Monette checked the backseat and saw his Wolfe amp; Sons cases undisturbed. Looked into the glove compartment and saw the paltry identification kept within-registration, insurance card, AAA card-was still there. All that was left of the bum was a lingering smell, not entirely unpleasant: sweat and faint pine, as if the guy had been sleeping rough.
He thought he'd see the guy at the foot of the ramp, holding up his sign and patiently switching it from side to side so that potential Good Samaritans got the complete lowdown on his defects. If so, Monette would stop and pick him up again. The job didn't feel done, somehow. Delivering the guy to the Derry Shelter-that would make the job feel done. That would close the deal, and close the book. Whatever other failings he might have, he liked to finish things.
But the guy wasn't at the foot of the ramp; the guy was completely AWOL. And it wasn't until Monette was passing a sign reading DERRY 10 MI. that he looked up at the rearview mirror and saw that his St. Christopher's medal, companion of all those millions of miles, was gone. The deaf-mute had stolen it. But not even that could break Monette's new optimism. Maybe the deaf-mute needed it more than he did. Monette hoped it would bring him good luck.
Two days later-by then he was selling the best fall list ever in Presque Isle-he got a call from the Maine State Police. His wife and Bob Yandowsky had been beaten to death in the Grove Motel. The killer had used a piece of pipe wrapped in a motel towel.
11
"My...dear...God!" the priest breathed.
"Yes," Monette agreed, "that's pretty much what I thought."
"Your daughter...?"
"Heartbroken, of course. She's with me, at home. We'll get through this, Father. She's tougher than I thought. And of course, she doesn't know about the other. The embezzlement. With luck, she never will. There's going to be a very large insurance payment, what they call double indemnity. Given everything that went on before, I think I would be in moderate to serious trouble with the police now if I didn't have a cast-iron alibi. And if there hadn't been...developments. As it is, I've been questioned several times."
"Son, you didn't pay someone to-"
"I've been asked that, too. The answer is no. I've thrown my bank accounts open to anyone who wants a look. Every penny is accounted for, both in my half of the wedded partnership and in Barb's. She was financially very responsible. At least in the sane part of her life.
"Father, can you open up on your side? I want to show you something."
Instead of replying, the priest opened his door. Monette slipped the St. Christopher's medal from around his neck, then reached around from his side. Their fingers touched briefly as the medal and its little pile of steel chain passed from hand to hand.
There was silence for five seconds as the priest considered it. Then he said, "This was returned to you when? Was it at the motel where-"
"No," Monette said. "Not the motel. The house in Buxton. On the dresser in what used to be our bedroom. Next to our wedding picture, actually."
"Dear God," the priest said.
"He could have gotten the address from my car registration when I was in the john."
"And of course you mentioned the name of the motel...and the town..."
"Dowrie," Monette agreed.
For the third time the priest invoked the name of his Boss. Then he said, "The fellow wasn't deaf-mute at all, was he?"
"I'm almost positive he was mute," Monette said, "but he sure wasn't deaf. There was a note beside the medal, on a piece of paper he tore off the phone pad. All this must have happened while my daughter and I were at the funeral home, picking out a casket. The back door was open but not jimmied. He might have been smart enough to trig the lock, but I think I just forgot and left it open when we went out."
"The note said what?"
"'Thank you for the ride,'" Monette said.
"I'll be damned." Thoughtful silence, then a soft knocking just outside the door of the confessional in which Monette sat, contemplating FOR ALL HAVE SINNED AND FALLEN SHORT OF GOD'S GLORY. Monette took back his medal. "Have you told the police?"
"Yes, of course, the whole story. They think they know who the guy is. They're familiar with the sign. His name is Stanley Doucette. He's spent years rambling around New England with that sign of his. Sort of like me, now that I think of it."
"Prior crimes of violence on his record?"
"A few," Monette said. "Fights, mostly. Once he beat a man pretty badly in a bar, and he's been in and out of mental institutions, including Serenity Hill, in Augusta. I don't think the police told me everything."
"Do you want to know everything?"
Monette considered, then said, "No."
"They haven't caught this fellow."
"They say it's only a matter of time. They say he's not bright. But he was bright enough to fool me."
"Did he fool you, son? Or did you know you were speaking to a listening ear? It seems to me that is the key question."
Monette was quiet for a long time. He didn't know if he had honestly searched his heart before, but he felt he was searching it now, and with a bright light. Not liking everything he found there but searching, yes. Not overlooking what he saw there. At least not on purpose.
"I did not," he said.