Bag of Bones (47 page)

There was one other thing, too, the capper: imagining the County Sheriff sending out George Footman, aka daddy, to take my statement on how the mean man had knocked li'l Mikey into the lake. How the three of them would laugh later about that!

I called John Storrow instead, wanting him to tell me I was doing the right thing, the only thing that made any sense. Wanting him to remind me that only desperate men were driven to such desperate lengths (I would ignore, at least for the time being, how the two of them had laughed, as if they were having the time of their lives), and that nothing had changed in regard to Ki Devore—her grandfather's custody case still sucked bogwater.

I got John's recording machine at home and left a message—just call Mike Noonan, no emergency, but feel free to call late. Then I tried his office, mindful of the scripture according to John Grisham: young lawyers work until they drop. I listened to the firm's recording machine, then followed instructions and punched STO on my phone keypad, the first three letters of John's last name.

There was a click and he came on the line—another recorded version, unfortunately. “Hi, this is John Storrow. I've gone up to Philly for the weekend to see my mom and dad. I'll be in the office on Monday; for the rest of the week, I'll be out on business. From Tuesday to Friday you'll probably have the most luck trying to reach me at . . .”

The number he gave began 207-955, which meant Castle Rock. I imagined it was the hotel where he'd stayed before, the nice one up on the View. “Mike Noonan,” I said. “Call me when you can. I left a message on your apartment machine, too.”

I went in the kitchen to get a beer, then only stood there in front of the refrigerator, playing with the magnets. Whoremaster, he'd called me.
Say there, whoremaster, where's your whore?
A minute later he had offered to save my soul. Quite funny, really. Like an alcoholic offering to take care of your liquor cabinet.
He spoke of you with what I think was genuine affection,
Mattie had said.
Your great-grandfather and his great-grandfather shit in the same pit.

I left the fridge with all the beer still safe inside, went back to the phone, and called Mattie.

“Hi,” said another obviously recorded voice. I was on a roll. “It's me, but either I'm out or not able to come
to the phone right this minute. Leave a message, okay?” A pause, the mike rustling, a distant whisper, and then Kyra, so loud she almost blew my ear off:
“Leave a
HAPPY
message!”
What followed was laughter from both of them, cut off by the beep.

“Hi, Mattie, it's Mike Noonan,” I said. “I just wanted—”

I don't know how I would have finished that thought, and I didn't have to. There was a click and then Mattie herself said, “Hello, Mike.” There was such a difference between this dreary, defeated-sounding voice and the cheerful one on the tape that for a moment I was silenced. Then I asked her what was wrong.

“Nothing,” she said, then began to cry. “Everything. I lost my job. Lindy fired me.”

*   *   *

Firing wasn't what Lindy had called it, of course. She'd called it “belt-tightening,” but it was firing, all right, and I knew that if I looked into the funding of the Four Lakes Consolidated Library, I would discover that one of the chief supporters over the years had been Mr. Max Devore. And he'd continue to be one of the chief supporters . . . if, that was, Lindy Briggs played ball.

“We shouldn't have talked where she could see us doing it,” I said, knowing I could have stayed away from the library completely and Mattie would be just as gone. “And we probably should have seen this coming.”

“John Storrow
did
see it.” She was still crying, but making an effort to get it under control. “He said Max Devore would probably want to make sure I was
as deep in the corner as he could push me, come the custody hearing. He said Devore would want to make sure I answered ‘I'm unemployed, Your Honor' when the judge asked where I worked. I told John Mrs. Briggs would never do anything so low, especially to a girl who'd given such a brilliant talk on Melville's ‘Bartleby.' Do you know what he told me?”

“No.”

“He said, ‘You're very young.' I thought that was a patronizing thing to say, but he was right, wasn't he?”

“Mattie—”

“What am I going to do, Mike? What am I going to do?” The panic-rat had moved on down to Wasp Hill Road, it sounded like.

I thought, quite coldly:
Why not become my mistress? Your title will be “research assistant,” a perfectly jake occupation as far as the IRS is concerned. I'll throw in clothes, a couple of charge cards, a house—say goodbye to the rust-bucket doublewide on Wasp Hill Road—and a two-week vacation: how does February on Maui sound? Plus Ki's education, of course, and a hefty cash bonus at the end of the year. I'll be considerate, too. Considerate and discreet. Once or twice a week, and never until your little girl is fast asleep. All you have to do is say yes and give me a key. All you have to do is slide over when I slide in. All you have to do is let me do what I want—all through the dark, all through the night, let me touch where I want to touch, let me do what I want to do, never say no, never say stop.

I closed my eyes.

“Mike? Are you there?”

“Sure,” I said. I touched the throbbing gash at the back of my head and winced. “You're going to do just fine, Mattie. You—”

“The trailer's not paid for!” she nearly wailed. “I have two overdue phone bills and they're threatening to cut off the service! There's something wrong with the Jeep's transmission, and the rear axle, as well! I can pay for Ki's last week of Vacation Bible School, I guess—Mrs. Briggs gave me three weeks' pay in lieu of notice—but how will I buy her
shoes
? She outgrows everything so
fast
 . . . there's holes in all her shorts and most of her g-g-goddam underwear . . .”

She was starting to weep again.

“I'm going to take care of you until you get back on your feet,” I said.

“No, I can't let—”

“You can. And for Kyra's sake, you will. Later on, if you still want to, you can pay me back. We'll keep tabs on every dollar and dime, if you like. But I'm going to take care of you.”
And you'll never take off your clothes when I'm with you. That's a promise, and I'm going to keep it.

“Mike, you don't have to do this.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I
am
going to do it. You just try and stop me.” I'd called meaning to tell her what had happened to me—giving her the humorous version—but that now seemed like the worst idea in the world. “This custody thing is going to be over before you know it, and if you can't find anyone brave enough to put you to work down here once it is, I'll find someone up in Derry who'll do it. Besides, tell me the truth—aren't you starting to feel that it might be time for a change of scenery?”

She managed a scrap of a laugh. “I guess you could say that.”

“Heard from John today?”

“Actually, yes. He's visiting his parents in Philadelphia but he gave me the number there. I called him.”

He'd said he was taken with her. Perhaps she was taken with him, as well. I told myself the thorny little tug I felt across my emotions at the idea was only my imagination. Tried to tell myself that, anyway. “What did he say about you losing your job the way you did?”

“The same things you said. But he didn't make me feel safe. You do. I don't know why.” I did. I was an older man, and that is our chief attraction to young women: we make them feel safe. “He's coming up again Tuesday morning. I said I'd have lunch with him.”

Smoothly, not a tremor or hesitation in my voice, I said: “Maybe I could join you.”

Mattie's own voice warmed at the suggestion; her ready acceptance made me feel paradoxically guilty. “That would be great! Why don't I call him and suggest that you both come over here? I could barbecue again. Maybe I'll keep Ki home from V.B.S. and make it a foursome. She's hoping you'll read her another story. She really enjoyed that.”

“That sounds great,” I said, and meant it. Adding Kyra made it all seem more natural, less of an intrusion on my part. Also less like a date on theirs. John could not be accused of taking an unethical interest in his client. In the end he'd probably thank me. “I believe Ki might be ready to move on to ‘Hansel and Gretel.' How are you, Mattie? All right?”

“Much better than I was before you called.”

“Good. Things are going to be all right.”

“Promise me.”

“I think I just did.”

There was a slight pause. “Are
you
all right, Mike? You sound a little . . . I don't know . . . a little strange.”

“I'm okay,” I said, and I was, for someone who had been pretty sure he was drowning less than an hour ago. “Can I ask you one question before I go? Because this is driving me crazy.”

“Of course.”

“The night we had dinner, you said Devore told you his great-grandfather and mine knew each other. Pretty well, according to him.”

“He said they shit in the same pit. I thought that was elegant.”

“Did he say anything else? Think hard.”

She did, but came up with nothing. I told her to call me if something about that conversation did occur to her, or if she got lonely or scared, or if she started to feel worried about anything. I didn't like to say too much, but I had already decided I'd have to have a frank talk with John about my latest adventure. It might be prudent to have the private detective from Lewiston—George Kennedy, like the actor—put a man or two on the TR to keep an eye on Mattie and Kyra. Max Devore was mad, just as my caretaker had said. I hadn't understood then, but I did now. Any time I started to doubt, all I had to do was touch the back of my head.

I returned to the fridge and once more forgot to open it. My hands went to the magnets instead and again began moving them around, watching as words formed, broke apart, evolved. It was a peculiar kind of writing . . . but it
was
writing. I could tell by the way I was starting to trance out.

That half-hypnotized state is one you cultivate until you can switch it on and off at will . . . at least you can when things are going well. The intuitive part of the mind unlocks itself when you begin work and rises to a height of about six feet (maybe ten on good days). Once there, it simply hovers, sending black-magic messages and bright pictures. For the balance of the day that part is locked to the rest of the machinery and goes pretty much forgotten . . . except on certain occasions when it comes loose on its own and you trance out unexpectedly, your mind making associations which have nothing to do with rational thought and glaring with unexpected images. That is in some ways the strangest part of the creative process. The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.

My house is haunted.

Sara Laughs has always been haunted . . . you've stirred em up.

stirred,
I wrote on the refrigerator. But it didn't look right, so I made a circle of fruit and vegetable magnets around it. That was better, much. I stood there for a moment, hands crossed over my chest as I crossed them at my desk when I was stuck for a word or a phrase, then took off
stirr
and put on
haunt,
making
haunted.

“It's haunted in the circle,” I said, and barely heard the faint chime of Bunter's bell, as if in agreement.

I took the letters off, and as I did found myself thinking how odd it was to have a lawyer named Romeo—

(
romeo
went in the circle)

—and a detective named George Kennedy.

(
george
went up on the fridge)

I wondered if Kennedy could help me with Andy Drake—

(
drake
on the fridge)

—maybe give me some insights. I'd never written about a private detective before and it's the little stuff—

(
rake
off, leave the
d,
add
etails
)

—that makes the difference. I turned a 3 on its back and put an
I
beneath it, making a pitchfork. The devil's in the details.

From there I went somewhere else. I don't know where, exactly, because I was tranced out, that intuitive part of my mind up so high a search-party couldn't have found it. I stood in front of my fridge and played with the letters, spelling out little pieces of thought without even thinking about them. You mightn't believe such a thing is possible, but every writer knows it is.

What brought me back was light splashing across the windows of the foyer. I looked up and saw the shape of a car pulling to a stop behind my Chevrolet. A cramp of terror seized my belly. That was a moment when I would have given everything I owned for a loaded gun. Because it was Footman. Had to be. Devore had called him when he and Whitmore got back to Warrington's, had told him Noonan refuses to be a good Martian so get over there and fix him.

When the driver's door opened and the domelight in the visitor's car came on, I breathed a conditional sigh of relief. I didn't know who it was, but it sure wasn't “daddy.” This fellow didn't look as if he
could take care of a housefly with a rolled-up newspaper . . . although, I supposed, there were plenty of people who had made that same mistake about Jeffrey Dahmer.

Above the fridge was a cluster of aerosol cans, all of them old and probably not ozone-friendly. I didn't know how Mrs. M. had missed them, but I was pleased she had. I took the first one my hand touched—Black Flag, excellent choice—thumbed off the cap, and stuck the can in the left front pocket of my jeans. Then I turned to the drawers on the right of the sink. The top one contained silverware. The second one held what Jo called “kitchenshit”—everything from poultry thermometers to those gadgets you stick in corncobs so you don't burn your fingers off. The third one down held a generous selection of mismatched steak knives. I took one, put it in the right front pocket of my jeans, and went to the door.