“Were you scared of him?”
“Fuck yeah! He’d just gotten out of prison. I almost didn’t recognize him. Someone had bitten off part of his ear! His hair was real long, and he was bigger than before he went inside. The guy was fucking jacked.”
Prisoners in Maine no longer had access to barbells or pull-up bars, but some of them compensated by maxing out on body-weight exercises in their cells. A friend of mine named Billy Cronk, who was serving out a manslaughter sentence in the Maine State Prison, had told me that plenty of ex-cons were still coming out of the joint stronger than before they’d gone in. Meaner, too.
“So what happened that night?” I asked.
“He asked me for some money,” Josh said. “I only had a twenty on me, but he asked if I could use the ATM inside the bowling alley. I took out the max—three hundred bucks—and I gave it to him. Then he drove off in a truck I didn’t recognize.”
“Do you remember what kind of truck it was?”
“An old Ford, maybe. Or a Chevy. I don’t know trucks. I am pretty sure he was all alone, though.” He let out another groan. “I was relieved after he’d gone.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No. But—”
“But what?”
“He wasn’t very talkative. Not like the old Adam at all. I used to be his sidekick. I’ve always been someone’s sidekick, I guess. But he was really cold and quiet. I asked if I could buy him a beer, and he said he wasn’t allowed to go to bars or drink alcohol as a condition of his release. He said there was a long list of things he would never be able to do again. He said I should appreciate all the privileges I had in my life.” He sat forward, sweating, with a strained look on his face. “There was one other thing, too.”
“What?”
“He had a black eye. It made me wonder about the guy who’d given it to him.”
I considered my next question carefully. “Did he say anything or do anything that made you think he might—”
“Kill himself? Yeah, I’ve wondered about it since that night. It was the reason I called his mom when I heard he’d run off. I was worried about him. But why would he have needed money if he was just going to shoot himself?”
That was an excellent question. “Have you told any of this to the police?”
He sat forward. “I’m telling you.”
Earlier that morning, I had promised myself that I wouldn’t cross any lines. But now I possessed information that Shaylene Hawken, at least, should know about. How the hell was I going to explain to Adam’s PO how I had come by it?
Informal inquiry, my ass.
*
Elderoy cranked up the music even louder than before on the ride down. He seemed in no mood to talk. Not that I cared particularly—I needed time to think.
I hadn’t expected to see Davidson suffering—literally suffering—from guilt. But his emotions had seemed heartfelt. It always boggled my mind that people could be so charitable to those who had hurt them.
That Adam had needed money was no surprise at all. What were the economic prospects of a convicted sex offender up here? Not bright, I was certain. Why not scrape together some cash and make a break for a better life?
My brother must have known he would be caught; must have realized that he was facing one of only two possible futures—prison or death.
My brother.
Did I keep repeating that word because I wanted to believe it or because I didn’t want to believe it? All I knew was that Adam Langstrom—whoever he was—had awakened a long-dormant sense of dread in me. Not since my father fired those shots into a police car had I felt such a fear of the truth.
My wounded arm jostled the center console as Elderoy took a couple of whacks with his plow at a drift that offended his sense of symmetry.
The week could have been worse, I realized. Carrie Michaud could have aimed for the jugular.
At the bottom of the mountain, Elderoy remained belted in and kept Bob Marley blasting and the engine running. He looked at me through his eyelashes and muttered something I couldn’t hear over the noise.
“What?”
He scratched his muttonchops. Then he snapped off the music.
“You got me to drive you up there under false pretenses,” he said.
“How do you figure that?”
“You’re looking to arrest that Langstrom kid if you find him. Admit it.”
Until that moment, I had never considered the question. If I did manage to locate my fugitive so-called brother—and was unable to convince him to surrender—what would I do?
I got out of the vehicle without answering my chauffeur and made my way through the thickening snow to the base lodge.
13