Big Bad, page 37
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GASLIGHTING
1
“Holy Jesus, you weren’t kidding,” Guppy said, standing on the bottom step of the basement stairs. He looked over at Emma, who had warned him before heading down that it wasn’t a pretty scene. “Is that…?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Is he dead?”
“He’s dead.” Emma bent and stepped into the maternity sweatpants Guppy had brought for her. Then the boots.
“The hell happened?” Guppy said, taking off his hat and scratching his head. He didn’t look appalled—he looked curious, more than anything. “You do that to him?” He finally moved off the bottom step and inched closer to Adam, as if approaching the edge of some tall cliff he intended to look over.
“He didn’t do it to himself,” Emma said.
“Guess not.” He pulled his eyes off the body and looked her up and down. “Sorry, them clothes were all I got. My daughter left em over when she was expectin.”
“They’ll work,” Emma said, tying the drawstring on the sweats.
Guppy slid his eyes northward. “Your head—you got walloped a good one, huh?”
“I’m okay.” Emma went over to the workbench and found some paper towels. There was a half-drunk bottle of Fiji water. She opened it, smelled it, and took a sip. Then she poured some on a wad of paper towels and started wiping her eye clean so she could see. It had been stuck shut with dried blood since she’d awoken tied to a chair.
“You sure he’s dead?” Guppy said.
“I’m sure,” Emma said, finding the cut near her temple and touching it gently with the tips of her fingers. There was a better than fair chance she had a concussion. She put a hand on the bench top, steadying herself, and looked over at the cage in the corner.
A gunshot exploded behind her, the concrete walls of the basement amplifying the sound. She wheeled around, ears ringing, and saw Guppy standing over Adam, the .38 revolver he’d showed her the day before pointed down at his son’s killer.
“What was that?” she said.
“Compromise,” he said matter-of-factly. He tucked the gun in his waistband and looked over at Emma. “Been wanting to do that awhile.”
They exchanged glances for a beat as a moment of uncertainty passed between them.
“Feel better?”
He gave a little nod. “I think so.”
“He talked about Christopher. You want to know?”
Guppy shook his head. “I don’t need to hear it. I already know it.”
“You do,” Emma said reassuringly.
He turned away from the subject and looked around the basement. “So what the hell happened?”
Emma grabbed the newspaper photograph off the workbench and walked it over to Guppy. “I think this is what got my sister killed.”
Guppy gazed down at the clipping, his forehead rising and falling as he tried to work out the significance of what he was seeing. When he finally looked up, he said, “I don’t get it.”
Emma put her hand out and took the photograph back. “When did Adam change his name from Bloom to Winthrop?”
“Oh. I’m not sure exactly, but I do remember hearing something about it way back. People’ll talk about pretty much anything around here. I think it was when he got a little older. Prolly when he realized he could trade on it. Why? What’s that gotta do with anything?”
“A lot. I’ll tell you everything in the car.” She folded the clipping along the creases, creases she imagined her sister scarring into the paper when she’d first cut it out of The Rockcliffe Item, and tucked it in her pocket.
“Okay,” Guppy said.
They headed upstairs.
At the top, Emma stopped. Her pills were down in the basement. She recalled seeing Adam push the bottle into his back pocket after he’d taunted her with them. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gone this long without them being at the front of her mind. Probably because the drugs she’d been dosed with were still in her system. She could feel them smothering her brain like a wet wool blanket, making her slow and groggy—but also keeping the withdrawals at bay. When they wore off she would need something, though, or she would be useless, and she had more to do. Still, she’d forgotten them, even if only for a short time. And for some reason that felt important. A reminder that a mind could break free. As hers would when she was ready.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, then turned around and went back into the basement.
2
They turned down the Lamplighter Inn’s driveway just as Emma finished bringing Guppy up to speed. She’d thought about holding back certain details, but when she began laying it out for him, a sense of freedom sprouted in her. A sense of shackles coming undone. And as she said the things aloud, as she dragged that which had never seen daylight out into the sun, it felt purgative. She was opening a long-closed door, finally allowing a dank space in her soul to air out. To brighten. But somewhere else, she feared she had just betrayed Molly.
“That’s all of it,” she said.
He didn’t say anything at first. Then he did. “How long’s he been doing it?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “Sounded like a long time.”
“That’s, uh… that’s…” He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “Just when you think you got a fix on your idea of the world.” He sighed. “And your sister really shot his father?”
“She really did.”
“God, I can’t imagine carrying a thing like that around. Poor kid. It wasn’t her fault.”
Emma looked into the rearview mirror and could see the disbelief in Guppy’s eyes. She could tell that everything she had told him had shifted his idea of the natural order of things. Now his grasp of the world was just a little misaligned. She understood it because she’d felt the same shift in herself a long time ago.
“Yesterday you mentioned you worked for the Pelkeys as a fisherman before you were a cab driver.”
“I did, yeah,” Guppy said, and nodded. He seemed happy to change the subject. “I worked for Al Pelkey for almost thirty years. Retired right after he died and Clarence took the reins.”
“You ever see anything that didn’t seem right?” Emma said. “Fishing boats that never seemed to do any fishing maybe? Routes that seemed strange? Places that were off-limits?”
“Nothing I can remember, but that was more than ten years ago when I was there. Al wouldn’t’ve been into nothing illegal, either. Not him. You’ll have to trust me on that. Clarence and Brian are a different story, though. His boys weren’t cut of the same cloth, you know? Once Al was gone, who knows what they got into.” He looked at her in the mirror. “No, if they’re using the boats for smuggling something, it wasn’t when I was there. It’s not uncommon, though. I mean, I never heard rumor of it on Rockcliffe, but I heard of it in other fishing towns. Nearby, even. There was a big bust in Gloucester just a couple years back. They were putting heroin in the fish. Packing it right in. Yeesh, what a racket. You think something like that’s what’s going on here?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it fits, and it would explain a lot. It’s nothing more than a theory, though,” Emma said. “Adam didn’t spill anything or make anything clearer. He needed to see what I knew, which wouldn’t work if he gave it away.”
Guppy pulled up in front of the hotel and dropped the cab into park. He turned and looked over the seat. “Why not call your federal friends and have them look into it?”
“It’s not that simple. Investigations take time and planning. And they could turn up nothing. In fact, they probably would right now, be my guess. Whatever they’re into, Molly spooked them. Adam and Clarence thought she was looking into them. And if that’s the case, they might’ve pushed pause on their operation until they’re confident it isn’t compromised. I need more. Something solid. We need to catch em with their hands in it.”
“You got a plan?”
“Not quite a plan. Just an idea.”
“What is it?”
“Bayard’s gonna help us,” Emma said. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“You said he’s dirty.”
Emma considered it a moment. Then she said, “His wife got sick, and he was desperate. I think he got in over his head. Took money to look the other way and act as a broom when things needed to be swept under the carpet. But he doesn’t seem like the type to go along with murder. He’s a cornered man who doesn’t see a way out. That makes him vulnerable.”
“So what’re you gonna do?”
She stepped out of the cab. “I have Jim Highmore’s phone number upstairs. We need to talk to him.”
3
In athletic shorts, a Nike T-shirt, and socked feet, Jim sat and listened on his couch as Emma laid it out for him. He’d been on his way home from the gym when she’d called and asked to meet. When she was finished getting him filled in on everything—well, not everything: it was a slightly modified version—he didn’t say anything. Instead he stood, handed back the newspaper photo, went to the window, and clasped his hands behind his neck. The spitting snow had ramped up to a steady clip that fell diagonally, pushed by a light breeze. He let out a long breath and cocked his neck, cracking it. Emma watched while the information she’d just given him sank in. When they’d first met, Jim had suspected that something about Molly’s death wasn’t right—enough to confide in her and risk his ass—but Emma doubted he’d considered anything close to what she had just told him. Much of it, she hadn’t expected, either.
“So your father killed Adam Winthrop’s father thirty years ago?” he said. “That’s some… Well, that’s some wild Game of Thrones shit.” He was clearly trying to work it all out in his head and find the sense in it.
“We certainly weren’t the Cleavers, if that’s what you mean,” she said, and looked over at Guppy.
He was sitting at the table Jim used for eating his bachelor’s meals. It separated the kitchen from the living room and was covered in food-stained magazines—Men’s Fitness, Cabela’s, Guns & Ammo, Popular Mechanics—and unopened mail. A red ceramic bowl was in the center of it all, full of avocados and a single brown banana. Guppy gave her a little nod. It was a conversation held in a fraction of a second, one that confirmed he understood the reason for the lie she’d just told Jim. It was inevitable that Molly’s connection to Adam would get out once reporters got ahold of the story, but they would never know the real truth of how Edgar Bloom had died—of who had put the final bullet in his head. And with that one shared and lingering glance, Emma knew that Guppy would carry in silence what she’d told him about her sister. He would carry it until he took his final breath and stepped off the earth and into the Great Void.
“So why was your sister following him?” Jim said. “What was she up to?”
“I don’t know. But Molly could be obsessive. I’m sure when she found out who Adam was, she got curious. I think she probably just wanted to know what type of person he became. Look at him through a new lens, you know?” Emma said. “She carried a lot of guilt about what happened.”
“You think she knew what he was? The suicide stuff, I mean?”
“I doubt it. This whole thing feels like one big misunderstanding, as crazy as that is. She was curious about Adam because of what our father did, and Adam thought she was snooping around about his and the Pelkeys’ activities.”
“This is bad.” Jim folded his arms and shook his head. “Jesus, no wonder Bayard didn’t want me digging into it,” he said, then looked at her. “You sure about any of this?”
“Sure? No. But I think it’s safe to say something’s going on.” She paused before adding, “There might be a way to get some more reliable answers, though. Which brings us to you.”
“What can I do?”
“Bayard told you it was okay to chase the gun lead, right? Try to figure out where she got it?”
Jim nodded. “Yeah. But I told you, he knows it’s a dead end. No serial number.”
“Maybe. Might not have to be, though.”
He looked intrigued. “What’re you thinking?”
Guppy cleared his throat. “You mind if I throw on some coffee while you two hash this out? Maybe make a few scrambies and some toast? Never really got any breakfast.”
“Have at it,” Jim said, and pointed at a cabinet beside the refrigerator. “Coffee should be in there.”
“I’ll find it. Anybody else hungry?” Guppy asked, standing and looking eager. He took off his hat and dropped it on the table.
Emma and Jim said they were, and then Guppy set about making them all some breakfast—scrambled eggs, coffee, and English muffins—while Emma told Jim what she had in mind. It was pretty simple, really.
4
For the first time, Emma was sitting in the passenger seat of Guppy’s cab, instead of in the back. They were parked up the street from the Rockcliffe police station, waiting for Jim to come back out. It had the feel of a stakeout, and in some ways that was a welcome sensation. The excitement of having a purpose.
She checked her phone. It was twenty past noon. Jim had been inside the department for just over ten minutes now.
“Think it’ll work?” Guppy said while he fumbled with the radio. He found some classical music—“Clair de Lune”—and left it there on low volume.
“Not sure,” Emma said. “I’m banking on Bayard just needing a little push. Let’s hope it plays out that way.”
“It’s a good idea. I think it’ll work. In my opinion, you got the right idea about him.”
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
They sat and listened to the music, neither speaking, both watching the front entrance of the police station. Every minute or so, Guppy worked the windshield wipers to clear away the snow as it fell. It was a peaceful moment and seemed a time when much could have been discussed, yet much was not, favor instead going to silence.
When Debussy had finished on the radio, Emma said, “Can I ask you something?”
“O’course, ma’am. Ask away,” Guppy said.
“Why both: the radio and the headphones? You learning a language?”
He laughed in a good-natured way. “Not learning a language. No, nothing like that, ma’am. Here, I’ll show you,” he said, then grabbed the earbuds from the cup holder and reached over and pulled an older-generation iPod from the glove box. He attached the headphones and handed the setup over to Emma. “Just hit Play.”
Emma looked at him and exhaled a curious little laugh. “Okay,” she said, then put the earbuds in, pressed Play, and listened.
All she could tell at first was that it wasn’t music and it definitely wasn’t a language program. She heard ambient sounds. A joyous energy in a wide-open space. Perhaps a recording from a mall or some other crowded place. Everything sounded muffled and a little vintage. Wind battered a microphone in small swells. A chorus of seagulls squalled in the background. In the distance, a whistle cut through the low warble of good times. It reminded her of a lifeguard whistle.
A woman with delicate traces of a New England accent said, “Hey, Spielberg, we’re gonna get some fried dough at the snack bar. You two wanna put that thing down and tag along?”
Someone with a voice that could’ve been Guppy’s answered, “Sand’s too hot. You and Christopher bring back the goods. Me and Case are working on our Oscar. Aren’t we, Crab Cake?”
A small girl responded with pretend snark, “I’m a movie star. Do not disturb me. We’re shooting big things, Mom.”
Laughter followed. Then the person who sounded like Guppy said, “You heard her—big things. Just get us a couple of them frozen ices, would ya? The lemon ones. And a hot dog.” The engine of what sounded like a small plane buzzed through the sky.
Emma looked down at the iPod. The screen showed the title of the track: Crane’s Beach 8/10/91.
She looked over at Guppy, who was sort of watching her with a sideways glance, perhaps gauging her reaction. She took off the headphones.
“What is this?” she said, careful in her reaction. She could tell he’d just shared something deeply personal with her.
“Not what you thought?” Guppy said, forcing levity into his tone.
“Hard to say.”
“Yeah. That’s fair,” Guppy said, and pressed the edge of a single curled finger to his lips. After a pensive beat, he went on. “Me and Connie bought one of them VHS camcorders when the kids were young. O’course, this was before everybody had one in their pocket. It was a big deal back then. Anyway, we made a lot of videos. I mean, a lot. Boxes and boxes of tapes. Home movies, you know. All that stuff from birthdays and Sunday dinners. Christmas. Everything.” He took the iPod back and started wrapping the headphones around it. “My son-in-law’s good with tech stuff. He found a way to transfer all them tapes to his computer. And from there to one of these.” He held up the iPod. “It’s just the sound on here, but that’s the way I wanted it. Now I carry my family around with me. Keeps em close. It’s nice.”
Emma didn’t have a response. She was caught flatfooted. She hadn’t known what to expect to hear when she’d pressed play, but certainly not something so completely naked in its honesty.
“Why only the sound?” she asked.
“It’s not like I don’t watch the videos at home sometimes. I do,” Guppy said. “But with this, I just close my eyes and listen. I can put myself there in my head, and the connection feels, I don’t know, more authentic, I guess. More my own. The video creates too much distance between what is and isn’t.” He let out a little embarrassed laugh. “Not sure if that makes any sense to you, but it does to me.”
“It makes sense,” Emma said. An awkward sentimental moment began to settle in the car, but she stifled it with a laugh. “Shit, I really wasn’t expecting that.”
Guppy grinned. “No? Thought I was learning Japaneseey, did you?” he said lightheartedly, and nodded toward the police station. “Hey, here he is. Looks like we’re off the hook. For a moment there, I thought we was gonna have us a hug and a cry.”
“Almost,” Emma said as she turned and looked.
Jim was heading back to the cab in his civvies: a navy-blue sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots. He opened the door and slid into the back seat of the cab.
