Barnburner, page 10
He must have TWO CDs in tandem....
Eventually, I emerged from the library, metaphorically dusty and much calmer. I paused at the main menu to survey my options.
Page the Sysop caught my eye. I'd heard a BBS page from the sysop side—once. It was a sound combining the worst parts of ambulance, fire engine and cop-car sirens. After that, I always thought twice before paging any sysop.
I thought three times now. It would be nice, I thought, to chat with Fox. On the other hand it was closing in on three a.m. and nothing short of a discovered virus or hacker invasion was justification for—
The screen blanked; reformed in an eyeblink, bisected by a thin white line.
Hello, Jennifer, Fox here.
Relief—idiotic, illogical relief—washed through me.
You're up late, I commented.
I might say the same to you.
And just did.
I hesitated; typed: Couldn't sleep. And then:
The cops arrested Scott Ash. Murder.
Oh, no. Fox's response was instantaneous. How's his wife?
Scared. Pissed. Says he didn't do it. Naturally. I hesitated, but my fingers kept on. Says she knows who did.
Yes? That could prove useful. Did she tell the cops?
There's a problem. I took a deep gulp of air, watching the words leap into being on the screen.
She knows—she says she knows—because Scott had a vision.
There was a slight pause, before:
You don't believe in visions?
Do you? My fingers challenged before I could stop them.
No, Fox typed slowly. I believe in ghosts. There was a longer pause, then, still typing slow: I understand the difficulty in bringing this intelligence to the attention of the police. What will you do?
I blinked in surprise. Me? It doesn't have anything to do with me.
Which was, I thought suddenly, a flat lie. In spite of my cogitations yesterday afternoon, it had everything to do with me. I'd seen Scott leaving the scene of the crime.
I was—very likely—Bruce Gagnon's prize witness.
Oh, hell, my fingers were telling Fox, I only just realized. Bruce is going to use me—my testimony—to hang Scott.
Maine doesn't have the death penalty. Fox reminded me.
No, but they do have life imprisonment. I shivered and closed my eyes. Locked up for the rest of your days, when all you'd wanted was to get the sheep under roof... I swallowed, hard. Opened my eyes and looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. Three twenty-six.
I should let you get some sleep, I told Fox, and blatantly changed the subject.
Thanks for helping Marian out by the way—she tells me you're nice, which is a signal honor. Marian never thinks anyone is nice.
On the contrary, Fox typed. She told me that you were nice. A very slight pause.
Good night, Jennifer. I hope you'll be able to sleep now.
I hope so, too, I returned. CYA.
CYA.
A flicker of color and I was back in the board. Reluctantly, I chose
15
THE ALARM CLOCK LET loose and I rolled over, grabbed it and pushed in the pin. The racket cut off in mid-clang. I collapsed back onto the pillow, clock cradled in my hands, and took stock.
My head was pounding, which was expectable, given the dreams and the night and the worries. Likewise expectable was the hot-wire crankiness in my bad shoulder and the all-over gritty feeling. Sleep would take care of the headache and the grittiness, at least. I closed my eyes and tried to remember my schedule.
This was Tuesday: meeting day. On Tuesday I usually went in at three, covered the selectmen's meeting or the comprehensive plan meeting or the school board meeting at seven, back at eight, eight-thirty, to write the story....
Not this Tuesday.
Abruptly, it came clear. This Tuesday I was day-news, covering Milt Vane's shift. This Tuesday I had to be in Town Hall at ten o'clock sharp for a meeting with a suit from the Maine Harness Racing Commission. Milt had turned this one down cold, which was predictable. Since the suit was unlikely to be female—there was by definition nothing in the story for Milt to sink his teeth into—and so he told Bill Jacques.
Rather than enter into a protracted hassle, Bill rewrote the schedule, giving me the racing commissioner and Milt the school board. Even Milt had sense enough not to squawk about that.
Ten o'clock at Town Hall, alert and intelligent. Shit. I opened my eyes and lifted the clock.
Eight-fifteen.
Groaning, I went to take a shower.
***
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, dressed in black corduroy slacks and a red cotton turtleneck, I hit the kitchen. Water and grounds went into the coffee maker; I flicked the switch to "on" and stood mindlessly watching the drip until something flashed by my shoulder, hitting the window over the sink with a loud thump.
I started, swinging around fast, hand raised to fend off God-knew-what.
From his perch on the sill, Jasper blinked lazy hazel eyes and turned his attention to the world outside the pane.
"Terrify me, why don't you?" I snapped, absurdly embarrassed. Nervously, I touched the silver studs in my ears before crossing to the fridge.
I've never been a big eater and breakfast has never been my favorite meal. During most of my adult life I've gotten along with a cup of coffee and a slice of toast for the repast my mother had taught me was "the essential meal of the day." This morning, even toast looked like a lot of trouble.
Gritting my teeth, I hauled out the bread and slid a slice gently into the depths of my aunt's elderly two-slicer. While breakfast was burning, I poured out the absolutely essential coffee, added milk and carried the mug to the table, returning a moment later with my buttered slice. Sliding into a chair, I proceeded to eat, grimly deliberate, and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pounding of my head.
It was going to be a bad day. I hated this—hated the heaviness behind my eyes and the way the sluggish thoughts seemed to burn the surface of my brain. I hated it even more than I hated the tired, familiar ache in the damaged shoulder. And it was only tension. I knew that. I put my elbows on the table and rubbed my eyes.
"Damn."
In Baltimore, I had headaches often. In Baltimore, I'd had a prescription—magic blue pills to keep the headaches at bay.
In Maine, where I'd lived nearly two years without the whisper of a migraine, I'd let the prescription expire.
The toast sat uneasy on my stomach. I took my hands away from my eyes and considered the pale brown liquid steaming gently in the ceramic mug.
"Prrt?"
It was an odd noise, perfectly unlike any other noise I'd ever heard, but with a definite note of inquiry attached. It had come from the direction of the floor. I looked down.
Jasper was sitting by my chair, ears alert, eyes alight with interest.
"Prrt?" he inquired again.
And leapt into my lap.
Unprecedented. Jasper had never shown the least desire for my company, going so far as to look pointedly away from an offered introductory finger. Now, I sat frozen as he purred and kneaded, then curled 'round against my stomach, still rumbling and looking almost unbearably pleased with himself.
Tentatively, I extended a finger. Jasper politely touched it with his nose. I stroked his head and his rumbling increased.
This was astonishing. Carefully, I picked up the coffee mug and sipped; Jasper squinted his eyes in pleasure. I put my free hand around the curve of his back. I was not dissuaded by so much as an ear-flick.
"You're not sick, are you, cat?"
No answer. Well, I hadn't really expected one.
I drank coffee, taking my time about it, then sat, eyes closed, for a time, both hands tucked around Jasper, feeling his purrs vibrate against my palms. I may have dozed off for a minute or five. When I opened my eyes, the readout on the microwave stood at nine-thirty-five. I sighed, and, very gently, stirred.
"Time for me to go," I told Jasper, and then, feeling slightly foolish, "Thanks."
I shifted once more, trying not to rush it. Jasper jumped to the floor, stretched and walked away, tail high. I got up, brushed white fur off my black slacks, plucked pocketbook and jacket from the peg by the door and went down the ell to the barn.
***
COLIN WYANDOTTE OF the Maine Harness Racing Commission was short, thin and affable. Though he was, in fact, wearing a suit, he didn't look particularly comfortable in it. He'd loosened his tie by the time I shook hands with him, and opened the first button on his white broadcloth shirt.
"From The Voice, eh? Fine paper. Bill Jacques still writing for you?"
I smiled and told him that Bill was news editor, nowadays, and his face lit with what looked like genuine pleasure.
"Well, now, that's fine. Good to see an able man rewarded. Used to see Bill when I was driving—fair circuit, understand. Saw him a little less when I come to be an owner, though he did call me once or twice for something on one of his stories. Able man. You tell him I said so." He grinned and shook his head. "What we come to, eh? Driving a desk, that's what it all boils down to, in the end."
He seemed to shake himself, then, and waved toward the battered conference table. "Mustn't keep you all morning," he said, "Let's sit down and you can ask me your questions."
We sat. I flipped open my notebook, uncapped the Bic and gave Mr. Wyandotte a smile that sent tiny sparks of pain through my aching head.
"What makes the racing commission think an off-track betting parlor would be good for Wimsy?" A loaded question, in its way. Let's see what he would make of it.
He caught it without a blink, tucked it under his arm and ran with it.
Over the next twenty minutes I was treated to a history of track betting in the state of Maine, and a concise comparison of those trends with betting trends in other New England states.
"The tracks had a certain unsavory reputation attached to them—I'm not going to try to hide that from you." Colin Wyandotte grinned. "Bill Jacques would only put you straight on it when you got back anyway, so why waste my time?" The grin faded. "As that reputation took hold, people shied away from visiting the tracks, bets fell off, legitimate trainers, legitimate owners—, Maine people—were robbed of a significant source of income. The Commission and the Off-Track Betting Committee are trying to take that back. Betting parlors will be sited in up-scale restaurants, like the Mill, here in Wimsy. There will be big-screen TVs for viewing the races; bets will be placed by computer—they look something like a lottery machine, understand. The technology is very solid.
"The set-up will discourage abuse, will keep the undesirable elements out, and make it possible for Maine people to make money and to enjoy the pleasures of high-stakes racing."
Not bad for an ex-driver. I glanced up from my notes. "What undesirable elements?"
Mr. Wyandotte blew air and leaned back in his chair, eyes traveling toward the ceiling.
"Well, now." He looked back to me. "Not from around here, I take it? Not with that accent."
"Midcoast," I confessed calmly. "Maryland."
"Maryland," he repeated, like he'd actually heard of the state. "Some fine racing done in Maryland." He cocked his head.
"City girl?" he asked. "Or out of chicken country?"
"Baltimore."
"Well, then." He looked at me, head cocked. "I expect this won't shock you like it might some others." He straightened in his chair.
"See, Maine's a small state, population-wise. We're not all piled up on top one another like down Baltimore, or even like some other New England states. Rhode Island, Connecticut—it's a shame how they've crowded themselves up 'til they got no room to breathe. It's not like that up here—oh, we got the Canadian border, and there's probably some money to be made down Portland, Kittery-way. But there's not much up here to attract the Mafia. And we intend to keep it that way. The betting stations are computerized; the attendants will be state employees. There'll be no monkeying with the odds or any other cunning trick like they might play down Rhode Island. No sir." He smiled faintly.
"We make it tough enough and they'll stay home. The bottom line just isn't there."
The Mafia. Despite Mr. Wyandotte's assumption, I was shocked. The Mafia belonged to cities, to drugs, to sudden bodies bleeding out their lives in back alleys. The Mafia stood behind Baltimore's Block—at least, most people thought so. The Mafia owned New York City, lock, stock and skyscraper.
But Wimsy? In Wimsy everybody knew everybody else. A stranger would stick out like a red barn in a snowstorm.
"Anything else I can answer for you?"
Mr. Wyandotte's voice pulled me back to now. I glanced down, flipped rapidly through my notes and glanced up with what I hoped was a smile.
"You've done beautifully," I told him. "I've got everything I need."
"Well, now, that's fine." He stood, reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a leatherette case from which he extracted, with some difficulty, a business card.
"Call me if you need something more," he said, holding the card out. "Always glad to help the press."
"Thank you." I took the card and slid it into my pocketbook with the rest of my equipment, stood and shook his hand. "You've been very helpful."
"My pleasure. Remember to tell Bill I asked after him."
"I'll do that," I promised and escaped into the searing brightness of a late October morning.
16
SUNLIGHT ASSAULTED ME; lancing from the sky, stabbing off of shop windows. I bent my head, but sunlight found me still, reflecting into my face from the concrete walk.
My stomach churned and it was hard to say which was more blinding, the pain in my head or the pitiless onslaught of light.
I had to get out of the sun. The Camaro was parked in the municipal lot by the river, two blocks away. It might as well have been two miles. Cautiously, I raised my head, surveying my surroundings through slitted eyes.
Directly before me was Kelly's Kraft Korner, window awash in corn husks. Just 'round the corner from Kelly's was Mother's Pantry, Gaia Coven's co-op. There were chairs in Mother's. Chairs and a couple of tiny round tables, where you could sit and sip a cup of herbal tea and nibble a "natural" goodie. Most important, it was out of the sun.
Slowly, head bowed once more and eyes squinted almost closed, I got myself around the corner and into Mother's Pantry.
The bell over the door rattled when I came in, rattled again as I pushed the door to. The shop was empty. I made it to the first table and sat down heavily, back to the door.
It was dim, blessedly dim. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing—even, if not particularly deep, breaths. The air was cool, tasting of spice and mint. After a time—I'm not sure how long—I was able to open my eyes.
"Better now?" asked the woman opposite me. She blinked solemnly behind owl-round glasses and added, "You don't look too good, if you don't mind my saying so."
"As it happens, I don't feel too good," I told her; the words came out kind of cottony and thick.
"We have a match," she intoned and grinned. The grin faded and she tipped her head, studying me. "Mind if I ask—no, it's a migraine, isn't it? I can see it in your eyes." She pushed her chair back and rose. "I'll make you some tea."
The last thing I wanted was something else arguing with my stomach. "Tea? I don't—"
"Tea," she interrupted firmly, pushing a wisp of blonde hair behind her right ear. She looked at me, glasses glinting, obscuring her expression. "Nice tea. Peppermint. Rosemary. Chamomile. A little honey. You'll like it." She turned and marched off, sandals silent on the wooden floor.
I closed my eyes and breathed for awhile, savoring the flavor of the air. Music wafted, borne on the flavorful air—harps, bells, drums.
"Okay, just sip this—no hurry, but it's better if you drink it warm."
There was a soft clink of china settling onto wood. I opened my eyes. Before me sat a white china teacup on a fluted base, painted all over with red roses. Inside the cup a faintly green liquid steamed gently. I did indeed smell mint, and a sweet edge of honey, as well as other unidentifiable green flavors. I glanced over at my hostess, who had resumed her seat across from me.
"Thanks."
"No problem. Boy, I hate a migraine. I used to get them all the time."
"I did, too." I picked up the dainty cup on the fingertips of both hands, sipped cautiously. Mint and honey were the overwhelming sensations. I suspected they were there to mask less pleasant herbal tastes.
"I haven't had a migraine since I've been in Maine," I said, lowering the cup. "Got cocky and let my medicine run out."
"Nothing wrong with that—those drugs are bad for you." She grinned and the glasses glinted. "I know, I sound like a Granola. Happens I am a Granola."
"Another match," I murmured, and she outright laughed.
"From the wash-and-wear hair right down to the ergonomically correct sandals. If the girls at Vassar could see me now."
I looked at her over the rim of the teacup. She was about my age, I thought—full-faced, with fine blond hair parted in the middle and cut off blunt at the line of her jaw. The eyes behind the owl-glasses were gray. She looked familiar, but then everybody in Wimsy looks familiar to me now.
"You're Jennifer Pierce, aren't you?" she asked.
Another one. There is no privacy in a small town. "Right."
"Thought so. I'm Elizabeth Paul."
No wonder she looked familiar. "The midwife."
"Good memory," she said. "Drink your tea."
I complied while my brain sluggishly marshaled information. Eliza Paul, as the popular vernacular had it, was a registered nurse, licensed midwife, and self-styled herb lady.
She was also chairperson of Central Maine Choice, an organization which had set its face firmly against everything Hyannis Stern preached. And she had graduated Vassar, Class of '79.
