Before Cain Strikes (15 page)

The positive rate of growth in the “Photographs of the Trade” archive seemed to point in that direction. It was the most popular page on the website, and with good reason. Words were just words, especially online, but authentic photographs of actual union work boosted morale and fostered intelligent discussion. And ninety-nine percent of the photographs submitted were authentic. Cain42 fact-checked each and every one.

Although the most recent photograph wouldn’t have to be fact-checked at all. He uploaded tonight’s JPEGs from his camera to his laptop and added them to the “Photographs” archive. The thumbnail of the husband and wife now occupied the space in the top row recently held by Mothman’s masterful kill of that woman in upstate New York, the space reserved for the newest and the freshest.

Time moved on.

The best way to honor Mothman—or any casualty—was to learn from their mistakes. What had the boy done wrong? He had fallen into that teenage pitfall of letting his parents get involved. That was really no fault of his own. The second best way to honor Mothman would be to replenish the union’s membership. So Cain42 fought his cloying tiredness and opened his database of
potentials. He had seven names on his list. Maybe it was time to be bold. Maybe it was time to contact them all. How wonderful would it be if all seven checked out?

His eyes scanned the list. Some of the nicknames these people came up with sure made him roll his eyes.
Jack_the_Ripperest?
Really? He stopped at the last name, though, and smiled.
Galileofan
.

Now there was a man after his own heart.

F
or his own protection, Grover Kirk had been placed under house arrest—and that house turned out to be Esme’s. This was Grover’s only request, and given the certain amount of danger he was putting himself in, it was not an unreasonable one. What made it worse, of course, was that it also made perfect sense. He had, after all, come to Long Island to interview her. If, in a fictional world, she had been copasetic with his interests and supportive of his book, she might have allowed the budding journalist to crash at her house for a few days while he did his research. This would clear Cain42’s background check because, well, it contained a terrific amount of plausibility, and meanwhile, she could keep an eye on Grover in case Cain42 did come a-knocking. In this fictional world, Grover Kirk was apparently not a pathetic creep who had intimidated the little girl he was now living, temporarily, with under the same roof.

Convincing Rafe to acquiesce to it all had been a task and a half.

“First of all,” he’d barked at her over the phone, “you didn’t even tell me about what happened in the museum.
I had to find out from Sophie. Who’s still a mess, by the way, thanks for asking.”

Esme rubbed her forehead and sat back in the car. Was it still only Monday? God. When would this day end?

“What you should have done, wife of mine, is tell your boss to go fuck himself.”

“Oh, yeah, Rafe? Is that what I should have done?” She glanced to her left, at the sallow companion with whom she was sharing the backseat. He was typing on his computer. The dickhead didn’t even have the good sense to get carsick.

“Esme, I will not have that man in my house.”

“One, it’s not just your house. Two, it’s not your choice. It’s not mine, either. Do you think I want him within five hundred miles of Sophie?”

Grover glanced up from his laptop, opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and returned to his writing. Up front, the rookie FBI agent driving them to Oyster Bay switched on the cruise control and leaned back in her seat.

Tom was asleep in the front passenger seat. Apparently, the day’s events had taken its toll on him. Esme wondered, not for the first time, just how much Henry Booth’s bullet had permanently emptied him of his vitality and spirit. Had she made a selfish mistake? He had been so content, living in semiretirement with Penelope Sue, working at a desk. And he could have returned to Kentucky on the next flight out of Newark, but he’d insisted on accompanying them to Long Island. In for a penny, in for a pound. That was Tom Piper.

“Well, Esme, I’d like to know how you plan on explaining all this to our daughter.”

Esme sighed. So would she. And she also would have preferred her husband offer assistance rather than
dumbheaded interference, but this was her life, and not the fictional utopia they hoped Cain42 would purchase (along with, perhaps, a bridge and a pair of unicorns).

“And where’s he going to sleep, Esme? Have you thought about that?”

Where in the house would Grover sleep? Had the argument really reduced so fast to nitpicking? “He’ll sleep on the sofa,” she answered, and as the words tumbled out of her mouth, she realized why Rafe had posed the question. It wasn’t a nitpick, really. If Grover slept on the couch, she and Rafe, no matter how much enmity currently flowed between them, would have to share the bed. There would be no middle-of-the-night retreat for either of them.

Esme made a vow to, the next time she was in Manhattan, locate Karl Ziegler’s place of residence and leave a flaming pile of dog shit at his front door. Not that this was all his doing. He couldn’t have been aware of their marital problems. He had inflicted Grover Kirk on her, not on them. And the plan was sound. No, no. Next time in Manhattan: place of residence, flaming pile of dog shit. Done deal.

The next exit off the Long Island Expressway was theirs. Soon they would be home. Esme massaged the bridge of her nose. If only home were home.

“Rafe,” she said, “what’s done is done. As much as I’d appreciate your support, this is happening whether you give or not.”

“I still don’t understand why he has to stay here, why the FBI can’t just put him up in a motel room.”

“Because he needs supervision and if the bad guys have him under surveillance and notice he’s spending all his time indoors accompanied by two men carry
ing government-issue firearms, he’s going to get a little suspicious.”

“‘The bad guys.’ I hate it when you condescend to me like that.”

“Yeah, Rafe? Well, I hate it when you’re an asshole.”

She hung up.

Not that it mattered much. In twenty minutes they’d be pulling into the driveway, and then she and Rafe could recommence their jolly squabble. Esme leaned back in her leather seat, closed her eyes and longed to live in a Calgon commercial rather than an Albee play. While she was at it, she also wished for world peace, an end to starvation and a pair of comfortable heels.

Rafe was standing outside when they arrived, a mug of hot coffee his only companion. The steam swirled up and smoke-screened his mouth and eyes. Esme frowned—where had she seen that image before? She and Tom, both sleepy-eyed, got out of the car. Grover sidled into the front seat. For the sake of verisimilitude, he had to pick up his own vehicle from the Days Inn and bring it here. He and the young FBI agent drove off to do just that.

“Rafe,” said Tom.

“Tom,” said Rafe.

Rafe went back inside. At least he had the courtesy not to slam the door behind him and in their faces.

“Your husband’s as congenial as ever,” murmured Tom.

Rafe was in the kitchen, washing out his mug. Esme expected to find her father-in-law splayed out on the sofa but the old man was nowhere to be found. Even the door to his room was wide-open. Just as well. She told Tom she would be right back, and headed up to her daughter’s
bedroom. Sophie would probably be asleep, but it felt like forever since she’d seen her beautiful face and Esme just wanted to hold her and squeeze her and—

Sophie wasn’t in her room.

Esme frowned, checked the master bedroom. Maybe Sophie was in there, curled up under their sheets? No.

Panicking now, Esme checked the bathroom, then bolted back downstairs.

“Where’s Sophie?” she asked Rafe. No, not asked—
demanded
.

He clinked his mug into the dishwasher. “With my dad.”

At this time of night? Past her bedtime? What the hell was Rafe—

And then she knew. She turned to Tom, who looked away. He must have figured it out even before she had.

“She wasn’t too happy about spending the night in a hotel room,” Rafe added, “but then again, you didn’t really give me much time to get her prepared. She was really looking forward to seeing her mother.”

On one hand, Esme wanted to knuckle-punch him in the spleen for what he’d done, and without telling her. On the other hand, though, he’d been absolutely right to do it. And she hated herself a little for not thinking of it.

Of course Sophie wouldn’t be sleeping here tonight. She wouldn’t be spending any time at home, not while Grover Kirk breathed its oxygen and occupied its furniture. It was in her best interest to keep the two of them as far apart as possible, even if it meant uprooting the little girl out of her own bed.

Esme took a calming breath and asked, “Where are they staying?”

“The Worths’.”

Esme nodded. Their friends—well, his friends, really—Nolan and Halley Worth owned a towering lighthouse on the North Shore that they had ingeniously converted to a bed-and-breakfast. The Worths also had a grandson named Billy who was a year younger than Sophie, and whenever he came to visit, they always teased that one day everyone would be attending Billy and Sophie’s wedding (a conversation topic that always inspired the two children to fake-retch).

“I’m going to make myself scarce,” said Rafe. “I make it a rule not to be in the same room as the guy who accosted my daughter. At least, not when there’s law enforcement present.”

He shuffled to his office and made sure to slam the door shut behind him.

Twenty minutes later, Grover’s Studebaker was parked in the driveway, and the other sedan idled by the front curb, waiting to carry Tom back to New York City. Before he left, though, he spent a few private minutes in the garage with his motorcycle. He left looking solemn and with dust on his fingertips.

Esme hugged him goodbye and stood outside until the car had disappeared from view and the sound of its motor had faded into the silence of the cool November night.

“I like your neighborhood,” said Grover.

Esme did her best not to be startled by his sudden appearance behind her. “Thanks,” she replied, then quickly passed him back into the house. He closed the door behind them.

“The last time I was here, Lester didn’t really give
me a tour. Where is he, by the way? I still have some of that wine he enjoyed.”

“He’s not here.” She surveyed the two bulky vinyl suitcases he’d hefted in with him from his car. They were currently leaving dents on the sofa cushions. His only other piece of luggage, apparently, was the cloth valise which hung off his shoulder strap. “May I please have your car keys and computer?”

“In a minute.”

He strolled around the living room slowly, as if he were marking his territory.

“I have somewhere to be,” said Esme. “May I have your car keys and your computer, please?”

“Relax, relax.” He made his way to the bottom of the stairs and gazed upward. “Nice house. Roomy. Too big for just one child, though. Does Sophie get lonely?”

Grover’s face belied innocence, but Esme didn’t care. She curled her left hand into a fist, casually approached the dickhead standing in her home and popped him in the jaw. He staggered back and fell onto the bottom three steps. She reached toward him again and he reflexively raised his arms in defense, which allowed her to easily slip the valise off his shoulder with one hand and the car keys from his pocket with the other.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re the psycho, not me!” He rubbed at his jaw. “Not me.”

“There’s ice in the fridge.” She slid the laptop out of its case, set it on the kitchen counter and booted it up. “Help yourself.”

He didn’t move.

Esme followed the instructions that Mineola had given her, and with a few keystrokes, she had locked Grover
out of his own laptop. The only time it would be used was when she was present and supervising.

She shut the computer down and padded to Rafe’s office. The door remained shut. She considered opening it, poking her head in, perhaps offering an olive branch, but decided now was not the time. Also, her knuckles were throbbing from the jab.

“I’ll be at the Worths’,” she called through the door.

Waited for a response.

Nothing.

So be it.

Back in the living room, Grover still hadn’t moved from the bottom of the stairs. Let him sleep there for all she cared. She passed him by without even a glance, entered the garage, climbed inside the driver’s seat of her Prius, plugged her iPod into the car stereo and started its engine. She needed to clean today’s shit off her soul.

The Eurythmics would do the job quite nicely. By the time Esme was on the main road, she was singing along with Annie Lennox about sweet dreams and the seven seas. Sing it, Annie, sing it.

As she neared the lighthouse, the black expanse of the sea, always an unseen neighbor in Oyster Bay, came into view. Although the town had begun as a fishing village so many years ago, with most homes located close to the water, the only people who lived seaside now were the very rich. And so the shoreline became foreign. It belonged to other people. Esme and Rafe were upper middle class and that entitled them to frequent the public beaches, but the actual parcel of water adjoining Oyster Bay went untouched by them, aside from the occasional sojourn down to Barney’s for the world’s finest (and smallest portion of) grilled flounder. This was the
playground of the tourists and the millionaires, and as she pulled into the gravel lot beside the Worths’ B and B, Esme felt like a tourist, here to visit her daughter in a tower.

When the Worths had purchased the original lighthouse from the town, their first goal had been reconstructive renovation. After all, the structure was more than two hundred years old. They spent countless fortunes making it a place where people could live, and then countless more making it a place where people would want to live. The renovations had been successful, and it was now unimaginable that the lighthouse had served any other purpose but to host and cater to discerning guests.

“B and B USA” gave it five out of five stars.

The tall front door opened to the ground floor, which was a museum dedicated to Oyster Bay itself. Like all the floors, this was circular, and if one followed the wall in a clockwise rotation, one could trace the town history in vivid chronology, through a series of murals and back-lit displays. But Esme had been here before, and so she continued up the winding stairwell that wound the core of the structure to the first floor, the main floor, where Halley Worth sat behind a shipwright’s large desk, reading a library copy of
Typee
.

“What a pleasure,” she lied, and placed her book face-down on the desk surface. She stood to give Esme an aristocratic hug (the kind which lasted half a second and served no purpose other than for the two huggers to see how close they could come, arms around each other, without their bodies actually touching, actual human contact being gauche).

The Worths were Rafe’s friends. Most of the intelli
gentsia and glitterati of the town were Rafe’s friends. He was, after all, a young and ambitious professor at the college. Esme’s line of work was somewhat less respectable, if only because so much of what she did made for inappropriate dinner conversation. Even before she’d rejoined the FBI as a consultant, she’d always felt like an outsider in this world. She had grown up impoverished, and no matter how expensive a dress she wore, no matter how many galas she and Rafe attended or how many charities they supported, she always felt as if she were ostracized. Perhaps it was all in her head. Many of Oyster Bay’s socialites were lovely people.