Safe Houses Page 6

  “Why does this friendship, if that’s what it was, have to be something sinister? From what you’ve said, it sounds like exactly what he needed.”

  “Then maybe his friend dumped him, and that’s what set him off. Or Dad found out, or Mom, and they put an end to it, so he got angry and killed them. Either way, it’s a step toward an explanation, and that’s all I’m looking for.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  She nodded and again looked at the floor.

  “They let me see him late yesterday, after the funeral, but he barely said a word. I walked in and he perked right up, actually smiled and said, ‘You came back!’ Then he asked where Mom and Dad were, and what was I supposed to say to that?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him they were dead. I guess I should have been nicer about it, gentler. But, Jesus Christ, he’d fucking killed them. He just kind of crumpled, his whole face. Then he turned around and wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t say another word.”

  “You think he’d forgotten? Or blanked it all out?”

  “Maybe. I’m seeing him again tomorrow. I’ll take you with me, if you want.” She paused, sinking back into her thoughts. “He looked terrible. He hadn’t bathed or shaved or combed his hair. He asked if I could bring him a toy.”

  “A toy?” It put a lump in his throat.

  “One morning he kills our parents. Then he’s asking for his model of the Millennium Falcon.”

  Henry let that sink in for a few seconds before speaking again.

  “The numbers he painted, that whole thing with the sign. Did you ask about that?”

  “Oh, that part’s easy.” She flicked her hand dismissively. “Willard counts everything. Keeps tallies and writes them down everywhere. On paper, on pieces of wood, whatever’s handy. Lists and running totals for all kinds of stuff. How many tubes of toothpaste he’s used, how many bars of soap. How many cardinals on the bird feeder. The number of times he saw Elmo on Sesame Street.”

  “But the number itself, well…”

  “Because he subtracted three?” She shook her head and almost smiled. “That’s one where the assholes who always made fun of him were probably right. He just got it wrong. He’s not used to adding or subtracting. He’s too busy notching up the latest totals. Half the time you can’t even figure out what he’s counting. He can’t always spell the words, so sometimes he uses little symbols that only he understands. A compulsion, that’s what the shrink said.”

  “He’s got a shrink?”

  “Wrong word. He went to a doctor for a while, more like a counselor or therapist, somebody who worked with the developmentally disabled, and it was years ago. It was as much for us as it was for him, to help us understand the way he was, and how to keep him happy. Mom thought it did him some good.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It did explain all the lists. She said it was normal, and gave him focus, a sense of purpose.”

  “Have you been to see her?”

  “He stopped going when he was around seventeen.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought that a few times, too. But even with her, it wasn’t like he ever really opened up. Like I said, a closed book.” For a second or two her eyes had a faraway look. Then she refocused on Henry. “So what do you think?”

  He shook his head.

  “This isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “All I’m asking for is a week of your time. One week, when all you’re doing now is sitting here in front of your TV, doing shots of rye.”

  Well, at least she was observant.

  “Look,” she continued. “It’s either you, or I take potluck from the Yellow Pages over here on the Eastern Shore. Dial G for gumshoe, and hire some rube who tails cheating farmers for a living. Yes, I’m grasping at straws. But right now you’re my only hope.”

  She laughed bitterly and shook her head.

  “I sound ridiculous, don’t I? ‘Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.’ That’s his favorite movie, as you might have guessed from the toy request. Although I’ll be damned if I repeat that in public unless I want CNN using it in their latest stupid theory: Murder boy had Darth Vader fixation.”

  She sighed.

  “Maybe I’m losing my mind. My apologies for bothering you.”

  “No, it’s okay. And I can see why you’d want answers. I understand that.”

  “So you’ll do it then?” The light returned to her eyes, and for a moment the jury in him wavered, edging toward a yes vote. Then the naysayers spoke up: You’re falling for the face. This isn’t why you’re here.

  “Let me sleep on it.”

  She should sleep on it, too, he thought. Maybe by tomorrow she would feel better simply for having talked things over, and that might be enough.

  “Okay,” she said. Then, glancing down at the rye. “But maybe you could sleep on it with a clearer head than last night.”

  “It’s not a habit.” He was a little unnerved by how badly he wanted her to believe him.

  “I wouldn’t sweat it. The neighbors have plenty of theories about you, but none of them seems to think you’re a drunk.”

  He escorted her to the door, and then pulled back the curtain to watch her depart. She was walking up Willow, back toward the murder scene. A morbid part of him wanted a peek inside the house. But he had no intention of taking her up on the offer, even though he, too, would like to know what made Willard Shoat snap.

  Instead, he would give Anna a contact or two from his past—people with similar skills who might even agree to her bargain rate. He would offer to let them stay here, gratis, to help cut costs. As for Henry, the best thing now would be to pack up and get moving. But first he had to make a phone call. There was no landline, so he picked up his cell phone and punched in a number with a Washington area code. The first ring had barely started before someone picked up—Mitch, who must have recognized the incoming number.

  “Mattick. Been wondering when you’d call.”

  “I figured it was your turn.”

  “What, worried we’ll stop paying you?”

  “The opposite. Nothing really left to do here, the way I see it.”

  “That’s for sure. Who’d have guessed it, huh?”

  “If you really want to know, the whole thing’s given me the heebie-jeebies. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Understandable. We’re at a loss, too. Just when you think you’ve got an easy, uneventful assignment, huh?”

  “Tell me about it. One thing you should probably know. Her daughter was just over here.”

  “Anna?” He said it almost like he knew her.

  “Yeah.”

  “What for?”

  “She wants to hire me.”

  “Hire you?”

  “To look into things. She thinks someone must have put the idea in her brother’s head. Controlled him somehow.”

  Mitch paused, digesting the news.

  “How’d she hear about you?”

  “How wouldn’t she, the way this place is.”

  “What do you think of her theory?”

  “Same as the cops, probably. She’s grasping at straws, looking for anything to make her feel better.”

  “Maybe so. But it’s perfect, don’t you think?”

  “Perfect how?”

  “For keeping you on the payroll, now that you’ve actually got an excuse to snoop around in a way you never could have before.”

  “Mitch, she’s dead.”

  “But the reason we hired you isn’t.”

  “And that reason is?”

  “We’ve been over this, Mattick. I’ve already told you all you need to know.”

  “Nothing, you mean.”

  “Just do the job. The o
ne we’re paying you for, and the one she’ll be paying you for.”

  “I don’t even know what you could still want at this point. Not that I was giving you much to begin with.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? If this actually gets you into the house, then take a look at everything she left behind. Phone bills, finances, letters, appointment books—anything, recent or ancient. Don’t worry about relevance, we’ll know what’s important. Make copies when you can, and forward them.”

  “I don’t know, Mitch.”

  “You didn’t turn her down, did you?”

  “No, but…”

  “Good. Make her happy. Accept her offer.”

  “And if there’s a conflict? Between what she wants and what you want?”

  “There won’t be. After the way this whole thing just got turned on its head, we’ll be happy to let her take this wherever she wants. Anything we get out of it now is gravy. Trust me, Mattick. It’ll be hand in glove. Hand in glove.”

  Sure, he thought, as they ended the call. Henry had heard those kinds of assurances before. He looked out the front window, but the street was empty. By now Anna Shoat was probably back inside the house where she’d grown up, surrounded by silence, spooked and lonely. How long did violence linger in the atmospherics of a place where something terrible had happened? He supposed he would find out soon enough.

  It troubled him, the idea of intruding. Even on the off chance Henry was able to help, he wanted nothing to do with deceiving someone so vulnerable. With any luck, she’d do them both a favor and give up. He’d phone Mitch again, tell him sorry but no deal, and then pack his bags.

  Henry walked to the bedroom and pulled his suitcase from beneath the bed. He cleared out his T-shirts and boxers from the chest of drawers and piled them inside. Then he sat on the bed and reconsidered. When you said no to people like Mitch, they just shrugged and found somebody else. And that was a problem. Henry didn’t want just anybody doing this, now that Anna was part of it—sad and abandoned Anna, with a face a jury would love. She deserved better.

  He put his clothes back in the drawers and slid the suitcase beneath the bed. Returning to the living room, he grabbed the bottle of rye and set it on the highest shelf in the kitchen. He turned on the television, watched blankly for a few seconds as a guy with a loud voice demonstrated the many uses of a folding ladder. Then he switched it off, placed his hands on his knees, and stood. There was work to be done. If he was going to do this, then he had better do it right.

  7

  Anna was back on his doorstep at 7:30 a.m. Henry had already showered, shaved, and brewed a pot of coffee. Even Scooter was back, having scratched at the screen door for entry an hour earlier. He was now curled on the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor, watching Henry and Anna enter from the hallway. On the stove, two eggs popped in a slick of bacon grease in a cast-iron skillet.

  “Want some?” Henry asked, pointing with a spatula.

  She shook her head, all business until she spotted the dog.

  “Ah. So there he is.”

  “You’ve met Scooter?”

  “The neighbors mentioned him. They see your willingness to take him in as a vote in your favor.”

  “Didn’t know there was a referendum.”

  “The court of public opinion. Poston’s has always been pretty busy.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  She poured herself a mug of coffee. Henry slid his eggs onto a plate where two strips of bacon were already waiting. Scooter’s ears went up but otherwise he didn’t budge.

  “Sounds like you’ve done some more asking around.”

  “I have. It was fruitful.”

  His stomach did a tiny somersault. He wondered if she was about to fire him before he even said yes.

  “You spent a year in Europe.”

  “That’s no big secret, although I doubt you found it on Google.”

  “Talked to a friend of yours.”

  “A friend?”

  “Is it that unusual?”

  “Well, no.” Although he had to admit that no obvious names leaped to mind. His most recent job had imposed a certain degree of isolation, as had this one. “But it’s fair to say I’m not the world’s most social creature.”

  “He said that, too. ‘Bit of a loner’ were the exact words.”

  “Wouldn’t mind knowing your source.”

  “I’m fine with loners as long as they’re competent, and he spoke well of your skills. I like the whole Europe thing, too. Anyone who can go over there without a plan or a job and manage to stay an entire year must be resourceful.”

  “Fifteen months, actually. And it wasn’t that hard.”

  But he had been resourceful then. Happy, too, for the most part. He’d been in law school at the time, only a semester shy of a degree. Pointless, he’d concluded, before dropping out to hop a budget flight to London. He knocked around the U.K. on a bicycle for a few weeks, striking up conversations in rural pubs and bunking with farm families for weeks at a time as the seasonal chores demanded. He crossed the Channel and gradually made his way across the continent before reaching Germany, where he lived hand to mouth for eleven months in Berlin. By the end he had acquired a loose network of friends—Germans and expats—but was so broke that he had to bum a loan for a return ticket to the States.

  Henry loved it there. Not the cold, or the clouds, or the short summer, but everything else, all of which seemed especially tailored to his preferences. Berliners walked places. They had clean and wonderful parks, and weren’t always in their cars. Even old ladies bicycled to the grocery store. No one seemed to mind having an American in their midst, and once they accepted you they’d do almost anything to help. The locals read books and newspapers, bought their bread from bakers. Spending an hour in idle contemplation in a bar or café was a virtue, not laziness, and restaurants weren’t so goddamned noisy. Nobody had guns, religion was passé. His kind of living, at least until he ran out of money.

  The moment he got back to the United States he recognized what he had somehow never noticed before about the country he grew up in: People ate too much, bought too much, and then climbed into huge cars and trucks to go out and buy more. Bigger was always better, or at least more admired. Everyone was too distracted to read anything beyond the texts on their phones or the crawler on cable news. Voters opted for whoever promised to crack down on the people or groups they most despised. Greed and guns were rampant. At a time and place like this, it felt dangerous to be loyal to anyone or anything. And so it was that Henry fell into the perfect job for nursing his lonely contempt, a staff opening on Capitol Hill.

  “Your bud says it was you who got that senator in trouble a few years back,” Anna said. “The one with the floozy on the payroll.”

  “Opposition research. The people I was working for wanted him off a certain subcommittee. He made it easy for me. I was lucky.”

  “People who are good at what they do almost always say they’re lucky.”

  “And vice versa. In Washington, anyway.”

  “Anything more I should know about your time there?”

  “Nothing that’s relevant.”

  Or nothing he cared to mention, because plenty was relevant. The job on the Hill had taught Henry most of what he knew about discreetly investigating someone’s past, following a paper trail, and doing surveillance while hiding in plain sight. The fellow who hired him had done the tutoring, a rumpled old gnome named Rodney Bales. Staffers referred to Bales in hushed, deferential tones as Sir Rodney, at least partly due to the remnants of an upper-crust British accent in his rumbling baritone.

  Henry’s official employer was a senator from the Midwest, although Henry didn’t actually meet the senator until his third week on the job. His real boss was Bales.

  Trying to figure out Sir Rodney’s past was like working on one of those cryptic
crosswords filled with puns and confusing wordplay. Some people said he’d been with MI6. Others swore it was CIA. Now and then Bales casually dropped a clue to past assignments and whereabouts, like the time he joked about a talking parrot that had made him laugh in a wartime bar in Beirut. Henry was with him on K Street when he bumped into an old foreign correspondent who blithely mentioned, through gales of laughter, “that drunken old Serb who nearly took your head off in Pristina.” Then there was the time Henry came upon Bales in his office, poring over a Czech magazine.

  Oh, yes, his office. Rather than quartering himself with the rest of the senator’s staff in the Russell Building, Sir Rodney’s home base was in the Capitol itself, a windowless chamber at the back of the senator’s hideaway. That’s where Bales first interviewed Henry before hiring him on the spot.

  “You know what I like best about your résumé?” Bales had said. “Your senior thesis on Metternich, focusing on his minions instead of the man himself.”

  “How did you even find that?”

  “And your year abroad. You made your own way, you improvised.”

  “Barely.”

  “See? I like that, too. Almost every other chap who comes through that door is overselling himself before he even sits down.”

  “If you really want to know, I’ve never been all that impressed with people in this line of work. Senators, I mean. Or even congressional staff.”

  That was when Henry first heard Sir Rodney’s laugh, wet and caustic, like something bubbling in a cauldron. Bales then told Henry that before doing a single day of work he would have to endure a month-long training course known around the office as the School of Night.

  “How late are the hours?”

  “No, no. It’s a euphemism. From Shakespeare. A reference to a bunch of schemers and deep thinkers who were up to no good. Or so they say. Have you heard of the Farm, the CIA’s little training camp?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, this is the Cliff’s Notes version, minus all the physical stuff. We also throw in an hour or two on data mining, and so on. Not just to show you how to do it, but to give you an inkling of what you’ll be up against. No such thing as a secret in this town anymore. Not for anyone who knows what the fuck he’s doing.”