Bunker 01 - Slipknot (12 page)

An aquarium the size of a Volkswagen took up most of the space in the room. I was so exhilarated, I could barely breathe. The tank’s aeration system bubbled and whirred.

The glass sides appeared to be completely covered with green algae. The algae seemed to be in motion, and something was making its way out of the top of the tank.
Thunk
: It hit the floor. I moved in to see what had crawled out of the aquarium. A small green crab scuttled a few inches across the linoleum floor, like a cockroach. There were several other crabs on the floor, a few of which appeared to be dried out and dead. With my face nearly against the glass, I gasped in horror. The sides of the tank were not coated with growth; the tank was plumb full of crabs. There must have

[
1 0 0
]

L i n d a G r e e n l a w

been thousands of them crawling around. Disgusting. I felt the sensation of something going up my pant leg. Crabs as pets? What kind of sicko was Dow?

Just when I had the urge to scream and run from the house, lights flashed through the trees on the road and against the far wall of the crab room. Phew, I thought as my goose bumps melted like butter thrown onto a hot griddle.

Thank God, Cal’s back. I took a deep breath, turned out the light, closed the door, and went to the window of the kitchen to signal to Cal that I would be right out. As the truck pulled around the loop, the headlights flooded the kitchen, filling it with my shadow. Opening the door, I yelled, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

The icy realization that the vehicle was not Cal’s hit me like gallons of Gatorade on a victorious football coach. The headlights flashed to high beams. Stunned, I stood, not knowing whether to retreat back inside or make a run for it. If I stepped back into the kitchen, I would be trapped in the house with nothing but a tire iron and golf clubs for protection. No phone meant no emergency call. If I bolted outside, I would be moving through open fields, where I could easily be run down by the truck. I froze in the doorway, unable to move in any direction. Blinded by the headlights, I knew the driver of the truck was getting a crystal-clear picture of me. If I ran I would be giving the vehicle’s occupant reason to chase me, as if I had something worthy of taking the risk. I had nothing. So, scared stiff, I remained in the entryway in a stare-down that I knew could cost me my life.

8

the unmistakable high-pitched chattering and screeching of a belt out of adjustment grew fainter as the mysterious truck negotiated the turns returning it to the main road. I nearly collapsed in relief. When the noise had faded into the darkness, I let the screen door close me back inside Dow’s house. I already knew I wouldn’t tell Cal that I had been caught like the proverbial deer in the headlights by an unseen stranger. I returned the tire iron back to the floor where I had found it, and I wished that I had at least dropped it prior to exposing myself as a trespasser.

As I completed my final walk-through of the house, including the grotesque aquarium room, I picked up a dead crab from the linoleum and zipped it into the plastic sandwich bag that held my lunch on days that I packed one. As I tucked the Zip-locked crab into the pocket of my messenger bag alongside my cell phone, I was reminded of the need for a battery charger. As I retraced my steps through the house to ensure that everything was exactly the way I had found it, I did the usual mental gymnastics of figuring out which would

[
1 0 2
]

L i n d a G r e e n l a w

be less expensive: shopping at the Old Maids’ or driving to Ellsworth. Eventually, I would need to do one or the other.

Satisfied that I had not missed anything that might be an explanation of Dow’s Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde routine, I knew I would leave the house with more unanswered questions than I had entered with. I hoped that Alice and Henry would have overserved themselves with medicinal nightcaps and stumbled happily off to bed before my return so that I might avoid the inevitable grilling.

I left behind the garbage heaps on the porch, and I thought about how strange it was that in cities, where millions of dollars were spent on the high-speed and high-tech investigation and prosecution of heinous crime, secrecy to any degree was a myth of ancient lore. Full disclosure of every last detail of any search or research or interrogation or confession was given without question or thought of holding back even a single puzzle piece for future use. Years of bribes and leaks to the press had led to a policy and practice of leaving investigation open to the public. Law enforcement and the judicial system as a whole were cleaner that way—at least in theory.

And yet here in Green Haven, Maine, something very odd was going on. Something that had culminated in murder.

And it was unlikely that there would be any investigation other than mine, which at this point could be considered a mere dabbling, as I was absolutely unofficial. I was in the en-viable position, I thought as I stood in the field at the end of the loop waiting for Cal in the dark, of not having to tell anyone anything. I needn’t share the crab, the paper clip, the trespassing truck, the tire iron, or the contents of the file cab-s l i p k n o t

[
1 0 3
]

inets. My move north had been like stepping back in time to the era of Sherlock Holmes.

Cal’s headlights appeared at nine on the dot. We shared neither greetings nor small talk. I didn’t ask about his wife’s bingo game. He didn’t ask about the success of my mission. I didn’t promise not to drag him into similar situations in the future. The night was warm. We rode with our windows down. My hair washed across my face and caused me to close my eyes. My exterior calm hid the turmoil within. Anyone could hide the truth, I thought. That was the easy part.

When my hair fell limp upon my shoulders, I realized that we had stopped in the visitor’s parking spot at the Lobster Trappe. I was relieved when I opened my eyes to see the Vickersons’ windows totally black. The only light in the vicinity was shining from my apartment at thirty-two cents per kilowatt-hour; I knew my goodbye would be hasty. Cal had already placed the gearshift in reverse when I opened the truck door and swung my right leg out. The small light on the roof of the cab was soft and kind to Cal’s heavily weathered face. His eyes were on the rearview mirror, indicating to me that he did not intend to linger. Cal appeared to be more than ready to be done with his part in my caper. Stepping out of the truck and easing the door closed to avoid waking the landlords, I was uncomfortable leaving without a word. As usual, I had no idea what to say, though “good night” and

“thank you” would have sufficed. “See you tomorrow” may have worked. Instead, I poked my head through the open window and whispered, “Talk is cheap.”

The dashboard lights dimly lit Cal’s easy smile and nod.

[
1 0 4
]

L i n d a G r e e n l a w

His eyes never left the rearview mirror as he replied, “Yes, that’s true. Supply and demand.”

I hesitated before releasing the side of the truck. I took Cal’s implication that the supply of conversation exceeded the demand as permission for me to remain silent. I left without even “good night” and was heartened to see Cal’s headlights remain in my apartment windows until I stood inside and waved. They don’t make men like that anymore, I thought. Perhaps I had been born a couple of decades too late.

The stench of burned popcorn permeated my living space. I wondered how I would ever fall asleep while breathing this air. I brushed my hair and teeth, slipped a cotton nightgown over my head, flipped off the light, and felt my way to the side of the bed. I fumbled and found the switch for the small lamp on my bedside table and turned it on. Beside the lamp stood a bottle of single-malt Scotch whiskey, a glass, and a handwritten note: “We trust that this will help you sleep. Your sheets are in the wash. Linens on your bed are on loan. Can’t wait to hear about your night! Mr. and Mrs.

V.” Delighted with the twenty-five-year-old Highland Park yet dismayed with another affirmation of my total lack of privacy in a place where I paid rent, I was torn between appreci-ation and annoyance. Wasn’t this the same contradiction of emotions explained time and again by friends with normal parents? Although I had never been abused in any way, I basically had raised myself with the help of my mentor, who had been my friend for over thirty years now. My mother called it making me strong and independent. The social s l i p k n o t

[
1 0 5
]

workers found it bordering on neglect. I finally understood the frequent complaints of coworkers about meddling mothers and in-laws who let themselves into adult children’s homes, doing laundry and leaving baked goods and notes about elves having visited. Through the years I had secretly wished for some parental elves. Fortunately, I thought as I poured a short drink of the caramel-colored liquor, my elves were lushes.

Tucking myself in, I buried my nose in the glass and was intoxicated by the peaty, almost seaweedy scent. The first sip tingled and left a smoky trail from the back of my tongue to the pit of my stomach. Why this sensation was enjoyable was beyond my comprehension. The indulgence was also beyond my budget, so I nursed the drink, savoring every dear drop while scribbling some notes on a pad. I had an appointment with Ginny Turner first thing in the morning to present the final and official list of upgrades and improvements that the plant needed to remain insured. I suspected this meeting would be most unpleasant. But it would get me back into Ginny’s office, where I might gain some insight on her connection, if any, to Dow.

I didn’t remember putting away my notes and turning off the lamp, but I supposed I must have as I squinted, barely awake, at six-thirty the next morning. Feeling a little guilty about sleeping an hour later than what was normal for me, I vowed to skip the nightcap in the future unless I had absolutely no schedule until later in the day. I quickly ran a cord connecting a printer to my laptop computer and printed out the plant’s survey on the official form, all ten pages. A short,

[
1 0 6
]

L i n d a G r e e n l a w

hot shower and instant coffee stayed me for the morning. After my seven a.m. meeting at the plant, I would visit the coffee shop for some real sustenance and perhaps a chat with the goddess of gab, Audrey. Maybe some of her loquaciousness would rub off on me. God knows I could use a little, I thought as I stared at the foamy brown sludge in the bottom of my coffee mug.

With the day forecast to be muggy, I decided on a short khaki skirt, a white tee, and sandals. I hopped into the clothes and put my still-wet hair into a tight bun and was ready to face the world—or at least Green Haven. Placing the Scotch in a cupboard, I wondered if the bottle had been full when the Vickersons left it. I hoped not. As I took one last look at its label, I wondered whether I would ever get to the Orkneys, or any other part of Scotland, for that matter. One dream at a time, I thought as I checked my figure in the reflection of the stainless steel refrigerator door. Not bad for forty-two, I thought vainly, and slung my homemade sailcloth messenger bag over my head, cross-chest fashion. With the strap pressing between my breasts, their size was accentu-ated, which was fine by me. Somehow, in the last twelve hours, I had transformed from the dowdy, conservative insurance lady to the new gal in town: the single, attractive, intriguing undercover murder investigator on a mission. I was full of anticipation for another showdown with Ginny Turner; the thought of ruining her day made mine.

The day, even at this early stage, was just what the weath-erman had promised. Nothing like the heat of southern Florida but hot nonetheless, I thought as I walked through s l i p k n o t

[
1 0 7
]

the parking area, past my Duster, and out to the edge of the road. The nice temperature coupled with the status of my car’s gas tank compelled me to travel on foot. The plant was under half a mile away and all downhill. I hadn’t worked out since leaving Miami, and my new job did not include a gym membership—one of the many bennies I had sacrificed along with a decent paycheck. Money isn’t everything, I tried to convince myself as I wandered through the open gate in the chain-link fence in front of the plant. I could always walk for exercise.

Two steel fishing vessels were unloading their catches on either side of a finger pier jutting out from the plant’s main building. The
Sea Hunter
and the
Fearless,
it appeared to me from the distance, were unloading codfish. My face flushed slightly with the thought that Lincoln Aldridge must be in the vicinity. “Good morning, Miss Bunker,” called Cal cheerfully from his post as overseer of the unloading, weighing, recording, and transporting to the processing area. He stood more erect than he had appeared behind the wheel of his truck last night, as if he had somehow significantly deflated the hump in his upper back. Overall, Cal looked well rested.

“Good morning, Cal,” I called back, and waved a hand.

All work stopped as I passed. I was close enough to hear whispered questions of Cal and feel eyes staring and heads turning to follow my walk toward the stairs to Ginny’s office.

My new attitude had the desired effect. I was accustomed to admiring stares from men and at times longed for them. But it had been a while, a long while, since I had put any effort into my appearance and an intentional sway in my hips. I

[
1 0 8
]

L i n d a G r e e n l a w

haven’t lost a thing, I thought as I slowly climbed the stairs. I quickly checked my ego as I reminded myself that I had little female competition here at the plant among women clad in oversize lab coats, hairnets, and rubber boots. There was no way to make the required getup look cute.

“All right, boys, back to work! Haven’t you ever seen a pretty woman before?” There was some low-level grumbling and a few chuckles as the workers obeyed Cal’s order and resumed various duties aboard boats and on the pier.

Armed with the supreme confidence of a woman who can turn heads with a wiggle and a smile, I barged into Ginny Turner’s office without knocking. Anticipating nastiness, I was nearly baring my teeth as I slapped the full ten-page report on the only corner of her desk not buried in something.