Page 91 of The Furies

“Look at what she made me do,” he said.

It was a big piece. Veale thought Pantuff might feel some pain the next time he drank something hot or cold. Pantuff flicked the fragment of tooth to the floor, and Veale could see him testing for a cavity with his tongue.

“There was always the chance she’d look for help,” said Veale. “It’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“True,” said Pantuff, “but unknowns bother me, and I don’t like that she doesn’t trust us.”

Veale considered this a little rich, given that they’d broken into her home, taken all she had left of her dead child, and were now planning to double-cross her. He kept this opinion to himself, along with the fact that the Sawyer woman’s not trusting them made him respect her more.

Pantuff signaled left.

“Let’s run the route one more time,” he said.

So they did.

CHAPTER XXIII

I called Sharon Macy on my way to pick up a burner phone to be dropped at the house that Melissa Thombs shared with Donnie Packard. Macy and I continued to grow tentatively closer, ending what Louis had once described as the longest dry spell since that of the Chicago Cubs. Yet while we were drawing closer, we had, by unspoken mutual agreement, stopped short of calling it an actual relationship, or making it public. Some of this was natural wariness on both our parts, complicated on Macy’s side by the inadvisability of letting it be known that a Portland PD detective with responsibility for liaising with other law enforcement agencies and the governor was sleeping with a private investigator who many of those same agencies—and parties in the governor’s office—believed should be behind bars.

Oh, and complicated on my side by the fact that my deceased daughter apparently spoke to the living one, and she and some vestige of my dead wife continued to move through this world. This, though, Macy and I had not discussed. There were some conversations better left to another time, or preferably left altogether.

Macy answered on the second ring.

“The world is going mad,” she said.

“The world was always mad. It just wasn’t quite this frightening for most of us.”

“If you’re calling to propose to me before the end times, I can’t guarantee you’re going to be pleased with the answer.”

“That’s so ambiguous,” I said, “that I think I’ll leave the question unasked for now. How about we discuss Donnie Packard?”

“Jesus, I don’t want to marry Donnie Packard. If that’s the choice, I guess you’ll have to do.”

“I’ll get started on my wedding speech,” I said, “once I’ve stopped choking up. In the meantime, Donnie is living with a woman named Melissa Thombs, except she doesn’t want to live with him anymore, or so her mother claims. But Donnie is the possessive type, and is reluctant to let her leave—again, according to her mother.”

“Let me guess: Melissa Thombs doesn’t want to turn to the police.”

“There have been police interventions in the past, and Donnie has a domestic violence conviction because of one of them, yet she’s stayed. I don’t profess to understand why. The situation now appears to have worsened, but not so much that she wants the police involved again.”

“Are you going to try to get her out?”

“That’s the idea, but preferably quietly, and without Donnie realizing until she’s already good and gone.”

“Where are they living?”

“Donnie’s mom’s old place in Yarmouth.”

“The mother’s deceased, right?”

“Died of shame. It happens.”

“If his name is on the deed to the house, you’ll have problems with criminal trespass. And if you go in there armed, a prosecutor could hang you out to dry.”

“Like I said, we’re hoping to avoid entering the property. If forced, we aim to have an invitation from Melissa Thombs.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“If it does go south, we may need a sympathetic ear. I’m not asking you to intervene, but I’m looking for advice.”

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