Authors: Sean Doolittle
Lake Country
SAFER
“I loved
Safer
. The best thing I’ve read in a long time.”
—L
EE
C
HILD
“
Safer
is a high-octane, rip-roaring page-turner. I read it in one sitting—and loved every minute.”
—H
ARLAN
C
OBEN
“In
Safer
, Sean Doolittle has crafted a taut, claustrophobic thriller in which our safe world of home and neighborhood becomes instead something terrifying and deadly. Safer made me look twice at my neighbors and check the locks on my doors, and that earns Doolittle a solid A+ in skin-crawling suspense.”
—K
AY
H
OOPER
“Doolittle produces a smart, funny and powerfully suspenseful thriller. Sometimes,
Safer
reminds us, home can be the most dangerous place on earth.”
—
People
(3½ stars)
“Doolittle cleverly articulates the vulnerability of a close-knit community where those friendly people who know your name also know your darkest secrets.”
—
The New York Times Book Review
“[An] enthralling and unsettling story … Doolittle has written four previous novels, and
Safer
is good enough to make me want to catch up with them all.”
—
The Washington Post
“Doolittle’s outstanding
Safer
is a harrowing tale of suburbia at its ugliest. [
Safer
] proves that he’s a writer to watch.”
—
The Kansas City Star
“Superb … The gut-wrenching
Safer
presents a terrifying portrait of suburban paranoia and the dangerous downside of pursuing security at all costs. A stunner.”
—
The Providence Journal
THE CLEANUP
Winner of the Barry Award
“
The Cleanup
is a wonderful discovery. Tight, taut and tough, this is the work of a writer who knows the territory inside and out. This is a great read.”
—M
ICHAEL
C
ONNELLY
“[Doolittle’s] novels are stylishly written and refreshing in their quirky originality.… [The
Cleanup
is] a terrifying nightmare seen from the inside—and absurdly funny when you’re lucky enough to be just looking in.”
—
The New York Times Book Review
“Sean Doolittle is one of the bright stars among the galaxy of talented young authors who write with style and authority.… [
The Cleanup
is] the perfect noir movie without sound or pictures.”
—
The New York Sun
“Another standout effort … [Doolittle’s] understated novels are real gems, fine examples of timeless crime writing.”
—
Chicago Sun-Times
“Doolittle has become, over the course of three previous novels, a steadily assured voice with enough genuine good humor and humanity to balance the nihilism and gunplay … [he has] become a ‘must-read’ author.”
—
San Francisco Chronicle
RAIN DOGS
“As long as there are writers like Sean Doolittle out there, American crime fiction has got a sterling future ahead of it.
Rain Dogs
is tense, evocative, and anchored by a main character, Tom Coleman, who I’d love to see more of. A terrific novel.”
—D
ENNIS
L
EHANE
“A superb, suspenseful tale filled with the droll expressions and ambiguous gestures of Nebraska natives.… A beautifully written work with idiosyncratic humor and a lot of heart.”
—
The Wall Street Journal
“[Readers will be] drawn in by the quality and authenticity of the writing. Doolittle’s lean, mean prose evokes the hardscrabble territory of the Nebraska badlands that serve as the story’s setting. His style is likewise stark and spare, casting the story in the hard-boiled tradition of James M. Cain and Jim Thompson.”
—
Chicago Sun-Times
“Sean Doolittle is a young writer with serious chops. With
Rain Dogs
he brings it strong.”
—G
EORGE
P
ELECANOS
BURN
“An exceptionally well-crafted and well-told tale of arson, police work, misplaced zeal, bad relationships, good relationships, family bonds and, oh yes, exercise videos. Quirky, compelling, intelligent, and funny … If you like Elmore Leonard, do yourself a favor and pick up
Burn
.”
—
Lincoln Journal Star
“Sean Doolittle has been winning high praise from crime fiction readers, and
Burn
will show you why—it’s deftly written, tense and intelligent, and bound to make you scramble to find his other work.”
—J
AN
B
URKE
,
New York Times
bestselling author
“A cult writer for the masses—hip, smart and so mordantly funny that the casual reader might be laughing too hard to realize just how thoughtful Doolittle’s work is. Get on the bandwagon now.”
—L
AURA
L
IPPMAN
,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Sean Doolittle combines wit, good humor, and a generosity of spirit rare in mystery fiction to create novels that are both engrossing and strangely uplifting. He deserves to take his place among the best in the genre.”
—J
OHN
C
ONNOLLY
,
New York Times
bestselling author
DIRT
“Uproarious.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“In a passionate flurry of curious motives, seedy characters, and a touch of the heroic, Doolittle delivers an A+ effort that should be considered one of the top crime novels of the year.… Highly recommended.”
—
Cemetery Dance
Lake Country
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books eBook Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Sean Doolittle
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
B
ANTAM
B
OOKS
and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Doolittle, Sean
Lake country: a novel/Sean Doolittle.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53214-5
1. Missing persons—Fiction. 2. Veterans—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.O568L35 2012
813′.6—dc23
2011040262
v3.1
Darryl had been in one of his moods for a week, and he seemed to find a valve for it that night at the bar. “All you clowns pipe down,” he said.
Nobody paid much attention. Glen Campbell kept playing on the jukebox. Pool balls clacked around the table in back. A couple of guys from the garage across the street threw darts in the corner, still in their grease-stained coveralls. The old-timers down the bar went right on bitching about whatever they figured needed bitching about today, and Mike Barlowe sat on his stool, nursing a beer, wondering what it would take to fix his life. More or less Tuesday at the Elbow Room.
Darryl said, “Hal, gimme the thing.” Hal wiped the bar with one hand, slid the remote over with the other. Darryl gave Mike a nudge and punched up the volume on the Elbow’s only television, a raggedy Magnavox Hal kept bolted over the back-bar mirror on a shelf made out of angle iron and a plank of warped plywood.
Mike looked and saw that they were doing a story
about Becky Morse on the ten o’clock news. At first he wondered why, and then the reporter told him: April 7. Five years tomorrow since the crash.
“Tell you right now where the hell this is going,” Darryl Potter said.
Mike watched as they reran the same bygone photo from the Morse kid’s senior yearbook: same honey hair, same pretty smile. A heartbreaker. The picture cut to file footage of cops and EMTs, a dark highway strewn with wreckage, emergency lights strobing wet pavement and scattered glass.
Now came the girl’s mother, Lily Morse, looking older than Mike remembered. She spoke to the reporter from a couch in a living room he remembered better than he’d have preferred. In a minute the picture cut again to some white-haired state senator with a face full of eyebrows, talking to the camera about whether or not they’d ever pass a new law.
Finally, a little business on the other driver: Benson, his name was, though Mike wouldn’t have remembered that if he hadn’t been watching the news. Late forties or so by now. Sharp-looking guy with a sharp-looking wife and a sharp-looking daughter of his own.
“Son of a bitch,” Darryl said. He shoved the remote back down the bar with his knuckles and lit a cigarette.
Mike felt a dull pang of shame.
April.
Jesus. He’d been out of work since the last week in March, too much of that time spent right here at the Elbow with Darryl, and the days had started running
together. He sat back on his stool and rubbed his eyes. Thought:
Hell
.
“What’s with you two mopes?” Hal put down new beers and changed out their ashtray. No such thing as a smoking ban at the Elbow Room.
“Got a joke for you,” Darryl told him. “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Asshole falls asleep driving and kills your kid sister.”
“Asshole falls asleep driving and kills my kid sister who?”
Darryl jetted smoke through his nose. “Some fuckin’ joke, ain’t it?”
Hal looked at Mike.
“I don’t get it either,” Mike said.
After the party had broken up, and the rain tapered off, and most of the others from the dayside crew had found their coats and umbrellas and headed for home, Rose Ann Carmody took the stool next to Maya’s, ordered a Sapphire martini for each of them, and said, “Happy birthday to me.”
Maya smiled. “Happy birthday, Rose Ann. You’re supposed to let us buy the drinks.”
“This one’s not for me, kiddo. It’s for you.”
“What did I do?”
“Hush,” Rose Ann said. “The news is starting.”
Maya glanced at the nearest television. It wasn’t hard to find one; the Fox and Hound sat around the
corner from the station, and all umpteen flat screens played the same thing every night at six and ten.
Like clockwork, all around the room, News7 logos came spinning into frame, trumpeted in on a fanfare so familiar by now that Maya imagined she’d need surgery if she wanted it removed. The intro peeled away, revealing Rick Gavigan and Carmen Brashear behind the anchor desk, live, in high-definition, not half a block from where Maya sat—in somewhat less than regular definition, at this point—sipping call gin with Rose Ann. Rick and Carmen had been teetotaling here themselves an hour ago, wishing Rose Ann a happy fiftieth along with everyone else. Maya expected they’d see at least Gavigan back here in the bar in approximately thirty-seven minutes, ready to cover lost ground.
Meanwhile, tonight’s top story: ruptured sewer main in Eden Prairie. Rush-hour traffic held at a standstill.
“The shit we cover,” Rose Ann said.
Maya went back to her drink. At the first commercial, Rose Ann noticed Maya’s glass, already empty, and said, “Oops.” She ordered another.
“Okay,” Maya said. “What do you want?”
“Want?”
“You’re plying me with alcohol for some reason.”
“I’m waiting to make a toast, you lousy sponge.”
Maya narrowed her eyes. “What kind of toast?”
“Good grief, the regular kind,” Rose Ann said. “Or is tomorrow not your anniversary?”
As if Rose Ann had cued it, the broadcast returned: second segment, lead story, Maya Lamb reporting.
“Ah,” Rose Ann said. “Here we are now.”
The story was a follow-up on Becky Morse and Wade Benson. Benson was the local architect who had worked past midnight too many nights in a row, fallen asleep behind the wheel of his Range Rover, and crossed the center line on a stretch of State 169 that normally had a barrier but happened, that rainy spring night five years ago, to be serving as an undivided two-lane due to road construction. Becky Morse had been the Mankato State University sophomore he’d met more or less grille-to-grille in the oncoming lane.
Alcohol hadn’t been a factor on either side, only fatigue and dreadful timing, and the architect had come through with a concussion and minor bang-ups. Becky Morse, on the other hand, had been driving a compact hybrid, and not an expedition-class four-by-four. She’d lingered two days in a coma at the Hennepin County Medical Center before succumbing to her injuries, which included ruptured everything, fractured you-name-it, and massive head trauma.
For years now, the girl’s mother had been pushing for legislation to mandate stiffer sentences for so-called “drowsy driving,” and a version of her bill had finally made it through committee. Five years since the crash that had given the bill its nickname, Becky’s Law now awaited hearing on the Senate floor. Maya had been working on the piece for a few days, tonight’s installment being the first in a two-part package tying in with the state patrol’s Highway Safety Week.
“Well done,” Rose Ann said when it was over. She raised her glass. “Welcome to the Five Minnesota Winters Club.”
Maya was surprised. A little touched, even, in spite of her mood. Becky Morse had been the first story she’d ever covered at News7. Maya hadn’t mentioned this to a soul, but Rose Ann hadn’t missed it.
She clinked stemware with her news director. Thin glass chimed beneath the sports report. After they’d taken their medicine, Maya said, “Tell me something.”
“Happy to,” Rose Ann said.
“When the hell did half a decade go by?”
Rose Ann laughed. “Honey, I stopped counting ’em two decades ago. Now. Speaking of plying a reporter with alcohol.”
Maya followed Rose Ann’s gaze to a booth in the corner, where two other daysiders had lingered. Kimberly Cross, tiny and blond, fresh cosmo in hand, flirting up a storm with Justin Murdock, the hot kid just in from some market in Idaho. Suddenly Maya felt ancient. “Who’s plying whom?”
“I don’t know,” Rose Ann said. “It’s impossible to be certain from this distance.”
They watched. It was a regular
National Geographic
special over there:
The male of the species displays his plumage; the flushed cheeks and tousled forelocks of the female signal her interest
. After a minute, Maya said, “Isn’t Kimberly engaged?”
“Mm,” Rose Ann said, sipping her drink.
Maya turned on an elbow. “Isn’t Kimberly engaged to a left defender for the Wild?”
“When last I’d heard,” Rose Ann said. She tilted her head in thought. “That’s a nice smile on our young Justin Murdock. It’d be a shame if someone came along and knocked all his teeth out.”
“Or even most of them,” Maya agreed.
Across the room, in the dim pocket of the booth, Kimberly Cross finally glanced up and noticed her audience. Maya and Rose Ann waved in unison from the bar. Kimberly looked away quickly, the bloom in her creamy cheeks spreading to the rest of her face.
God
, Maya thought. She’d been Kimberly’s age when she’d come up to the Cities from Clark Falls, Iowa, ready to take on the world, or at least Minneapolis. The twenty-six-year-old Maya had imagined herself somewhere in New York City by now, a string of Justin Murdocks bobbing in her wake like channel markers in a wide river of accomplishment.
“Cheer up,” Rose Ann said, misreading Maya’s mind. “You’re still young. And we’re leading a 14 market. And you’re the only reporter in town speaking for Becky Morse tonight.”
Is that what I’m doing?
Maya thought.
“Becky Morse,” she said, leaning her glass once more toward Rose Ann.
“I was going to say dental insurance,” Rose Ann said, shaking her head sadly at the Cross–Murdock booth. She pinged the rim of her glass against Maya’s. “But whatever makes you feel better.”
Mike watched Hal Macklin set up three empty shot glasses in a line. He filled them straight across the top, one two three. While Hal poured, Mike pondered the cloudy green blob of old tattoo ink nestled amid the wiry hair of the man’s grizzled forearm. The tattoo
had been a bulldog, once upon a time. Now only its initials remained legible:
U.S.M.C
.
“Hal,” he said. “When’s the last time we paid for a drink in this dump?”
Hal flopped his rag over a shoulder. “Already paid for ’em, kid.” He dealt the full glasses out: one for Mike, one for Darryl, one for himself. “How’d you know the girl?”
If Darryl registered any of this, he didn’t let on. If he noticed the free shooter full of Old Crow sitting on the bar in front of him, he didn’t announce that either. He’d gone dark since the news went to sports. For the past few minutes he’d been sitting on his stool, hunched over his beer, generating his own surly atmosphere.
Mike said, “We knew her brother.”
“You don’t know him anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
Looking at Darryl, Hal put two and two together. “This brother have a name?”
“Lance Corporal Morse,” Mike said. He’d actually graduated Sibley High a year ahead of the guy, though they hadn’t known each other in school. Hadn’t once met, in fact, before landing in the Sunni Triangle together with the 4/8 Marines. “First name Evan.”
“Lance Corporal Morse,” Hal repeated. “Final rank, I take it.”
“E-3 for life,” Mike said. He took a pull from his beer. “Died the same day, the way it went. How’s that for a story?”
“Same day as what?”
“As his sister.”
Hal glanced at the television, where the girl’s picture had been a few minutes ago. Nothing about a brother.
“They weren’t together at the time,” Mike told him.
Hal waited for the story, which sounded more mysterious than what it was. The 4/8 had been banging full tilt inside sunny Ramadi for three days straight when word came in through forward command that Morse’s sister had been in a car wreck back home. The kid’s company commander had cleared him to take the ten-day emergency leave, but Morse decided to stay put with his squad, which had lost guys already. He’d figured he could keep in touch with his family from outpost until they had more news.
More news came two days later, when a team from Fox Company—Sergeant Mike Barlowe, a machine gunner from West Virginia named Darryl Potter, and a couple of other available grunts—had pulled Morse from his team’s position in a shelled-out café in the market square. They’d shuttled him back to command, where a lieutenant colonel informed him that his sister had died stateside that morning.
Morse hitched a ride from the forward operating base back to Camp Ramadi with a returning supply convoy after nightfall. The rear gun truck—the same up-armored Humvee Morse had climbed into—hit a roadside IED on the edge of town, and that had more or less been that.
“Christ,” Hal said.
“Their old man went so low over it that he offed himself after the funerals.”
Hal raised an eyebrow. “No shit?”
“Negative shit,” Mike said. “Drove himself to this little place they had up in the lake country. Paddled a canoe out to the middle of the water, sat up on the gunwale, and shot himself in the gourd.”
After a minute, Hal said, “Congratulations. That’s the saddest goddamn story I’ve heard this week.”
“Yeah, well,” Mike said. “It’s only Tuesday.”
Pool balls clacked around the tables. The wrench monkeys threw darts and the old-timers bitched. The jukebox played Springsteen now. On the television, the weather guy called for more rain tomorrow.
Hal picked up his glass. He studied it a moment, then said, “Lance Corporal Morse.”
Mike sighed. “And his kid sister.”
“Ooh rah,” Darryl muttered, and knocked back his shot without waiting for them.
They drank more to Lance Corporal Morse as the night wore on. And his kid sister. They drank to the 4th Battalion, 8th Marines. They drank to Lily Morse, who’d lost her family one member at a time until she’d woken up all alone one morning in a tidy house in West St. Paul. Nobody could decide whether to drink to Bill Morse or not, checking out the way he had, but they erred on the side of sympathy. They made the rounds again every so often, just to be thorough. By closing time, Darryl was only getting warmed up.
“Guy straight up kills somebody,” he said, still talking about the architect driving the other car. Wouldn’t let it go. “And he does ten days for it.”
“Yeah, well.” Mike shambled over to the wall and racked his cue stick. They hadn’t really been playing anyway. “I’m sure he’s sorry.”
“Hell. Killed three people, if you look at it.”
“Depends how you look at it, I guess.”