The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle (133 page)

She’d been thirteen the last time she sat up here with Charlie. It felt like someone else’s life—a girl she read a book about once. A girl smitten over a boy she’d never have a chance with. They’d stopped speaking soon after Reggie’s mother was taken, after everything that happened that final night. Even if they’d wanted to speak, they’d been forbidden to.

Lorraine agreed to send Reggie to the Brooker School for Girls that fall, using most of the family’s savings to keep her there four years as a day student. But it was a whole three towns away, and most of the kids there were from far enough away that they knew almost nothing about Neptune or Reggie’s mother. It was nothing like the torture going to Brighton Falls High might have been.

Somehow, coming up to the tree house by herself never felt right, so it sat abandoned.

She walked over to the sleeping bags, chewed through by mice and squirrels, and gave them a kick to make sure no rodent families were currently residing there. Her foot hit something hard. She leaned down, cautiously pulled back the tattered fabric and stuffing to reveal Charlie’s beat-up acoustic guitar. “It’s still here!” she exclaimed. “You never came back for it?”

Charlie shook his head. “It was a piece of shit compared to the ones I had at home. I guess I kind of forgot about it.” He leaned down, pulled the guitar out of the tangled nest of fluff. He ran his hand over the body and up the neck, eyes wide. “I’ll be damned” was all he said.

“You still play?” Reggie asked.

“Nah. Not for a long, long time.” He held the guitar against his thick belly and gave it a strum; then his fingers moved into position and he played a few out-of-tune chords. He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it and laid the instrument down, his eyes still fixed on it, misty and strange, reminding Reggie a little of the way he used to look at Tara.

“So,” Reggie said, “tell me about yourself. What are you up to these days?”

“I’m in real estate, actually. I kind of fell into it by accident. I studied marine biology in college and did some research work in Maine for a while, but I got homesick and came back to Brighton Falls. I sold cars at my uncle Bo’s dealership, but working for him kind of sucked. I got my Realtor’s license and discovered I had a real knack for selling houses. I run my own agency now.” He fumbled in his jacket for a business card.

Berr Real Estate, Charles Berr, Broker CRB, BRI

“Any family?” Reggie asked.

Charlie seemed to squirm a little. “Divorced.”

“Sorry,” Reggie said.

“Don’t be,” he told her. “We were all wrong for each other.”

“Kids?” Reggie asked.

“I’ve got a son, Jeremy. He’s six. I see him every other weekend.” He walked to the opposite corner, leaned down, and picked up an old, rusty hammer.

“We had such big plans for this place,” he said, studying the hammer.

Reggie only nodded.

He set the hammer back down. “So, I hear you’re some kind of cutting-edge architect,” he said.

She nodded.

“That’s great, Reggie. And what about you? Married? Any family?”

Now it was her turn to squirm. But she stopped herself and instead stood up as straight and tall as she could. “No,” she said. “I guess you could say I’m married to my work. I’ve been seeing someone a while, though.” She smiled as she said it, though her stomach was in knots. Len had called again last night and left a message that said only, “It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me right now, but please call just to let me know you’re okay. I’m really worried.”

Charlie seemed to study her a moment, as if he was waiting for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat. “So . . . do you think it’s really him?”

“Who?” For a second, she thought he was asking if she thought Len could really be Mr. Right.

“Neptune. Do you think it’s him or some sick copycat? I mean, shit, it’s been twenty-five years. That’s a long time for a killer to lay low.”

“I don’t know, but either way, he’s got Tara, right?”

“That’s another thing, isn’t it?” Charlie said. “Why Tara? Why take her?”

Reggie shrugged. “Maybe she knew something. Lorraine said my mom was really agitated the night before last and that Tara was up all night with her. I’ve been thinking that maybe my mom gave her some clue that she decided to follow up on, and she got too close.”

Charlie nodded. “Good theory. Makes sense. Especially given her background. Remember how crazy the whole Neptune thing made her? How obsessed she was? Like it was her mission to catch him and no one else stood a chance?” He was breathing too fast, taking little fish-out-of-water gulps of air.

Reggie nodded. “Is your dad still a cop?”

“No. He retired four years ago. Spends most of his time working on this old boat he bought. He’s got it docked down in New London. Between you and me, I think he spends more time in the bar down there than on the boat.” He smiled. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it. That’s what retirement should be, right? Shooting the shit with other old guys, making up fish stories.”

Reggie smiled.

“You know what Tara would say if she were here, don’t you?” Charlie asked. “I bet she’d say what she did all those years ago—the cops aren’t going to catch this guy. If we want to find her, we have to do it ourselves.”

“I know,” Reggie said, her hand touching her shirt just over her collarbone, feeling through the fabric for Tara’s necklace. “I’ve been thinking the exact same thing.”

Chapter 28

June 21, 1985

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

W
HEN
R
EGGIE WALKED INTO
Runway 36, she knew it was the place her mother had taken her the day she lost her ear. She recognized the red vinyl barstools, now cracked and patched with duct tape, the sad little booths on the left side of the restaurant, the pool table shimmed with a phone book. She bet if she was able to lift the table and look at the date on the phone book it would be at least eight years old.

Want to see a trick? Buy me a drink and I’ll show you.

Reggie’s chest felt tight. The scar tissue over her missing ear tingled.

She glanced at the glossy wood bar top, could almost see her mother’s right hand, still perfect, sprinkling salt and setting the egg on its end.

Reggie blinked the past away and looked around.

It was Friday night and the place was packed with people blowing their week’s pay. The place stank of greasy food, beer, cigarette smoke, and unwashed bodies. The floor was sticky under her feet. She felt a tug of fear and apprehension as she stepped into the loud, smoky space, thinking back to how the events that transpired here eight years ago led to her losing her ear.

Glen Campbell was singing “Rhinestone Cowboy” on the jukebox. A group of leather-clad, bearded bikers were playing pool on the shimmed table, and the one waiting to take his shot looked their way, sneering. He wore a black leather skullcap and riding chaps over his jeans.

A big guy in a tight Members Only jacket was standing by the door. He had a broad, sloped forehead that reminded Reggie of pictures she’d seen of a Neanderthal.

“No underage,” he barked as they came in.

“It’s cool, Terry, they’re with me,” Sid said, stepping up to shake the big guy’s hand. He whispered something to Terry, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Terry took the cigarettes and stuffed them into his jacket pocket, nodding thanks.

“We good, then?” Sid asked.

Terry gave a noncommittal grunt and let them pass.

Reggie, Tara, and Charlie followed Sid as he approached the bar, where a thin, grizzled man was polishing glasses behind the counter. A hunched-over june bug of a man was sipping a drink at the end of the bar. The man to their left wore a blue airport security uniform. Reggie guessed him to be in his early forties. His skin had the look of someone who’d spent most of his life outdoors in all kinds of weather. Alligator hide. Reggie glanced to her right, where a man dressed like he’d spent all day in the tobacco fields was whispering in Spanish into a woman’s neck, his breath tickling, making her laugh. Reggie saw she was missing a front tooth, poking her tongue out of the gap as she giggled.

Reggie leaned forward, her hands resting on one of the red stools, maybe even the one she’d sat on as a little girl, the man with the crooked nose promising to give her a dollar if she could finish her burger. Reggie imagined running into him now. Wondered if her mother had kept in touch. Jesus, maybe the Boxer was Neptune.

Did anyone ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Marlon Brando?

Reggie scanned the crowd, studied all the rough male faces. The biker with the skullcap glowered at her.

Any of these men could be Neptune,
Reggie thought, her eyes turning back to the skinny bartender.
Any of them.

“If you want to order some food, you can go ahead and sit down.” The man hardly looked up from his glasses to spit out his greeting.

“Nah, no food tonight,” Sid said to the bartender. “We’re kinda looking for someone.”

Reggie was sure that once they learned who she was they’d pat her on the back and tell her whatever she needed to know.

“Who isn’t?” asked the june bug with a snicker.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, kids?” said the skinny man, sighing. “Your mamas are probably wondering where you’re at.” He eyed Terry at the door, but Terry was talking to one of the pool players and didn’t see.

Charlie started to inch toward the front door.

“Tell ’em who you are,” Sid said, shoving Reggie forward, toward the bar.

Reggie put her hands on the scarred bar top, feeling the scratches, initials of lovers long gone, drinkers who probably died of cirrhosis.

“I’m Vera Dufrane’s daughter. You know her?”

“Everyone
knows Vera,” said the june bug, laughing in an ugly way.

The skinny bartender looked up, stopped polishing for a minute. His eyes were dull and watering, his nose dripping. Reggie smiled, knowing her mother’s name was the ticket. Now she was getting somewhere.

“Didn’t know Vera had a kid,” admitted the bartender.

“Neither did I,” agreed the june bug.

For a moment no one spoke. Reggie’s cheeks grew hot and she felt the heat radiating out to her one real ear, making it red.

The jukebox blared “A Horse with No Name.”

Runway 36 was a little behind in the music department. No Madonna or Wham! on the soundtrack.

“She’s been doing a play in New Haven,” Reggie said. “We were hoping we could find some of her theater friends and talk to them.”

The bartender squinted at her. “A play?”

Reggie nodded. “In New Haven.”

The bartender stared blankly at her.

“Reggie here said her mom was planning to get married,” Sid said. “Any idea who the lucky guy might be?”

“Married?” said the june bug. “Vera?” He laughed a rusty little laugh. “Right.”

“The cops were in here earlier asking about her,” the bartender said. “She in some kind of trouble or something?”

“Maybe,” said Tara.

“Probably just lying low,” the june bug said. “Vera does that sometimes.”

Behind them, one of the bikers playing pool, yelled, “Scratch!”

Reggie spun around, looking for her mother’s version of Old Scratch—horns, hooves, and pitchfork. Then Reggie realized it was just the game, a bad shot. The biker in the skullcap was pounding his opponent on the shoulder, saying, “Fifty bucks! Cough it up.”

Reggie turned back to the bar.

“Did you try Vera’s place?” the guy in the security uniform asked. duane said his name tag.

“We just came from the house,” Sid said.

The security guard smiled a
You kids sure can be stupid
smile and shook his head like he wasn’t at all surprised.

“Not her house. Her
place
. She’s always kept a room over at Alistair’s. About two miles down the road. Airport Efficiencies, it’s called.”

Chapter 29

October 21, 2010

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

C
HARLIE AND
R
EGGIE SAT
across from each other at the kitchen table, steam from coffee cups rising between them. The morning edition of the
Hartford Examiner
was open on the table, Tara’s face peering up at them. In the lower left corner, was an old photo of Vera. Reggie skimmed the article.

“Shit,” she said. “They know everything. It says that Tara was working here, taking care of my mom.”

Charlie nodded, reaching for his coffee. “I’m surprised it took them this long.”

Reggie folded up the paper in disgust.

Charlie had carried his guitar out of the tree house, and it was now sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, a silent and watchful old friend joining them for coffee.

Reggie had made herself a triple espresso, and an Americano for Charlie.

“This is great,” he said, taking a sip. “Sure beats my usual Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Be careful,” Reggie warned with a sly smile. “Once you’ve tasted real coffee, there’s no going back.”

Charlie took another sip and looked around the kitchen. “I can’t believe your aunt’s still here. This is a big house to live in and take of. It’s a lot for one person.”

“Well, as you can see, she hasn’t exactly been keeping up with things.”

“Think I should give her a card? Would she ever consider selling, moving into someplace more manageable? There are some new condos across from Millers’ Farm—they’re actually pretty nice.”

Reggie shook her head. “She’ll never leave here. She and this house, they’re . . .”—Reggie searched for the right word—“bound.”

She couldn’t imagine her aunt anywhere else.

The Nautilus house Reggie was designing would be perfect for a single person on the move. Lorraine could cross the country, going from one trout stream to the next. But she’d never leave. It was as if she were a part of the house, a woman formed from stone and cement, just as cold and unyielding as the foot-thick walls that formed their fortress.

As if on cue, Lorraine wandered into the kitchen, carrying a dirty bowl to the sink.