December Boys (23 page)

“I’m sure Jenny will love to hear that explanation.”

* * *

After Charlie went to sleep, I logged onto the web. The Department of Health and Human Services (DHHS) handled most substance abuse cases in New Hampshire, overseeing juvenile subdivisions like CHINS (Children in Need of Services) and DJJS (Division of Juvenile Justice Services). Both had the power to remove a child from the home, especially when drugs became an issue. The worst of the worst were generally sent to the Sununu Youth Services Center in Manchester. That’s not where Brian Olisky and Wendy Shaw had been sent. North River had flexibility, operating as a diversion program. Did that mean they could send kids packing across state lines? Is that where Brian and Wendy now slept? Anything’s possible if parents sign off. I couldn’t find reports of New Hampshire shipping inmates out of state. But I learned Vermont did it all the time. In fact, our neighbor to the west paid out over sixty million to a company called Justice for America, Inc., which oversaw privately owned, for-profit prisons. Most of these facilities were located in Kentucky and Arizona. How did that work? My eyes were going cross trying to figure it out.

I delved into the
Monitor
archives, searching out bylines from the reporter Bowman mentioned, Jim Case. No scalding exposés on the Brothers, but I could see he was playing for the other side,
a vocal opponent of the push for privatization, a liberal crusader urging rehabilitation over throwing away the key. Everyone had a horse in this race. Maybe Case just needed a cause to rally around, a pulpit from which to preach. At least this part of Bowman’s story checked out. Which made me remember something else Bowman cautioned: the reporter was next on the list.

A Google search revealed an address and phone number for Jim Case. Just like that. You can find anything on the Internet these days, a detail that did nothing to assuage my paranoia. I cross-checked to make sure I had the right guy, the name common enough. Didn’t take long. Jim Case had a public Facebook page, Twitter account, LinkedIn profile listing full name, hometown, age, which I matched against other articles and recognitions, all his contact information out there for the whole world to see. Email. Phone number. Mailing address. Nothing was private anymore. I reached for the phone, then thought better. What could I explain to a stranger at two a.m. over the telephone?

I crashed on the old floral print couch. Taunted by hissing radiators and groaning wood, the lingering scent of lavender and liniment, sleep came uneasy. I hadn’t enjoyed a full REM cycle since Jenny moved out. Mix in the alcohol and anxiety, the dehydration, I mirrored the walking dead. Half alive, half something not human anymore. Bedtime offered no solace. Whatever questions plagued me during the daytime shadowed me into slumber.

Lucid dreams transported me back to the final act of last January’s tragedy. I’d just run a man off the road. He lay dead in the ravine. My brother and me stashed in an empty farmhouse in the foothills, the cops coming for us both. My brother talking crazy, making up stories about our dad, trying to blame him for why he was such a mess, using the opportunity to rewrite history
and paint himself the hero. This was the end of my road, too. And in those waning minutes, knowing I was about to leave my son orphaned, the only woman I’d ever love abandoned to raise our child alone, I had prayed to God to get me out of there. Please, give me one more chance. Keep me safe and I swear I’ll make it right. And He heard me. I’d been granted a second chance. And I’d fucked that one up, too.

I saw the red-and-blue lights, heard the crunch of footsteps over snowy gravel, authority closing in to take me away.

I woke on Charlie’s couch, lights swirling through the window, bouncing off the glass and walls.

Then came the loud knock at the door.

They’d come for me again.

C
HARLIE SAWED LOGS
in the back bedroom. I eyed his car keys in the bowl of waxed fruit on the kitchen table next to my sack of papers. I fantasied a fantastic scenario, where I’d sneak out the back door, slit the cruiser tires with a switchblade, steal a car and speed my way to freedom beneath predawn skies. This is the crazy shit you cook up when you can’t fully fall asleep.

At the window, I peeled the curtain as another heavy fist rained down.

“Open up. It’s me. Turley.”

I cracked the front door, rubbing my eyes like he’d interrupted a wonderful dream. “What the hell time is it?”

“Thought I’d find you here.” Turley stepped past, barging inside. He stopped when he heard Charlie raising the roof. “Is that Finn? How you get any sleep?”

“What do you want, Turley?”

“I need you to come down to the station. Some detectives from Longmont been looking for you. Got some questions.”

“Detectives?” Like the man sent to execute my brother last year? Those cops on the side of the road weren’t detectives. Maybe Turley was willing to double down on that bridge. I sure as hell wasn’t.

“They said they’d been out to your place. Truck’s there. You’re not. I told ’em to head over.” Turley looked bored with the conversation. “I said I’d fetch you.”

“And take me where?”

“They’re gonna meet us at the station.”

“Ever hear of calling?”

“Yeah, Jay. Charlie’s landline was busy. Neither of you was answering your cell.”

“That’s because there’s no cell reception out here for one, and two, I was fucking sleeping. It’s the ass crack of dawn.”

I saw the receiver belly up on the nightstand. Must’ve kicked it over in my thrashing attempts to sleep.

“Which is why I had to drive out here.” He reached for my arm.

I pulled away. “The fuck are you doing?”

Turley’s hand shot for his holster.

“What? You’re going to cuff me? Arrest me? Shoot me?”

The snoring in the backroom stopped.

“No one is arresting anyone. These boys just want to talk to you. Don’t be a red-ass.”

“What’s going on?” Charlie stood in the doorway to his bedroom, pink ham belly more swollen that usual, like the meat had soaked too long in the brine. “What are you doing here, Turley?”

“Hey’ya, Charlie. Sorry to bother you. Got a couple of cops up from Longmont. Need to talk to Jay. Said I’d grab him.”

Charlie scratched his head. He didn’t understand what was happening. But I did.

“Fine.” I grabbed my winter coat, nodding toward the back bathroom. “Okay if I take a piss first?”

“Knock yourself out.”

While Charlie and Turley made small talk about ice fishing and elk, I walked into the kitchen, plucking a plastic apple from the fake fruit bowl. I stuffed the evidence inside my coat, double-checking that the blade was still there. I snuck out the side door.

At the back of the house, I pulled the steak knife from my pocket and slit the telephone wire. Then I crept toward Turley’s squad car, cracked the driver’s side door, and sliced the CB cable, too. Good luck getting a cell signal. I plunged the knife headlong into his tire.

I was turning over Charlie’s engine as Turley, the fat fuck, lumbered down the steps, shouting after me.

Speeding out of the foothills, I made for the lowlands. The papers were going to love this one. Another one of the Porter boys embroiled with the law. But I’d fallen for the masquerading cop bit before. Fool me once, not this time. I had to find that reporter Bowman told me about. One objective: Get Jim Case the evidence. After that, I didn’t care what happened to me. Without Jenny and my son, nothing mattered.

Nicki still refused to pick up. I kept driving, hitting the Turnpike south, checking my phone every six seconds like a girl waiting on her prom date. The dark winter skies churned, tractor-trailers zipping by, gas stations glowing with the promise of free coffee with every fill-up. I watched the rearview, anticipating the fleet of squad cars that never materialized. I wished I had the complete package to give to the reporter, but waiting wasn’t a luxury I had. I decided to forgo getting it right for getting it right now.

I needed to give Nicki time to call me back. The farther from Ashton I got, the better I felt about my decision.

One eye on the road, the other on my cell trying to follow the squiggly GPS instructions, I chain-smoked, jittery, shaky, break-of-day surreal, ears ringing, pulsating, pounding with blood flow, an old Subaru’s rumbling gut underfoot.

Pittsfield wasn’t far, a few counties south. At this hour, with little traffic, I knew if I got there fast enough I could catch Jim Case before he left for work, which beat all hell out of having to trek
down to Concord and trying to talk my way onto a newsroom floor.

Seemed like only minutes ticked by before I was parked outside the turquoise house on the subdivision’s street, wondering if it could really be this easy. I checked the mirror, licked my palm to smooth the tangled mop atop my head. My hair looked like I’d shampooed it in a deep fryer, and with the sprouting beard I resembled a crackhead. Unshaven, gaunt, black circles under my eyes, unrecognizable even to myself. I grabbed my papers and rang the bell. The world kept going faster and faster, spinning like a bottle top I couldn’t make stop.

A man answered the door. Glasses, limp hair swept to the side, already dressed and prepared to conquer the day, he held a novelty coffee mug, which read: Never Bury the Lead. I thought I recognized his face from his Facebook picture. I also knew from social media that he wasn’t much older than me. Somehow he seemed a lot older. I had to be sure.

“Are you Jim Case? Reporter for the
Monitor
?”

He didn’t respond, but his eyes told me I had the right man.

I presented my wadded-up paper bag.

Case peered past the weirdo on his porch. No one else on the street, everything serene, another pleasant valley suburban morning. How did I expect him to respond?

“That’s everything you need on the Lombardis and Roberts,” I said. “Well, almost everything.” I thrust the bag forward, my offering.

He didn’t take my bag.

“You’re Jim Case, right?”

Maybe I had the wrong guy. Maybe he didn’t care. I was operating on a few newspaper bylines, a couple thumbnail pics, what Bowman had told me, which for all I knew was spoon-fed
bullshit, and very little sleep. If I was wrong, the slammed door would come next.

Instead Case stepped aside, opening his home to let me inside.

Had I been thinking right, I would’ve asked the right questions, like why he was letting a man as disheveled as me into his home, why he hadn’t asked my name yet. Only I wasn’t thinking right. I was as far from right as you get. I stood inside the vestibule, on the mud mat, brain all jumbled, doing nothing to help my own cause. Jim Case carefully pried the bag from my clutches. At the breakfast nook, he removed my photocopies and charts, stacking them on the counter beneath a cupboard, going through them, one by one, not unlike Bowman, glancing over at me every few turns.

“Where did you get this?” he asked. It was the first time he’d spoken.

“Friends of mine. Copies from the courthouse. Internet research. Some parents I spoke to. Judge Roberts is selling kids to the North River Institute.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Jay. Jay Porter.”

Jim Case continued to scan through the pages.

“It’s not everything you need,” I said. “I’m waiting on something else.”

“Something else?”

“A report on interstate extradition. I think UpStart is bankrolling the project, trying to inflate numbers to get that new private prison built on the grounds of the old TC Truck Stop. Y’know, in Ashton?”

“Can you wait here a minute?”

His landline rang. And suddenly I knew I had to get out of there.

We both looked at the phone.

Jim Case held up his hands, letting the phone keep ringing. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You just told me.”

He was right. I had.

Jim Case swung open an arm, guiding safe passage to a small kitchen table, where he sat down first. “Please. Have a seat.”

I could only guess what had to be going through this guy’s head. I could smell myself. I stank like that bum inside the Dunkin’ Donuts. I didn’t know why was he even talking to me. How was explaining Bowman going to help?

But Bowman had said he was next on the list. I had to warn him. I was having that problem where I could formulate cogent points in my head, but when I tried to articulate a coherent sentence, my tongue got all thick, and I couldn’t pluck the right word, resulting in a lot of starting and stumbling. I sounded retarded. “Why are you talking to me?” With those words, I knew I only sounded crazier.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t know me. I’m just some guy who knocked on your door at seven in the morning. You shouldn’t let strangers in your house. You’re in danger.”

“Are you here to hurt me?”

“No!”

“I didn’t think so. I trust my instincts. It’s why I’m a reporter.” He pointed at the documents stacked in front of him. “I think we are on the same side. I rely on sources from all walks of life.”

“I’m not a bum. I’ve had a rough few days.”

Jim Case held up his hands, the way you do when you agree to disagree.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said. “How serious it is. I’ve been
looking into North River for a while. Roberts too. Now why don’t you tell me what you know?”

The phone rang again, and I jolted, startled. He made no move to answer it, gesturing for me to stay calm. “It’s just the phone. People call me for work. It’s okay. You seem really jumpy. Relax. Can I get you some water?”

“I’m fine.”

“Talk to me.”

“I just told you. Judge Roberts is shipping kids to the North River Institute in exchange for kickbacks. I know the parents are . . .”

“Parents are what?”

“Receiving kickbacks! Housing repairs getting pushed through HUD. Big fat stacks. Payoffs, man.” I pointed at the paper trail. “It’s all in there. Well, not all of it. You’re missing something.”

“Sorry, Jay. I’m having a hard time following you. What exactly am I missing?”

“I told you. The out-of-state stuff. I don’t know, exactly. But I know where to get it. I’ll get it, okay?”