25
Dempsey drove through the environs of Pastor’s Bay. He had a map on the passenger seat of the car, but he rarely consulted it. He had already examined the area on Google and felt sure of where he was going. Dempsey had a prodigious memory for photographs, figures, and the minutest detail of conversations. He rarely let it show, though, for he had spent too long surrounded by men who might find such a talent troubling enough to seek its annihilation.
He and Ryan had woken that morning to find Tommy gone from his room, and the car absent from the lot. Dempsey had scribbled a note informing Tommy that they had left to seek out breakfast, and slipped it under his door. The massive lipidic woman was gone from reception, replaced by a sinewy string bean of a man with dazzlingly bright false teeth who informed them of the presence of a diner about a quarter of a mile west of the motel. Some of the clouds had cleared to leave swatches of blue sky, but it still felt unseasonably cold and there was a wind that blew straight into their faces as they walked. They took a corner booth in the diner, and Ryan ordered the biggest breakfast on the menu, while Dempsey stuck with coffee and a bagel. He’d never been much for eating first thing in the morning, and his stomach didn’t feel right. He read the house newspaper while Ryan ate, but it was out of Bangor and contained nothing of relevance to them. The papers were full of the midterm elections; Dempsey had almost forgotten that they were happening, so lost was he in their own difficulties. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d voted. He felt guilty about it. It seemed to him another aspect of his abandonment of control, of being subject to the plans and motivations of others. He made a promise to himself to start voting again if he lived. It seemed a modest, attainable ambition in the long term. Voting, that was, not living. For now, staying alive was strictly a day-to-day business.
Ryan excused himself and headed to the men’s room. A police patrol car cruised by, but Dempsey didn’t turn his head to follow its progress. He took in the other customers in the diner. They were mostly older people, and the waitress seemed to know them all by name. Dempsey reckoned that Ryan was the youngest person in the place by at least a decade or more. He closed his eyes and thought about how good it would be just to sit here for a couple of hours surrounded by friends, with no obligations for the day other than to shoot the breeze and plan for the next meal. He didn’t have to imagine what it would be like to be old. He already felt old, and mortality seemed closer to him than it might have to even the most elderly of the diner’s aging patrons.
When he opened his eyes again, Tommy Morris was standing before him.
‘You done?’ said Tommy.
‘Pretty much. You want something?’
‘No, I’m good.’
Dempsey called for the check as Ryan appeared from the men’s room, and the waitress had it on the table before Ryan had crossed the room.
‘What do I owe?’ said Ryan.
‘I got you covered,’ said Dempsey. He took cash from his pocket and started counting bills. He was running seriously low.
‘Nah,’ said Ryan. ‘I got this one.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. Makes us even for last night.’
Tommy looked at him curiously.
‘We went out for a drink,’ said Ryan. He looked embarrassed. Dempsey thought he was probably wondering if they should have asked Tommy to join them while simultaneously being grateful that they hadn’t, given the tone of some of the previous night’s conversation.
‘Good for you,’ said Tommy. His head was bobbing slightly, and he was running his right thumb along the pads of his fingers, over and over. Dempsey thought of it as one of Tommy’s tells, the signs that he had a job in mind, that he was ready to roll. There was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there for a while.
The car was parked behind the diner. Tommy had led them to it, spinning the keys around his right index finger, whistling to himself.
‘You get that call you were expecting?’ said Dempsey.
‘No, not yet,’ said Tommy. ‘It’ll come, though. We got work to do until then.’
‘What kind of work?’ said Dempsey.
‘We have to boost a car,’ said Tommy.
Which was how Dempsey came to be driving a tan Impala out of Pastor’s Bay and toward the sea. He passed Valerie Kore’s house but didn’t even glance in its direction. There was a black Chevy Suburban in the drive alongside an ancient green Toyota Tacoma, and a Sheriff’s Department cruiser was parked on the road. In the rearview, he saw the deputy turn to his in-car laptop. The cops probably ran the plate of every car that passed as a matter of routine. Dempsey wasn’t concerned. This one wouldn’t even be on the system for another hour or more.
He turned south where the road met the ocean, and followed the coast for a time. There was no beach to be seen, just black rocks like broken, rotted teeth against which gray waves broke. Dempsey could not understand why someone would choose to live in a coastal town with no sand upon which to walk, and no beauty upon which to gaze. Here nature was a hostile force at war with itself. The wind twisted the growth of trees, and the sea ate away at the land. As he drove, Dempsey found himself wishing for the security of the city. In this place, he felt exposed in body and soul.
The turnoff was little more than a dirt track. He put the sea behind him and followed the trail through a patch of woodland that brought the car to within sight of the Kore house. He hit the trunk release, and by the time he’d killed the engine and got out Tommy was stretching his back by the side of the road.
‘Comfortable?’ asked Dempsey. They had figured that one man alone in a car would attract less attention than two.
‘I’ll live.’
Dempsey had Tommy’s piece in his hand. He offered it to him, and after a moment’s pause Tommy accepted it. Together they watched the back of the house from the woods but could see no sign of a further police presence. Still, Tommy had figured that there would be at least one cop inside with her.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ said Dempsey.
‘I have to talk to her,’ said Tommy, and Dempsey again saw in him the peculiar combination of fatalism and hope that afflicted those who knew their time was drawing to a close and wanted to settle their affairs before it was too late. His niece’s disappearance, appalling though it was, had given Tommy an excuse to reach out to his estranged sister, to do this one last thing for her.
‘Then let’s go talk,’ said Dempsey.
He was about to move when Tommy’s hand gripped his elbow. Immediately Dempsey looked around to see who was approaching, but there was no sign of movement.
‘What is it?’
Tommy seemed to be struggling to speak. His eyes were fixed on Dempsey’s face. Eventually he said, ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For standing by me.’
‘We’ll figure out a way, Tommy. We’ll make it right.’
‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘No, we won’t. When the time comes, you try to stay alive. You take Francis, and whatever money is left, and you hide yourselves away. Maybe they’ll be content with my head. If they give me a chance, I’ll tell them that you’re no threat to them. No revenge, Martin. Understand?’
Dempsey nodded. ‘I understand, Tommy.’
The grip on his arm tightened once, and then was released.
‘We’ll talk no more about it,’ said Tommy.
Using the trees as cover, and sprinting across the patches of open ground, they came to the backyard. As they drew nearer the house, Dempsey saw a woman pass by the kitchen window. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled back severely from her face and tied tightly with a scrunchie. She was filling a coffeepot with water.
Leaving Tommy against the north wall, Dempsey checked out as much of the single-story dwelling as he could without exposing himself to the deputy on the road. There were three bedrooms: one with a queen bed and woman’s clothing scattered on the chairs and floor; the second a smaller room with a double bed and walls decorated with posters of bands whose names and faces were largely unfamiliar to Dempsey; and a third room with a single bed surrounded by assorted boxes and cases. Beside it was a small window of frosted glass: the bathroom.
On the other side, a door from the kitchen led into a big living room that ran most of the width of the house. A man in a golf shirt and chinos sat at a cheap desk reading a paperback novel. Dempsey looked around for monitoring or recording equipment but didn’t see any. Dempsey waited, and a second man appeared. He wore black pants, and a long-sleeved blue shirt. Both men wore Glock 22s at their waists.
Not cops: FBI.
Eventually, Valerie Kore entered the room and handed each man a cup of coffee. They thanked her, and she left. He saw her step into the hallway. She didn’t come back.
Dempsey returned to Tommy.
‘Two feds watching the phone in the living room.’
‘Feds? You sure?’
‘They’re wearing Glocks. Standard issue for federal agents.’
‘Fuck.’
‘You want to back off?’
‘We’ve come this far.’