s a pleasure to which I can look forward,” I said. “But until that happy day, this is a big country, and Raum and Portland have never seen eye to eye. He could have gone to a lot of other places and attracted a great deal less attention. Did he return here because of you or your sister?”

Her face twitched, as though I’d touched on an old wound. The answer was given before she had time to stop herself.

“Neither,” she said. “He’s waiting,” and she managed to load that word with a wicked amount of scorn.

“Waiting for what?”

She unfolded her arms and made a dismissive gesture with her right hand.

“Oh, just waiting. Raum always has some get-rich plan.”

“Has he told you what the current one might be?”

“To stop being poor. When that happens, he’ll make sure Dolors and I get our share. Nobody will get hurt, and it’s nothing the police will care about.”

She said all this the way someone might read the end of a familiar fairy tale in which they could never quite believe, yet from the rote recital of which they derived some passing comfort. I did my best to keep a straight face, but skepticism won out, and Ambar Strange witnessed me lose the fight.

“He swore by it,” she said, “and I believe him. That’s all I know. I mean, why am I even talking to you?”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“Because Raum deserves a break,” she said. “He’s done his time, but his reputation follows him, like a weight tied around his ankles. If people like you could just leave him alone, he might find a way to get settled. You’re convinced he’s rotten, but he’s not. I know what he’s done, the good and the bad, and I think one outweighs the other.”

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