Sins of the Father (Book 2, The Erin Solomon Mysteries) Page 6

  As a general rule, I tried to avoid taking Kat’s advice on anything beyond basic medical care—and even that was sketchy—but at the moment, the two-minute rule seemed like a good idea.

  I gave myself a minute and forty-five seconds of tears and a borderline panic attack over Jeff and Erin Lincoln, the connection to my father, and the recognition that, whatever the truth might be, there was no way it could possibly be good. I refused to acknowledge that any of my inner turmoil might have something to do with Diggs and his new lady friend. When my time was up, I took a deep breath, set my files and my laptop on the bed, and pulled myself together. I changed into boxers and a t-shirt, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. Then, I got into bed with Einstein, opened the first file I found, and dove in.

  Chapter Five

  Diggs was gone when I got up the next morning, though he’d left a note on the fridge instructing me to give him a call before I left town. Childishly, I did not. I packed up the Jetta with Einstein, what little gear I’d brought with me, some bottled water, and a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the trip. I didn’t bother saying goodbye to Kat or Maya on the way out of town, reasoning that I could just call them from the road or drop a line once the story was done and I was settled back in Portland. I didn’t stop by the Trib. The sun was bright and I played Jenny Lewis too loud with Einstein hanging his head out the window all the way down 97 toward Route 1, desperate to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Before I hit Route 1, however, I cleared the front gate and found a shady parking spot at the state prison. It was unexpectedly cool, so at least I had that going for me. I set Einstein up with some water and a well-worn Kong, and then I went inside to take my rage out on the man who’d introduced me to Jeff Lincoln and all his demons in the first place:

  Hank Gendreau.

  I hadn’t had the foresight to set up a meeting with Hank before I showed up, which turned out to be a problem. It took almost an hour before things got straightened out and the warden agreed to give me ten minutes. The visiting room wasn’t available, so a stocky guard with a buzz cut led me to a smaller, private room where I suspected inmates usually met with lawyers. The guard remained posted at the door, though as far as I was concerned Hank Gendreau had a lot more to worry about than I did.

  Hank must have known why I was there, because he didn’t look nearly so happy to see me this time around as he had before. He was already seated when I got to the room, but I remained standing.

  “Tell me about Jeff Lincoln,” I said before he could say a word.

  “Do you know where he is?” he asked immediately.

  The same kind of wood-veneer table that had separated us two days before was between us now, but the civility was nowhere to be found.

  “Tell me what you know about his sister first,” I said. “What happened on that lake? Did you see her brother again after they disappeared?”

  “I wasn’t there—I don’t know where he went after. I don’t have a clue what happened on the lake the day they went missing.”

  “You must have heard something, though. Did you know her?”

  “Of course I knew her,” he snapped. “You grew up in a small town—you know what it’s like. We all knew each other.”

  “I went to see your lawyer yesterday,” I said, trying a different tack. “I got a chance to talk to the woman who lives there—Bonnie. Do you know her?”

  “Yeah, I know her.” He rolled his eyes at me. “She’s my sister.”

  Some investigative reporter I was. That explained the way she’d been staring at me the day before, though: She must have seen the same resemblance Hank had when he’d found the picture of my father and me in the paper.

  “She said you told the cops something when they first picked you up the day of your daughter’s murder. That you’d seen someone else out there?”

  That fear returned to his eyes for just an instant before it vanished. “Jeff,” he said, after just a second’s hesitation. “I saw Jeff out there.”

  I didn’t say anything. The fear vanished from his eyes, replaced with pure bile. I sat down. Wet my lips.

  “You’re lying,” I said. My voice was barely more than a whisper. “You would have told the police if you’d seen him that day.”

  “I did tell them. Red Grivois—he was the first cop on the scene. I told him. Ask him. But I was out of my mind, between the drugs and what I’d seen. Who the hell do you think’s gonna believe somebody like that—covered in his daughter’s blood, raving about a kid who went missing seventeen years before? I might as well have told them Bigfoot did it.”

  I struggled to get my voice back. “Your sister said she saw something—or that she sees someone. Does she think the killer is Jeff Lincoln, too?”

  “I don’t know what she thinks anymore; you can’t go by her. You go by me. I was there.” The harmless do-gooder I’d met before had vanished, now that we were alone. His eyes burned with grief and rage and a kind of madness that I suspected no one ever really came back from.

  “What do you want from me?” I asked. “Why did you send that picture to me? What’s supposed to happen next here?”

  “I want you to find him,” he said. “And then if I can’t kill him myself, I want him to rot in here. You saw what he did to my daughter. What he did to those other girls… And God knows who else. I know he’s your father, but he’s not human. You must be able to see that by now.”

  His voice had lowered to a harsh whisper. The guard shifted behind me. I tried to move my chair back, but it was bolted to the floor.

  “Go to hell,” I said softly. “You’re wrong. It wasn’t him—you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I made an effort to keep my voice level. “He wouldn’t do this.”

  “I knew him,” Gendreau said. “He was cold. Mean. And maybe he thought he had a right to do what he did...” I looked at him in confusion. He shook his head. “But nobody has a right to do something like that.”

  If the table hadn’t been between us and a guard hadn’t been two feet away with his hand wrapped around the Mace at his belt, I’m not sure what I would have done. I stood, my palms on the table as I leaned in. “Why the hell would anyone believe you? You said it yourself: you were out of your mind that day. You were the one they found covered in Ashley’s blood. You’ve got everything to gain by palming all this shit off on my father.”

  Gendreau looked at the guard, stood, and backed up until he was pressed against the concrete wall, as far from me as possible. The hate in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “Get her out of here,” he said.

  The guard tried to pull me away, but I wasn’t finished yet.

  “How does anyone know you aren’t the one who killed those other girls, too? You could have killed Erin Lincoln for all I know. You got a thirteen-year-old girl pregnant, for Christ’s sake. Maybe you’ve had a hard on for little girls for as far back as you­—”

  He lunged for me suddenly, everything about him coiled as tight as a fist. The guard got between us before Gendreau ever touched me, and pushed me roughly toward the door. An alarm went off, bouncing off the concrete walls.

  “It was him,” Gendreau called after me. “Your father’s the monster. He did this!”

  Another guard arrived and pulled me out of the room before I went in for another shot at him, my blood boiling. Once we were a few feet down the corridor, I pulled my arm out of the guard’s grasp. He didn’t press the issue, but he also didn’t make any move to let go of his Mace.

  “I’ll need to report this,” the guard said to me. He had dark hair and a square jaw and a pug nose that didn’t fit his face. He was very unhappy with me. “I doubt you’ll be allowed back in here.”

  “Fine by me. I don’t want to come back here.”

  My cheeks were burning, though it was more from embarrassment than rage once I got some distance. Half a dozen burly guards had gathered at the security station when we returned. A couple of them looked at me like I was clearly Satan’s spaw
n, while the rest just ignored me outright. My pug-nosed escort walked me back through the main entrance and all the way to the parking lot before he’d let me go.

  “You’ll be all right from here, Miss?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He remained at the gate, watching me go. I could still hear the alarm blaring inside the building.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  I’d just managed to pull myself together—or as close as I was likely to come as long as people were saying my father was a crazed psychopath who butchered young girls—when I got to my car. Or rather, the spot where my car had been when I left it. In its place was a worn blue Jeep with a kayak strapped to the top. Inside, a very wet Einstein greeted me with tail wagging, his paws on the dashboard. All my stuff had mysteriously repacked itself into the back. Diggs—also wet—reclined in the front with his feet on the dash and his arms crossed over his chest, his straw hat pushed low over his eyes.

  “A prison riot, Solomon? Seriously?” he casually pushed the hat back so I could see his eyes, but otherwise didn’t move. “I can’t leave you alone for a second.”

  I felt a rush of relief so sweet I almost sank to my knees. “I didn’t start the damn thing,” I said. “And it wasn’t technically a riot. What’d you do with my car?”

  “Sent it back with one of the boys from the paper. Don’t worry—it’s in good hands. Then Stein and I went for a swim.”

  “And now you’re here because…”

  He removed his feet from the dash and sat up. “You really thought I’d let you head sixty miles north of the Arctic Circle on your own to chase a psychotic serial killer who may or may not be your old man? Give me a little credit, Sol.”

  “What about the paper?”

  “Eh.” He waved his hand vaguely. “I took a few days off. I’m not the only one who works there—they can handle it. The only time anything worth reporting happens around here is when you’re in town anyway, so I think we’re safe.”

  “And Andie?”

  The humor vanished for just an instant. His eyes drifted from mine. “We’re good. She understands.”

  Bullshit was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept it to myself.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked.

  “Head north ‘til you see the Mounties?”

  Pretty much. I went around to the passenger’s side, forced Einstein into the backseat, and got in. Diggs ground the Jeep into gear. I put my seatbelt on as a sudden rush of emotion—fear or grief or a residual adrenaline rush from my encounter with Gendreau—washed over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diggs glance at me.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I wet my lips. Cleared my throat.

  He took a bottled water from his center console, uncapped it, and handed it to me without taking his eyes off the road. “I’m here, Sol,” he said. “Whatever we find up there… We can handle it.”

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, then took a good slug of water and focused on keeping it together before I disgraced myself entirely.

  “Even if it turns out my old man was a card-carrying psycho who used to party with Charlie Manson himself?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Even then.”

  Part II.

  Black Falls

  Chapter Six

  We hit the requisite stops on the way through the Midcoast: coffee and scones in the vault at the Thomaston Highlands; the best ice cream in the state at Dorman’s for dessert; and a quick stop at Rockland’s Loyal Biscuit so Einstein could rub elbows with Chuck, sniff out the latest cats up for adoption, and pick out some choice treats for the trip. Once we were well down the road on Route 1, I got out my cell phone and dialed Max Richards’ number. Max himself answered on the second ring.

  “Ms. Solomon,” he said smoothly. “Sorry I missed you last night. Did you find everything you needed?”

  Not by a long shot, but I kept that to myself. “Actually, I was calling about your…” I wasn’t sure what to call her. Housekeeper seemed wildly off the mark, but guest didn’t seem right, either. “Bonnie. I need to speak with her.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line, during which the cockatiel let out a couple of ear-piercing shrieks. Between the bird and the prison alarm, it wasn’t a good day for eardrums.

  “She’s not here, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “I don’t, sorry. I woke up this morning and she was gone—took the dogs and everything. No note. Nothing. She does that sometimes… Eventually she’ll be back.”

  “Do you have a number where I could reach her?”

  He chuckled. “Bonnie isn’t really the cell phone type. You might consider sending a message out to the universe… She’ll find you if it’s important.”

  I asked him a couple of questions about the Gendreau case and Ashley’s death, not really paying attention to his answers. Bonnie Saucier was missing. I thought of what she’d said to me: It’s G. you need to watch for. He’ll be looking for you.

  Who the hell was G?

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  We traveled Route 1 up to 1A, past farm stands and pickup trucks selling fresh lobster and crab on the side of the road, past bookstores and bars and all the picture postcard scenes that continue to make Maine one of my favorite destinations. I shed my shoes and rode with my bare feet on the dash while Springsteen blared from Diggs’ formidable car stereo and memories of a hundred drives much like this ran through my head. The sun was shining and the Atlantic was a pure, deep blue that we traveled alongside for as long as possible before I convinced Diggs there was no way in hell we were adding three hours to the journey so he could avoid the highway in favor of a summer jaunt along Route 1.

  “You were a lot more fun when you were younger, you know,” he said.

  “You just think that because you were always high back then,” I said. “I’ve never actually been that much fun.”

  He didn’t argue with that.

  I fell asleep sometime after the sixth moose crossing sign on I-95. When I woke up, it was just after two o’clock and Diggs was leaving 95 for Route 1 up in Houlton. We stopped at a scale model of Saturn so Einstein could pee, then ate a late lunch on the hood of Diggs’ Jeep while summer traffic whizzed by and birds chirped and bees buzzed. Diggs got his old Gazetteer and half a dozen other faded maps from the glove compartment and hopped up beside me again.

  “I didn’t think they actually made those anymore,” I said.

  “Don’t mock. These things have gotten me a lot of places over the years.” He opened the Gazetteer to Maine and handed a topographic map to me. Most of Aroostook County was covered with an old coffee stain, and a deep burgundy streak obliterated much of Piscataquis.

  “I’m getting you a GPS for your next birthday. What happened to this thing?”

  “Roadside mishap.” He looked downright nostalgic. “Have I taught you nothing, Sol? GPS is for people who don’t appreciate that travel’s all about the journey. Logging roads, caves, fire towers, the American dream… Try to find that with GPS.”

  “That’s because most of those logging roads and fire towers don’t exist anymore. And I’m pretty sure even Hunter S. gave up looking for the American dream a while ago.”

  He heaved a weary sigh. “You disappoint me. The day they invent a GPS that can evoke the same feelings a moldering map can, I’ll be first in line to get one. Now—Where the hell are we going? On a need to know basis, I feel like I should be in the loop at this point.”

  I pulled a wrinkled newspaper clipping from my pocket and handed it to him. He read it silently, then glanced at me.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

  “It was in with the files I took from Max Richards’ place.”

  “Why was Erin Lincoln’s obituary with Hank Gendreau’s files?”

  “Good question, isn’t it? I looked up the cemetery they mention in there�
�where she and her family are buried. I’d like to start there.”

  I could feel him looking at me, but I kept my gaze fixed on the coffee-stained County. Diggs slid back to the ground and held out his hand. I took it just long enough for my flip flops to hit the dirt before I pulled away.

  “So, you don’t mind? I don’t know how much we’ll actually find out there.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s a good idea—a place to start, anyway.”

  I doubted that, actually, but I didn’t say anything. We got back in the Jeep, and neither of us spoke while we drove the rest of the way up Route 1, toward an abandoned cemetery that held a family I’d never even known I had.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  It turned out to be a good thing that Diggs had packed his Gazetteer, because there was no way in hell GPS ever would have found the Forest Grove Cemetery. We turned off Route 1 about ten miles south of Black Falls, onto a steep, overgrown dirt road that led up a forty-five degree incline into no man’s land. It was late afternoon, the sun still high in the sky, but minimal light made it through the canopy of thick forest. After about ten minutes creeping along a barely discernible dirt road, I spotted a lopsided, rough-hewn gravestone.

  “Hang on—I think that’s it.”

  I got out and made straight for the trees while Diggs was still trying to figure out where to pull over. The grave belonged to Jason Saucier, who’d died in 1922. That stone marked the beginning of a rough path littered with Bud cans and cigarette butts. I forged ahead without waiting for Einstein or Diggs, following the path to a cluster of lichen-covered headstones scattered seemingly haphazard in an overgrown field. Wildflowers grew in knots of color. Bees buzzed. A mosquito the size of my thumb set up camp just below my left ear until I had the presence of mind to swat it.