Wreckage: An Addictive Psychological Thriller Packed with Twists, page 10
Suicidally, I turn the knob and peek out.
Miles. He pushes into the room, carrying a laptop.
“Let’s assume everything you said is true,” he announces without preamble. “Who could possibly know about that night, and why would they care?”
What has caused this sudden shift of attitude? Miles plunks his computer down on the room’s small desk, tosses his rain jacket onto the bed, and rolls up his sleeves as if he’s ready to work. “Let’s start by reviewing what we know for sure,” he says. “See where that leads us.” His energy is all business.
Fine, I’m in.
We convert my room into a makeshift “war room,” moving the desk into the middle of the floor and stealing an extra chair from down the hallway.
We’re in agreement that my only real hope of thwarting my purported stalkers is to figure out who they are and what they want. We know the odds of solving this puzzle from the remote location of Musqasset Island, in a storm, on a holiday weekend, with two rank amateurs at the helm, are slim, to put it wildly optimistically. But slim beats nonexistent.
“Before we go any further with this,” says Miles, booting up his computer, “I want to state something ‘for the record.’” Oh joy. “I’m choosing to believe you, and I want to help you, but... here’s my dilemma. Now that I know what happened that night, I can’t unknow it. And the more information we unearth, the harder it’s going to be to pretend I can. What I’m trying to say is, in my career position, I can’t be guilty of covering up... misdeeds.”
“Don’t worry about me, Miles. I’m prepared to accept complete responsibility for my actions at the appropriate time.” It’s true. I am.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. He nods. We lock eyes across the table for several seconds.
“Then let’s proceed.”
I go to turn on my voice-recorder app to capture our conversation—a habit of mine from work meetings—but before I touch the phone, it “wakes up” as if a text or call has come in. Nothing appears on the screen, though. Whatever message was snaking through the ether, trying to find me, has been swallowed by the storm. I tap “record” on the VoxFox app.
“The first question we need to ask,” says Miles, “is who besides you and me could possibly know about your connection to that accident? No one else was there.” He leans back, flaring his palms out. “Possibility number one: you or I told someone. Since I had nothing to tell until now, that kind of eliminates me.” Miles drills his eyes into mine, doing his lawyer thing. “Over the course of the last eighteen years, have you told anyone what happened in that car? Anyone at all?”
Easy answer. “No.”
“Are you sure? Anyone? Under any circumstances? Think. A confession to a priest...” Right. “A night in a bar... pillow talk with Jeannie or someone else?”
“Nope, absolutely not. I’m a hundred percent sure.”
“Ever write about it in a journal or diary someone could have read?” I shake my head. “Or mention it to a shrink in a hospital, or a therapist?”
“No, Miles. I told you: I couldn’t even admit it to myself. I moved to the far end of the continent just so I wouldn’t have to know if there’d even been an accident.”
“So, we didn’t start the fire. Possibility number two…” He does a courtroom pause. “There was an eyewitness. Someone saw what happened, maybe got your license plate number.”
Given the conditions that night—dark road, late hour, unpopulated location—we rule out the possibility of a random observer.
“Which leaves the cop, then,” says Miles.
“Hmm, right. Here’s the thing, though. I was watching for him like a hawk. My eyes were glued to the rear-view mirror at the time that I”—I almost say “you”—“threw the bottle. He wasn’t behind us yet. ...Besides, if the cop saw me throw it, why wouldn’t he have followed up? Why wait eighteen years to come after me, and why get thugs involved? Doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t. Which brings us to possibility number three. If neither of us told anyone, and there were no witnesses, including the cop, then someone pieced something together from evidence found at the accident scene.”
“And the only possible evidence was the bottle itself. If they could somehow trace that.”
“Right.”
“But wouldn’t it have shattered into a million pieces?” I ask.
“Maybe, maybe not. It was a thick bottle, as I recall.”
An idea lightbulb switches on over Miles’s head—almost literally, I swear—and he types “Glenmalloch” into the Google search box. He hits the search button. Nothing happens.
“Damn,” he says. The Internet, it seems, has chosen this moment to desert us. “This place has satellite,” Miles says by way of explanation. “We’ll try again later.”
Internet service on Musqasset is a crapshoot even on a sunny day in June. The concept of broadband is like time travel here. Video streaming is a joke. Satellite Internet is a common choice—that’s what Harbor House uses—but its reliability varies, especially in bad weather. Quite a few residents still have dial-up, believe it or not, and many people use their cellphone service for Web access, but cell reception is trash outside the village, where the only cell “tower” (an eight-foot pole) is located. Even email can be spotty. Texting is probably the most dependable means of communication, but texts can show up at random times, or not at all.
“Okay,” Miles continues, “Let’s stipulate, for now, that someone has connected you to the accident—they obviously have, we’re just not sure how. So, what’s the next most obvious question?”
“Why would they want to kill me? ‘Motive,’ as they say on Law & Order. And why wait eighteen fricking years?”
“Let’s look at motive first. Why would someone want you dead? Not for any apparent gain, it seems. There was no attempt to blackmail you or make demands. Right? Someone just wanted you deleted from the census report.”
“So that would point to what? Vengeance or ‘justice,’ I suppose. Someone has a vendetta and wants me to pay for my... crime.”
“Possibly.” Miles thinks for a moment. “Or maybe you’re perceived as a threat to someone. Are you?”
“Not unless bad computer-game art is a malign force to be reckoned with.”
“Do you have any enemies, though, Finn?”
“I can think of a few people who might want to cross me off their Christmas card lists, but not off the planet. And even if they did, why stage my death to look like a suicide?”
“Um, so there wouldn’t be a murder investigation.” Duh. “Plus, the fake suicide note comes in handy if someone wants the world to know you threw the bottle. It’s a flat-out confession.”
“True.” I’m still confounded by the fact that the suicide note sounded exactly like me, but I don’t want to get into that right now. “Again, though, why wait eighteen years?”
Miles mines the air for answers. “Without knowing who’s responsible, we’ll never figure that part out. Let’s stay with the who. Someone wanted justice... revenge?... for themselves or a loved one. So, who were the parties involved?”
We scan the newspaper article, and Miles types the names on the laptop:
Paul Abelsen
Laurice Abelsen
Ashley Abelsen
Edgar Goslin
Seeing the names in stark black letters brings home the fact that real human beings died that night in 1999. People who will never have children or grandchildren or taste another spoonful of strawberry ice cream. I feel a burn of shame and grief.
Miles, sensing my thoughts, says gently, “You didn’t know, Finn.”
“Because I didn’t want to know. Because I avoided knowing.”
Miles waits a respectful beat, then says, “The Abelsens—we need to talk bluntly about this—all died. But they might have friends or relatives who are seeking payback. Edgar Goslin was hospitalized with serious injuries. If he survived, he might have a score to settle.”
“So, task number one,” I say, “is to find out whatever we can about the Abelsens and Edgar Goslin. And that pricey bottle of scotch.”
“All without a working Internet,” grumbles Miles. No sooner does he say this than the results of his “Glenmalloch” search pop up on Google. “Back in business—for the moment anyway.”
Miles clicks on the URL for Glenmalloch.com. The website assembles itself in piecemeal fashion. It’s a hi-res site replete with polished wood grains and vessels of gleaming amber liquid. Miles finds a section called “Special Release Malts.” It shows a pictorial history of all the unique whiskies the company has released in recent decades. Scrolling through the years, Miles freezes when he sees a product released in 1999 called Single Barrel 16, Anniversary Edition—“a premium Islay-style whisky matured in a single aging cask and offered in a hand-numbered, decanter-style bottle to honor the distillery’s 150th anniversary.”
The photo hits me like a slap in the face: a squared decanter with a heavy glass cork-stopper and a shockingly familiar black-and-gold embossed label.
“That’s it,” I say. Unnecessarily. “That’s the bottle.”
Miles nods, almost hypnotically. “Look how thick that glass is. If this bottle hit a car windshield, it might have left pieces big enough to identify.”
Wow, a mere twenty minutes into our lame-ass “investigation,” and we may have already found a pivotal piece of the puzzle. We stare dumbly at the screen.
“So how would someone trace it back to me?” I ask, even as my mind is supplying possible answers.
“Two ways I can think of,” says Miles. “Fingerprints, for one. Either of our prints, or both, could have been on any part of the bottle.” He blows out a shaky breath. “Have you ever been fingerprinted?”
“Not that I recall,” I say, “though I came close once.” I cast him a leaden glance. There was an incident during our sophomore year of college that we both look back upon with shame—for different reasons.
Miles and I had been at our friend Doc’s apartment, watching Green Bay kick New England’s ass on Monday Night Football. We’d had a few beers. Miles was driving me home in his van when we spotted blue lights behind us. He panicked, to put it mildly.
“Oh my God, Finn,” he shrieked, “what are we going to do?” He started blubbering like a schoolkid, “I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m totally screwed.”
I was appalled. This was the first time I’d seen Miles without the social mask, the first time I realized that behind his polished exterior there lived a terrified child.
“My life will be over if I get charged with DUI,” he said. “Over! My father will kill me. I’ll never go to law school. My grandparents will freak. ...You’ve got to switch seats with me.”
He stopped the van and, without awaiting my answer, dove to the floor and climbed toward the passenger seat, as I, like an idiot, scrambled into the driver’s seat. We pulled off the switcheroo—thanks to the curtains covering the van’s rear windows—but I was taken to the police station, where I submitted to a blood test. I was finally released, no fingerprints taken, but it was a close call. Not one of our proudest moments.
“You?” I ask. “Ever fingerprinted?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
“The only other way to connect the bottle to me, then—assuming they could piece enough of it together to identify the brand—would be to trace the purchase somehow, right?”
“Right. Ordinarily, that would be almost impossible, but this was no Johnny Walker Red. This was sixteen-year Glenmalloch, numbered label. Do you remember where you bought it?”
I think back for a moment but oddly have no memory of purchasing the bottle. I shake my head no. Maybe it’ll come to me later.
“There were only a couple of liquor stores in the Bridgefield area that would have carried a product like this,” says Miles. “That bottle probably sold for close to a hundred dollars.”
“It did, believe me,” I say. “I wanted it to be memorable.” Yay, score one for me on that front.
“How many bottles like this do you suppose were sold in our area within a week or two before the incident?”
The answer is plain. A handful at best.
Maybe only one.
15
We’re still staring at the web photo of the old Glenmalloch bottle when a bone-jarring crack of thunder splits the air above us. The lamp in the room loses power, and we go dark. We’ve lost the Internet signal again too. And I can’t get online with my phone.
We’re instantly back in the 1920s.
Miles’s phone rings. He answers, listens, and says, “I’m on my way.”
“Beth,” he explains to me. “The generator didn’t kick on.”
He stands and puts his rain jacket on. Guess we’re finished. There’s not much more “detective” work we can do without Wi-Fi anyway. He gives me a light goodbye hug, but I catch his eyes scanning me like a doctor evaluating a head-trauma patient. He tells me to call him later and vamooses.
I’m left alone in my newly rented room.
My tiny, isolated, powerless rented room.
I wonder how long we’ll be without juice. Minutes? Hours? Days?
Even though it’s late morning, it’s surprisingly dark in the old inn without lamplight and under this dense cloud cover.
With no Internet to focus on, my mind hurtles back to the danger I’m in. I have no idea who my stalkers are, where they’re staying, what they want, or how insane they are. I don’t know whether they’re surveilling me 24/7 or not. The idea that I can somehow learn these things by digging up facts on an ancient scotch bottle suddenly seems like magical thinking of the looniest order.
To complicate matters, my mind, ridiculously and unproductively, keeps gravitating to Jeannie. Does she really have a kid? Is she still with that clown who—
Stop.
I wander downstairs to the lobby to snag a candle lantern from JJ. The L.L.Bean family is sitting around a coffee table, playing a board game near the fireplace. The daughter gives me a little finger-wave. Damn, she’s more than cute. Under different circumstances, I might...
Enough. Stick to the task at hand.
Which is what?
.....
Back in my candlelit room, I’m staring out the window at the village below, trying to figure out my next move. A man in a dark raincoat—hard to tell its exact color—is standing near the donut shop/post office. He seems to be staring up at my window. I reflexively draw back.
A moment later I look again. The figure is gone.
A woman bustles by, carrying a floppy handbag that reminds me of one my sister Angie owns. Angie. Call Angie! Of course! Angie works at the city clerk’s office in Wentworth, and she can find out anything about anyone.
Luckily, my phone is still working as a telephone, if not as an Internet portal. I ring Angie’s work number and manage to catch her at her desk.
“Hey Ange, it’s me.”
“Oh, Finn. Hi. Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t been up to see you yet, but I—”
Up to see me? Crap, she thinks I’m still in the hospital. “Um, I’m not at Saint D’s anymore.”
Short pause. “What? What do you mean?”
“I discharged myself.”
Another pause. “Do you think that was wise?”
“I’m on Musqasset right now, Ange. It’s a long story, and I might lose phone service any minute. Listen, I was hoping you could help me with something. I need some information on a couple of people in the Wentworth area. I’ll explain why when we have more time.”
“Okaaay...” she says, not exactly blasting me off my feet with enthusiasm.
I recap the 1999 newspaper account of the accident and tell her the kind of info I’m looking for—who the Abelsens were, any known friends and relatives, who Goslin is or was, what became of him, and so forth.
Angie is quiet for several long seconds. “What goaded you into digging for this information, Finn?”
What goaded me? Oddly phrased question. “I’ll explain later. I’m afraid of losing my signal, and I’ve got more calls to make. Can you do me this favor? Ange?”
“I’ll... see what I can find out,” she finally offers. “If you think that’s a good idea. But you will need to tell me what you’re up to. I’m worried about you, Finn.”
I thank her, asking her to email me—and Miles—whatever results she finds, and hang up. Why the guarded attitude?
Because Ange is nuts, that’s why.
I’ll let her do some digging into Goslin and the Abelsens, though.
Meanwhile, I’ll try to focus on the scotch bottle—that rare and highly traceable scotch bottle that seems to be the sole thread tying me to the accident—with my phone as my only tool. If only I could remember where I bought the damn bottle, there’s a chance the owner of the store, or an employee, might recall someone asking questions about it all those years ago.
But I can’t remember. And it was almost twenty years ago. The store that sold it probably doesn’t even exist anymore, and if it does, what are my odds of reaching someone who worked there in 1999? Still, I need to try.
It takes me a moment to remember how phone numbers were disseminated in the pre-smartphone era. Phonebooks, oh yeah. I recall that the Musqasset library houses a large collection of them from all around New England.
.....
Island Avenue is half underwater as I trudge the two hundred muddy yards to the library, getting tommy-gunned by the wind-blown rain. I have a strong sense of being watched; every window looks like an eye. The instant I step inside the one-room building and stomp the rain off my shoes, Lester Hughes, the octogenarian librarian, chimes, “So the rumor mill was right.”
Fabulous—the town librarian has already heard I’m on the island. Hooray for keeping my presence on the downlow.
Lester shows me the corner of the room once reserved for phone books. It has been converted into The Story Nook, as the hideous fairytale mural attests. No more phone books. “So, what do people do if they need a phone number and the Internet is down?”
Lester shrugs and flashes his Titanium White dentures. “Call 411 and invest a buck.”
