BONG cheep cheep. BONG cheep cheep.
Image 004 showed a woman in a blue rain slicker. She had eyes, a nose, a mouth. Only the eyebrows were similar. If not for the eyebrows, she might have been anyone.
“I’m not great with faces,” Anthony admitted. “But yeah, I guess there’s a resemblance.”
“Now look at January fifth. Image thirty-one.”
Anthony did. In January she’d worn a puffy jacket, a stocking cap pulled down low. He couldn’t see her eyebrows.
“That’s HER!” Excelsior barked. “The one from the video. What’s she doing at an abortion clinic in October and November and January? How many abortions can one female possibly have?”
BONG cheep cheep. BONG cheep cheep.
Anthony studied the images side by side.
“She’s there all the time,” he said, suddenly certain. “I think she works there.”
Silence on the line.
“She works there,” Excelsior repeated. “Which means—what? She’s there every day?”
“How should I know?” Anthony was getting aggravated. He’d sent Excelsior hundreds of photos, and had never received a thank-you. Every once in a while he hinted—How did you like the pix?—and rarely got a response. He hated himself for asking. Asking for praise was like reminding someone it was your birthday. He shouldn’t have to ask.
“I need more pics,” Excelsior said. “Of her specifically. Can you do that?”
BONG cheep cheep. BONG cheep cheep.
Anthony said, “I can go tomorrow.”
Excelsior said, “Go today.”
THE COMMUTER BOAT WAS CROWDED. THE RIDE WAS CHOPPY, A brisk wind blowing, the first hint of a nor’easter rolling in. Anthony stared intently at the horizon. Though he badly wanted to, he knew better than to close his eyes.
In the City of Boston, snow was flying. The sidewalks had all but vanished. Grainy piles marked the intersections, studded with the usual inclusions—cigarette butts and gray chewing gum, frozen dog turds like artworks on display. People stepped carefully around the piles, trudged through snowbanks. Some gave up and simply walked in the road.
On Mercy Street a small crowd had gathered. The fat priest mumbled a half-assed Rosary. Anthony recognized the old guy in the Sox cap, who had a kindly face. Inspired by his example, Anthony had begun wearing his own Sox cap to the clinic. He wasn’t a fan, exactly, but he wasn’t not a fan. In baseball season, which it now wasn’t, the cap would be a conversation starter. He and the old guy could talk about how the Sox were doing, as men did.
He took his place at the edge of the crowd. As per usual, no one acknowledged his presence. As per usual, he was the invisible man.
He chose his position carefully, mindful of the security cameras. A few women came and went. He took a discreet photo—realizing, too late, that the girl in the photo was Chinese. Well, too bad, he thought. Taking photos in a nor’easter was a precarious exercise. Already his feet were numb, his hands freezing; he’d had no choice but to take off his gloves. Whoever showed up was who he photographed. If he managed to get the girl’s face in the frame without dropping his phone, it counted as a win.
Anthony waited and waited, feeling irritated. He had missed the morning Mass, the coffee and donuts. His entire day was off-kilter. He was about to hang it up when a woman approached, sipping from a Starbucks cup—a small woman in a puffy jacket, her dark eyebrows knitted in a frown.
He was reaching for his phone when a man came out of the building.
“Sir,” he called in Anthony’s direction. “Sir, what are you doing?”
Anthony froze.
“One of our patients told me that someone was out here taking pictures. You know anything about that?”
Anthony blinked furiously. Excelsior had warned him that this might happen. In this instance, Anthony was to assert his First Amendment rights. He was to stand tall, and stand his ground.
He looked around helplessly. For the first time ever, the priest and the Sox fan watched him with interest.
“I’m talking to you, sir. Are you the one who was taking pictures?”
Anthony opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
He took off running.
He ran past the parking garage, the T stop, block after block of Chinese restaurants, fluorescent-lit like bus stations. Finally he glanced over his shoulder, but no one was following.
He felt that he had traveled a great distance. According to Google Maps, he had covered three blocks. Sick to his stomach, his head pounding, he looked around and spotted a cash machine. He withdrew a hundred bucks and texted Tim Flynn.
It’s Anthony. I’m on my way.
ON TIM’S PORCH HE KNOCKED AND WAITED. STRICTLY SPEAKING, the visit was unnecessary; he still had half a bag of weed at home. But it was winter in New England, the TV weathermen full of dire warnings. Storm preparedness, they called it. For Anthony, that meant laying in a supply of weed. Moreover: it wasn’t possible to show up at Tim Flynn’s without buying something. Such were the terms of friendship.
He knocked again, thinking about Tim’s face. Beardless, he looked younger, cleaner. He could literally be anyone—a Little League coach or a plumber or a bus driver, some sort of regular person who didn’t sell drugs. He looked more or less the way he’d looked in high school, the smooth cheeks and clefted chin. Anthony had forgotten about the chin, which he found troubling. It was a bully’s chin, the chin of a guy who might beat the crap out of you, just because.
He waited and waited, but no one came to the door.
17
The roads in Maine were clearer than Claudia had expected. At midday the sun was blinding, the power lines dripping. Wet clumps of snow fell heavily from the trees. Clayburn, Maine, seemed half-asleep. Commercial Street was quiet, the brick storefronts oddly sepulchral, like some designated historical site—a public memorial to the way people shopped in the great long-ago, before Walmart came.
She drove past the body shop, Clayburn Junior High, the Amway store—the exact route Gary Cain had taken that September afternoon in 1985, the day he taught her to drive.
North of town the roads were slippery, untraveled. On either side of Oak Hill Road, the snow looked clean enough to eat. At the bottom of the hill stood the eponymous oak, an important Birch family landmark: on a drunken Christmas Eve some years back, her uncle had wrapped a snowmobile around it. Paralyzed from the neck down, Ricky spent his final ten years in a wheelchair at the County Home, where his sister Deb still worked—conveniently located just a half mile down the road. Just beyond it lay Ricky’s current address, the Congregational cemetery, as though on that snowy Christmas Eve—O Holy Night!—he had simply traveled in a straight line.