Page 33 of The Furies

“Actually, it was Buker’s cellmate who attacked Towle. His name was Perry Gudex, from Kentucky. Manslaughter, ten years. He was also a religious fanatic, borderline insane.”

“Any idea what might have caused the beef between them?”

“Religion, of all things. Gudex was a Southern Baptist, and Towle was about as far from a Baptist as a man can get, Southern or otherwise. He was no fan of organized religion, and liked getting under Gudex’s skin, until Gudex snapped.”

“Where’s Gudex now?”

“Still behind bars. He’s not due for release for another five years.”

“And Towle?”

“No idea. Like Buker, he isn’t under post-release supervision. He can go where he pleases, but my contact says Towle’s mother lives down in Ossipee, New Hampshire, and that was the address he gave when he was arrested in New Jersey.”

“What about Buker’s other cellmate?”

“Clu Angard. Three years for possession with intent to supply. Died of an overdose shortly after release.”

I finished writing. I liked to keep notes. I rarely had to consult them, but putting things down on paper helped cement testimony in my memory.

“There is one more thing,” said Niles. “I asked for a list of Raum Buker’s permitted visitors, just in case it might be of help.”

“And?”

“For the first three years, there was only one name on the list,” said Niles. “A woman, Ambar Strange. For the final year, there were two.”

“Who was the second visitor?”

“Another woman: Dolors Strange. I’m no detective, but instinct suggests they might be related.”

“Sisters,” I said.

“You know them?”

“I’ve only recently become familiar with them.”

“Huh. The Strange sisters.”

“You have no idea,” I said, “just how.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

At the Cracker Barrel by the Maine Mall, the server named Olivia had grown used to the odd man who had placed the identical breakfast order for the previous seven mornings in a row. It wasn’t as though he was unusual in the consistency of his appetites. She had people in her section who’d been eating the same breakfast for years, sometimes even at the same table. A few of them wouldn’t consent to eat at any other; if they came in and found their spot occupied, they’d insist on waiting until it freed up, or go for a walk and come back later. For her favored customers, the ones who always remembered to tip more than the minimum, she would even agree to call when the table was ready, and secure it for them with a little RESERVED sign.

The stranger wasn’t quite so persnickety. He’d eat anywhere, just so long as his eggs were well poached and his apples weren’t too hard. She didn’t know his name, as he always paid cash, but she’d come to think of him as Mr. Beige, because he only ever wore faded shades of yellow, oatmeal, and brown, from the top of his trilby hat to the tips of his scuffed shoes. He rarely spoke, except to say please and thank you.

“The usual?” she would ask.

“Please,” he would reply, and his voice seemed simultaneously to come from very near and also far away, as though it contained within itself its own echo. On the first morning she’d tried to make small talk with him, but he had only nodded and smiled before opening his newspaper. Now she just served him and collected her tip at the end, which was fine with her. He wasn’t unpleasant to deal with, didn’t try to come on to her, and added 20 percent without fail. There were worse customers to serve.

Initially, Olivia had liked the way he smelled. A couple of her regulars stank like they washed only at Christmas, but Mr. Beige wore a clean, old-fashioned scent. After the first two days, though, it had begun to bother her, because it stayed with her even after she finished her shift, clinging to her skin and clothing. She’d taken to showering again when she got home, and changing her underclothes—because the smell permeated even them—but it didn’t do much good, and now she couldn’t eat without some vestige of it affecting the taste of her food. She hoped the stranger would finish whatever business he had in town and go back to wherever he’d come from; that, or find another place to eat breakfast. She was considering salting his apples, or asking that he be assigned to another server, but he had to hit the road sometime, right?

Perhaps most peculiar of all, even allowing for his scent, his reticence, and his appearance—hands that were both swollen yet small; and his eyes, God, those eyes—were the newspapers he read. They were all out of date, and not by days, or even weeks, but years. A day earlier, he’d been reading about 9/11, and the day before that the headline had concerned Jimmy Carter and some hostages from 1979, before Olivia was born. The newspapers were yellowed yet crisp, as though they’d been carefully set aside unread back in the day, and only recently been unearthed. It was like meeting a character from The Twilight Zone, someone who’d woken from a long sleep and was trying to play catch-up on world affairs.

Olivia wished she could afford to take a few days off. With luck he’d be gone when she returned, and that scent with him. But times were tough, and the tips mattered.

“You okay, hon? You look tired.”

It was Caitlin, one of the assistant managers. Caitlin had a daughter about Olivia’s age, and this made her protective of Olivia, although Caitlin was nice to everyone at the Cracker Barrel. Caitlin’s daughter lived with her father, for reasons to which Olivia was not privy. Caitlin struck Olivia as pretty chilled, so it was hard to imagine what domestic circumstances might have caused her daughter to choose to be with her father instead, unless he was even more chilled than her mom. Caitlin smiled with her mouth when her daughter came up in conversation, but her eyes stayed sad. Olivia hadn’t been working at the Cracker Barrel for long enough to feel right about asking why.

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