Page 28 of The Furies

“Does that thing record?” I said.

“Wouldn’t be much use if it didn’t.”

“What about the one on the back door?”

I knew from previous visits that there was also a camera at the rear of the Braycott.

“That’s out of action. A rat ate through the wiring. Still works as a deterrent, though, because the tenants haven’t been told.”

“Any chance you could let me look over the recording from the one that does work?”

“None,” he said.

“You’re a piece of work, Bobby.”

“That’s what my momma always told me.”

“Probably just before she tried to drown you.”

Bobby Wadlin tossed a gummy bear into his mouth, hit the remote to restart The Westerner, and nodded solemnly.

“She had,” he said, “very firm hands.”

CHAPTER XXXV

I didn’t immediately drive away from the Braycott Arms. Even had I done so, its smell would have remained with me, so I put the windows down and waited for Raum Buker’s next move. Eventually he would notice the symbol on his bathroom mirror, and he’d know what it meant, otherwise the point of leaving it in the first place would be rendered moot. I wanted to be around to see what he might do next.

To pass the time, I googled runes, paganism, occultism, and a whole lot of other search terms guaranteed to raise eyebrows if my phone was ever seized as evidence. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. The symbol on the mirror was a pagan signifier for “bane,” or “deadly.” Either someone had an odd sense of humor, or Raum had just been given another reason to regret getting that tattoo on his arm.

His Chevy was parked in the Braycott’s lot, the only place outside a junkyard that might have made it look good. If a fire was burning nearby, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a couple of the cars at the Braycott start up spontaneously in order to immolate themselves on it. Fifteen minutes went by, then thirty, without Raum emerging, but I didn’t want to re-enter the Braycott if it could be avoided. Apart from my having to deal with Bobby Wadlin again, it would mean confronting Raum in a confined space, and while he was rattled. I didn’t know if he had a gun, but the odds were in favor of it. Men like Raum operated on instinct, and their first response to a threat, however nebulous, was to secure a weapon. The law might have prohibited anyone who, like Raum, had been convicted of a crime punishable by a year or more in jail from owning a firearm, but criminals were notoriously shaky when it came to issues of jurisprudence.

I made a call to Chris Attwood, who was now a regional correctional manager for the Maine Department of Corrections. Attwood was based in an office over on Park Avenue, not far from where I was currently parked. We’d first crossed paths after one of his charges, a man named Jerome Burnel, approached me for help. Burnel should never have been put behind bars to begin with, and I’d succeeded in clearing his name, although that vindication came too late because by then he was already dead. The case had stayed with Attwood, though. It had stayed with me, too: my daughter Sam had almost died as a result of my involvement.

“Mr. Parker,” said Attwood, “as I live and breathe.”

“I didn’t think anyone still said ‘as I live and breathe,’ ” I replied, “not unless they smelled of lavender and Morgan Freeman was doing all the driving.”

“The DoC likes to maintain certain social niceties. We’re hoping it rubs off on our clients.”

“Your optimism is a credit to you, but I have one former client in mind who might puncture that particular balloon: Raum Buker.”

“I heard he was casting a shadow again,” said Attwood. “The tide goes out, but it always comes back in. What’s he done?”

“Officially, nothing more than be an irritant, but that’s an existential state where Raum is concerned. Unofficially, I think he’s brought bad luck with him, and that can be contagious.”

“Buker wasn’t one of mine. Jo Niles was his PO when he was on our books. She’s taking care of workplace inspections today, but I can ask her to give you a call.”

“If she could also save me some digging, I’m good for a bottle of wine.”

“I’ll pass that offer along. What do you need from her?”

“Raum recently cashed out on five years for manslaughter in East Jersey State Prison,” I said. “That much is public record. I want to know who his cellmates were, if he had any, and what friendships he might have struck up while he was inside.”

I waited while Attwood made some notes.

“Care to give me the angle?”

“Arcane. Raum has got himself an occult tattoo, and that wasn’t his style before he went down.”

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