Bloodstone (11 page)

“You must mean the old Taylor property,” Stowe said. “If you put a boat in the river in back of us and floated it downstream, you’d end up right there, in Black Pond. It’s not more than two miles away as the crow flies.”

“A good name for it. Does anyone live there?”

Something dark passed across Harry Stowe’s face. “Not anymore. There was an unfortunate incident with the Taylors years ago. The mother was killed and the father ended up in prison for murder. There was a little boy, Jeb Taylor, he moved in with his grandmother on the hill. I treated him myself for shock, he was one of my first patients here in town.” Stowe glanced around, looking up toward the bar. “Jeb’s usually in here, this time of night…there he is. Third stool down.”

Smith turned and saw a young man sitting hunched over a
drink at the bar. His face was a narrow white moon under a dark slash of hair, his eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles. “Jesus, he looks like he’s just a kid. Pretty bad shape, isn’t he?”

“Barely eighteen, I guess, but Johnny serves him anyway. From what I hear, he’s been serving him about every night for a month now. Lord knows why, except Johnny never was one to refuse a buck. If Ruth finds out, that’s the boy’s grandmother, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“He’ll drink himself to death if he’s not careful.”

Stowe had looked away from the young man at the bar, and now focused his gaze on Smith again. His eyes were frankly curious. “Why do you say that?”

“You can see it on his face.”
And I know how it is to want
to lose yourself in it, to be able to lose control and blame it
all on the booze. A vicious circle, where every day there is
more to forget and more reason to drink. He’s me, fifteen
years ago
.

“Jeb’s had a lot of trouble in his life,” Stowe was saying. “That whole family has. Another one of the original families still left in town, but Jeb’s the youngest of them. A lot of bad blood there. Jeb’s father Ronnie was some of the worst of it. He grew up in the original Taylor house in the Hills, where Jeb and his grandmother live now. I remember Ronnie, being only a couple of years younger than he was. He was a loner, didn’t really get along with the other kids. He would do strange things that made the others keep out of his way. I don’t think he was mentally stable, right from the beginning, and we all could sense it. You know the way kids are. He didn’t have much better luck in high school, and most people just thought it was a matter of time before he ended up behind bars. But we never thought he’d do what he did.”

“And what was that?”

Stowe hesitated. “Understand that when I tell you this, it’s not to smear the Taylor name, or just talk for talk’s sake. I get
the feeling you need to hear it, though I don’t know why. So I’ll tell you what I know as straight and quick as I can.”

“I appreciate it.”

Stowe nodded. “Just before Ronnie got married he had a falling out with his father—they never really got along, as I recall, and I don’t remember what started the argument that got him kicked out of the house. But Ronnie moved out, got married to the Lincoln girl from over in Damariscotta, and found a job at the paper mill. Sharon Lincoln, that was the name of the girl he married. Ronnie bought some land and built that shack by the pond you’re talking about. The garden and everything else good that might have been there was Sharon’s doing, I imagine. About that time I was away in school, and so I don’t know much, other than what I heard second-hand from my mother’s letters. She loved to write to me about the goings on in town, and the Taylors were big news, back then.”

“There wasn’t anything on that land before he built on it?”

“Oh, there was a natural clearing, an old foundation or something, and I think some of the kids used the pond as a swimming hole. After the house was built, the kids didn’t swim there anymore. Ronnie chased them off the land. Anyway, right after they moved in, Sharon had the baby. I think she must have been pregnant before they got married, though why Ronnie would have cared is beyond me. He wasn’t the type to worry about reputations. Maybe Sharon’s folks pushed them into it.

“A couple of years after that, as I recall from my mother’s letters, Ronnie lost his job. He’d been handling things pretty good up until then, but he was no family man. I think losing his job was the last straw for him—even with a man like Ronnie, it seems like there’s always one thing he can hold onto, one thing that keeps him from going over the edge. Working at the mill wasn’t anything glamorous but it kept him busy, and when he lost that, he had too
much time on his hands. He started drinking. All day and half the night right here at Johnny’s drinking whiskey, that was his new thing. People started talking about him around town. They thought he was getting into things he shouldn’t, running around with some bad men. And I guess he was, because a year or so later he started buying things. Not much at first—mostly more booze, and new clothes, things like that. Then he bought a new car, and he built a garage for it next to his house. He would cruise around town in that car, showing it off.”

“You think he was into drugs?”

“I don’t think it was anything like that. I suspect he was stealing things and pawning them in Portland, or someplace nearby. There was a burglary about that time here in town, the Thomas Mansion on the square was broken into and a lot of jewelry and other things were stolen. Priceless things, heirlooms, most of them never recovered. Ronnie did that, I believe. I even remember people talking to the sheriff about it, but nobody could prove anything.”

“Was he ever caught?”

“Stealing things? Not that I recall. But one day soon after, this was just about the time I moved back to town, Ronnie’s father fell down the stairs of the family home and broke his neck. There were a few whispers at the time that Ronnie had had something to do with it. Lord knows he didn’t like his father much. But nobody really took the rumors seriously, and I guess they should have, because a couple of months later it happened.”

“What did he do?”

“He took a broomstick to Sharon, the poor girl. Beat her to death.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. It was brutal. I remember it was still big news when I moved back into town, everyone was talking about it. And Jeb, the poor kid, he was getting all the stares and hearing the talk too, and probably felt like he was responsible for the
whole thing. Kids are like that, you know. Taking the blame. He was always shy. Never did well in school. The teachers thought he was retarded, but I tested him once. He had an average IQ, as I recall, maybe even above average. But he was limited by his lack of social skills, and of course the people in town never gave him much of a chance. Two strikes against him every time he stepped up to the plate.”

Stowe paused, and leaned forward a little. The light that hung above the table cast deep pockets of shadow across his eyes. “There’s one more thing about that story that never made the papers, something I know only because I was involved with the boy’s treatment and I talked to the cops about it. I don’t know if it has any significance or not, but it was strange.”

“What was that?”

“The murder scene was…odd. The way the body had been left, and things had been arranged. Ronnie had drawn around it in blood, using the broom handle like a paintbrush. Looked like he had started in on something else, too, only he’d been interrupted when the cops came and hadn’t finished it. And he had taken a knife from the kitchen, too, and he’d…slit her open with it. She was pregnant, Billy. Jeb was going to have a brother.”

“Jesus Christ.” Smith stared at him, shocked, struggling to come to terms with the sheer brutality of the act.

Stowe sat back again, and shook his head. “I could hardly believe it myself, that a man would do something like that to his wife. To his unborn child, for God’s sake. But Ronnie was seriously disturbed, should have been up at the mental health place a long time ago. Who knows what kind of stuff goes through a head like that?”

“Where was Jeb all this time?”

“Apparently he had stuffed himself underneath the sofa, or his father had put him there, I don’t know. He never would tell me that, said he didn’t remember what had happened. The last thing he could remember was his mother
getting hit, and then he blacked out. But he had her blood all over him, almost as if he had rolled in it.”

Smith turned to stare again at the young man at the bar. He had not moved, and the scene was much the same, except there were now several more empty shot glasses lined up like toy soldiers on the bar’s scarred surface.

His father, the town criminal, feared, hated, finally brought down into the mud of his own making. His father, the murderer. And this boy, having to take the brunt of it all, having to
watch
it happen.
No wonder he drinks
, Smith thought. But turning to alcohol when you were under stress said something about you as a person, or so he had always thought. It said you weren’t strong enough to face things on your own. He had done that himself. Why that thought scared him, he wasn’t sure, but it did.

But could anyone have faced what this boy faced every day, without cracking?

“Looks just like his father,” Stowe said quietly. He had turned to look at the boy too, and his voice was low and distant, as if he were just realizing something. “Spitting image of Ronnie Taylor, some might say. Ronnie used to sit at that very bar, probably on that same stool, and drink all night.”

“So where’s Ronnie now?”

“He died just a couple of weeks ago, still in prison,” Stowe said. “I’ve been wondering how Jeb’s taking it. Doesn’t look good, does it?”

Jeb Taylor had not moved, except to take a drink from his beer glass or down another shot. His shoulders were humped as if to ward off a blow. He did not look at anyone, did not say a word, even to the bartender, who occasionally glanced at him in an offhand way. Smith felt that small quick flash of fear again, racing up through his gut to tighten his scalp.

Jesus Christ, she was pregnant. How could he have done
such a thing?

“Someone ought to do something about his drinking,” Stowe said. “Ruth ought to know. I’ll try to talk to her. But
people around here like their privacy, and expect everyone to mind their own business. Of course, there’s always the rumors running around at the same time, and everyone talking about everyone else. Gossip spreads like wildfire. You just don’t tell it to people’s faces.”

“Sort of hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Stowe said. “But that’s how small towns work.” He smiled, a little wearily. “God, but I went on. I guess I just made my own contribution to the rumor mill, telling you what I did.”

“You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“I hope it helped you out in some way.” Stowe studied his face. “You weren’t thinking about buying into that place by Black Pond, were you?”

Smith shook his head. “It gave me a bad feeling, to tell you the truth.”

“I guess I wondered whether you might be into real estate. This isn’t a bad little town, and the location could be worse. Every once in a while we get some outsiders looking to make a buck.”

“That’s not me. But I did wonder why it’d been abandoned.”

“Superstition,” Stowe said. “After Ronnie was arrested the property went on the market, but it just sat there. People are afraid of the legends, the ghosts haunting a place like that.”

“Every little town has its share of ghosts.”

“I guess they do, at that.” Stowe nodded. “There are lots of stories. I’ve often thought about writing up the history of the town myself. Even with all the old families and the historical society, there isn’t any real White Falls history book. But I guess you found that out today, didn’t you?” Stowe’s face grew serious for a moment, the light twinkle in his eyes dimming as he sat forward in the pool of light. “Like I told you, Billy, I get a good feeling about you. And I don’t want you to tell me anything you’re not ready to say about why
you’re here. But I’ll tell you this; there are things about this town that not many people know, things not even I know much about, and I’ve looked into the history a bit for my own reasons. The Taylor family is like that. Oh, I know some of it, but there’s a lot I suspect nobody but Ronnie Taylor himself knew, and maybe his wife just before she died. I guess that’s just as well. I talked a bit about superstition like it’s a bunch of horse crap, but I guess I’ve got a few of my own.”

Stowe smiled, finished the last of his Coke, and put a five-dollar bill on the table. “I’ve talked enough. I should be getting home. Got a group of high school kids coming in for spring physicals tomorrow morning. Can you make it down to the clinic around eight o’clock? I can show you some of the things you’ll be doing, get you situated before the kids show up.”

Smith told him that would be fine. They said goodbye, and as he walked past the bar he saw Jeb Taylor still sitting on the last stool, staring into his drink as if he saw something in there that fascinated him.

When he got back to the Old Mill Inn, shivering from the cold air, he found Angel still awake on his bed, reading through the last of the books they had gotten from the library. He told her about his job offer, and all that Stowe had told him about the Taylor family and the place by the pond, including Ronnie Taylor’s possible career as the town thief, the suspicious death of Norman Taylor, and Sharon’s murder.

“She was pregnant,” Angel said softly. “My God. And that little boy, having to watch it all.”

“Kind of makes more sense now, doesn’t it? That place out by Black Pond, falling to pieces the way it is. Who would want to live there now?”

“I don’t ever want to go out there again,” Angel said. “I don’t ever want to see that place.”

“I think we need to find out more about the family. What exactly happened and why. Maybe it’ll help us understand why we’re here.”

“But maybe that doesn’t have anything to do with why we’re here.” She sighed. “How are we supposed to figure all of this out? I spent three hours looking through every page of these books, trying to find
something
that would stand out. But there’s nothing here that’s any different from any other little town.” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. She looked tousled, as if she had just gotten up from a nap, except there were bags under her eyes and her face was drawn. He looked at her, and the feelings caught him by surprise, coming up from nowhere, until he was forced to turn away with a lump in his throat. She was so beautiful sitting there, tired eyes and all, her legs tucked up under her like a little girl. She had a way of looking at you that was so direct and open, it almost seemed as if she could peer right past the bullshit and into your soul. He wanted her, and that scared him more than anything; what right did he have to feel these things? The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, and he thought that if she saw what he was thinking, if she realized it somehow, he would do just that.