THE RIGHT TIME TO DIE (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

WHILE SARA TRAVELED
the short distance to the Bitson home that evening, Jeremy Radigan met with Seamus Mcteer at a rest area located two miles outside of Church Falls, off the southbound lanes of the I-87. It was convenient to both, yet remote; the least likely of all places to encounter a local, claimed Mcteer. (Radigan argued that their presence there would be all the more telling if they had.)

After leaving the studio that morning, Radigan stopped for cigarettes, thinking that if his teeth became any worse he might have to quit altogether. As powerful as was his reluctance to expose his bleeding gums to the probing of small, sharp objects, was Jeremy’s addiction to the dreaded weed. He had begun smoking as a boy, had developed a pack-a-day habit by the time he was thirteen. Over the years, the urge hadn’t left him.

After stopping for cigarettes, he stopped by the local bank, taking the time to pay bills—not one of which was overdue—and to deposit a small sum of cash in a checking account, one of many throughout the State belonging to Jeremy, but only one of two registered to him under his lawful name. The teller, fat cow that she was, expressed visible distaste when Jeremy stepped from the line and presented himself at her wicket. She smiled, though not with her eyes, called him sir, but with barely suppressed derision, and breathed an audible sigh when Jeremy finally completed his transaction. Jeremy was tempted to reach over the counter and twist her nipples till she screamed.

From the bank, Jeremy walked the short distance to the
Fox n’ Fiddle
where he consumed one large draft beer quickly and many small slowly. It was getting dark by the time he left to meet with Seamus Mcteer.

The night was cool but clear, a welcome relief from last night’s rain. Seamus had arrived before him, parked his vehicle, and was sitting on his hands, alone at a picnic table, short legs swinging to-and-fro’ just inches from the ground. The orange glow from the lamp standard made him look eerily like a troll. The table was off the pavement, situated on grass that was soggy and still wet from the rain. It would have been anyway, Jeremy decided, the snow here finally beginning to melt. As he had anticipated, the rest area was quiet, only half a dozen commercial rigs to keep the two men company, it being too early in the season for what would eventually become a steady stream of recreational vehicles, campers and cars heading up from the city and north into the lakes, mountains and streams of the Adirondacks. Though Jeremy hadn’t grown up here, he considered it home. He resented the annual intrusion, the inexorable spoiling of his community, and if asked would claim a nostalgia for the past.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Seamus, called on my mobile phone,” Radigan said while still ten feet away. “It was stupid. Those calls can be monitored, whether it’s intentional or not. Cellular signals carry and are easily overheard.” Jeremy said it as if he were an expert. “It was stupid, plain and simple dumb.” Seamus wouldn’t disagree or argue; his greater concern lay elsewhere. “It’s reckless, for us to be meeting like this right now.”

Radigan remained standing. His hemorrhoids flared; seating himself on a cold damp surface would make things worse. Henry Bauer had suggested surgery to correct the condition but Radigan resisted, unable to accept the notion of spreading his cheeks to any man.

“It couldn’t wait,” Seamus replied.

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?
Couldn’t
, as in we have a problem that concerns me, or
wouldn’t
, as in we have a problem that really concerns you, but that you would like to have concern me because you haven’t got the sense to come up with a solution yourself?”

“Don’t bust my balls, Roots. It concerns both of us.” Only Seamus Mcteer referred to Radigan this way, as Seamus alone remained of a past from which the moniker had passed down. Seamus went on to relate details of a telephone conversation he’d had earlier that morning with Jordy Bitson.

“No better than his father, that boy.” Radigan moved his head from side to side as if Jordy didn’t know better.

“He has our nuts in a vise, Roots. I can feel the little prick squeezing,
hard
. It hurts like hell. What are we going to do?”

“The question, Seamus, is what
can
we do?”

“You mean except to pay.” It was not a question, as at that moment Seamus had no better idea of his own.

Radigan inserted a cigarette between his lips, lighted and began chewing the filter with his rotted teeth. Seamus retrieved a peppermint Mentos and without offering to his companion, popped a mint into his mouth. He carefully replaced the foil over-wrap before returning the package to his pocket.

To anyone making a casual observation, the two men might have been road-weary travelers engaged in meaningless if polite conversation about distances and destinations following a chance meeting on the journey to their next stop. One tall and standing, thin like a coat-rack and with greasy hair pulled back from a forehead scarred deeply from a case of adolescent acne, the other the shape of a Buddha, his pink skin pulled taut over a hairless skull. Looking closer, the coat-rack appeared to be working his fist like a bellows—open and close, open and close—while the Buddha gnawed at the flesh of his inner lip as if he’d missed lunch. Looking closer, it was apparent, too, the conversation was anything but casual.

“Pay him,” said Radigan.

“How much?”

“Whatever he asks, Seamus. We make the decision to pay, we’re not in a position to negotiate.”

“And the files?”

“Delete them then burn the hard drive; everything”

Seamus groaned. “I don’t think so; they’re worth a small fortune.”

“With the dead girl in them? They’re not worth a damn thing, unless you consider twenty-five to life worth
something
.” Seamus supposed not. “Besides,” Radigan continued, “these kids are a dime a dozen, from New York to Baja, there’s plenty more where they come from. Thirty years, Seamus. Never had trouble talking a kid out of her undies.”

Mcteer agreed to contact Jeremy after meeting with Jordy to set the terms: frequency and amount. Neither man thought to challenge either the veracity or the specifics of the information in Jordy’s possession, knowing without first having to see that it was damning. Both men understood without having to say, that the death of Missy Bitson magnified not only the implications, but also now the consequence of discovery. They parted company, Jeremy violently sucking at his gums, Seamus needing to shit, though unwilling to expose himself to the indignity of having to squat in a public latrine.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

RETURNING TO
the Bitson home that evening, Sara discovered Mandy too dulled by tragedy to be visibly aggrieved. Maggie let her in, looking no better and seemingly no more talkative than she had been that morning. Eugene was nowhere to be seen. Maggie did not accompany Sara to her daughter’s bedroom, simply pointed the way, though had she bothered to ask, Sara would have allowed.

Mandy sat on her bed, legs tucked beneath her, clad only in what once might be described as a
teddy
, but was referred to now by current fashion trends as a
camisole
. (At home, Sara favored tee shirts and sweats.) In Sara’s opinion, it left to the imagination much less than it should on a child of only fifteen.

Sara lamented the sexualization of women—especially young girls—but checked her enthusiasm lest it be from envy more than offence. She
did
believe that how girls dress had more to do with style than character, but feared her argument was lost in the face of the impression created by such booty-shaking cultural icons as Miley Cyrus, Christine Aguillera, Beyonce, Paris Hilton and others whose image young girls tried so hard these days to emulate. What was the risk, Sara wondered, of these young girls appearing so much older and perpetually on the make? Men would see them this way and consider them
fair game
, Sara decided.

And don’t get me started on Facebook, Instagram or Tinder
, Sara would say if asked.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, she said to Mandy, “You attended church yesterday, in the morning; your mother, your father, your sister and you?”

“Yeah.”

“Afterward, you came straight home?”

Mandy nodded her head.

“Missy went to visit her cousin—
your
cousin?”

Again, Mandy simply nodded her acknowledgement.

“Kendra?”

“Uh…” Mandy hesitated, then: “Yeah.”

“Where was she was going after?”

“She wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere after.” Mandy answered in a flat, emotionless monotone.

“Straight home?”

“I think that was the plan, yeah.”

“And you stayed home?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And your mother and father were home?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All afternoon?”

“Yeah.”

As she spoke—or, more accurately, muttered her response—Mandy proceeded methodically to wrap her long dark hair round the index finger of her right hand. Her eyes were red rimmed, as if she’d been crying, though Sara suspected she’d stopped some time before her arrival. Mandy seemed apprehensive, as if Sara was a threat, bent on disrupting the household far beyond the mere killing of her sister.

“Your father didn’t leave the house for
any
reason?”

“Nope.”

“No, or not that you remember?”

“
No
.”

“Would you have known if he had?”

“I was in the kitchen, doing homework. Couldn’t leave without me knowing. ‘Sides, he came in for beer.”

“How often?”

Mandy shrugged. “Daddy likes his beer.”

By now the fingers of her right hand were encased in a frizzy cast. Sara feared they might go blue from loss of circulation. She turned her attention from Mandy to the room. It was shared space, Missy to the right, Mandy to the left, a window separating the two, an overhead light—
off
—lace curtains and, for furniture, a side table, a table lamp—
on
—and two identical upright bureaus. Without objection, Sara fingered the items on the chest of drawers belonging presumably, to Missy. Porcelain and glass figurines, dolphins, a beret, a locket—empty—what appeared to be a miniature bicycle chain with assorted keys, a brush knotted with hair, eyeliner pencil, lip-gloss, eau-de-toilette, and a framed photograph of Justin Timberlake bussing Katy Perry outside Grauman’s Chinese, snipped, obviously, from a teen, or perhaps an issue of People Magazine. No computer, so no trace of either email or text. And no phone; what about that phone? Sara though now.

Sara asked Mandy, “You and Missy were close?”

“Not especially,” Mandy replied.

“You share a room.”

“Not the same thing, is it?” Mandy continued to weave her thick hair through her fingers like a caricature of an inmate in an asylum.

“You were sisters.”

“Well,” said Mandy, “it’s not the same thing either, is it?”

Sara supposed not, recalling her own siblings. “But you talked; you can’t not have. Her bed is only three feet away.” Sara pointed.

With Mandy unable to appreciate the implication of illegal search and seizure, Sara continued her examination of Missy’s belongings, unobstructed, proceeding to the first of four drawers. Here, items of a more intimate nature. Recent photographs of the sisters cavorting happily in a manner that contradicted Mandy’s earlier sentiment the two were not close; panties and bras—size medium—with nothing either immodest or inappropriate; tampons and pads—both mini and maxi; a wax kit and depilatories in sufficient quantity to satisfy the needs of the entire Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue team. (Was Missy an unusually hairy teenager, Sara wondered, or simply self-conscious?)

The second and third drawer revealed to her nothing she might not otherwise expect to find among the belongings of any near-to-well adjusted adolescent girl. Magazines—Seventeen, Cosmopolitan (Sara cringed at this); CDs—Christine Aguillera, Beyonce, Kelly Clarkson, Taylor Swift, among other artists with whom Sara was unfamiliar. Bracelets and lockets, scraps of paper on which Missy had scribbled reminder notes to herself, none, that Sara could see, relevant to the current investigation and—
eureka!
—
the
mobile telephone, which Sara surreptitiously pocketed.

In the bottom drawer, Sara was not surprised (though somehow utterly and inexplicably disappointed) to find a box of condoms; a single box, but one of sufficient quantity to keep Missy protected for months. The container was half-full (or half-empty). She discovered a tightly bound wad of cash hidden carelessly in a pair of black nylon tights: singles and fives, two hundred twenty-three dollars in all.

“You look happy in these pictures,” Sara said, holding out the photos so Mandy could see. “The two of you look as if you’re pretty good friends. You
were
close, weren’t you?”

“She was okay.”

Sara moved to the bed. “It’s okay, Mandy, to be pissed-off, even resentful. After all, you’re on your own now, right? My sisters left home when I was very young. I know it’s not the same thing, but after they were gone, I felt like an only child. It’s not something I ever got used to.”

“It’s weird,” Mandy said.

“What is?”

“With Missy, she was always so
together
, you know, treating me like I was the kid sister. Even when she was little, she seemed older.”

“Physically?” Sara asked.

“No, no, not that,” Mandy replied, thrusting her breasts forward as if it were obvious. “When it came to things like boys, sex, the way things are, you know, Missy had her shit together.”

If Missy had her shit together, Sara despaired for the girls who don’t. She debated how much to tell Mandy. She recalled her conversation earlier with Jenny Dojcsak and the results of the post mortem. Did Mandy know the extent of her little sister’s passions, or with her immediate family had Missy managed to be sufficiently discreet? They shared a bedroom; as Missy had made no apparent attempt to conceal the box of condoms in her drawer, Sara assumed Mandy was aware of Missy’s promiscuity. After all, in the face of temptation, what sister has the willpower to respect the privacy of another?

Sara asked, “She was willful?”

“She had a mind of her own.”

“She was reckless?”

“Careless, probably.”

“And she was having sex.”

Almost grudgingly, Mandy said, “Everyone is having sex.”

“She was only thirteen, Mandy, a kid. Times haven’t changed that much. Thirteen-year-olds don’t have sex. Not willingly, they don’t, and not as often as that box of condoms tells me.”

“It’s no big deal; just something to do. It’s not like anyone takes it seriously.”

“It is serious, Mandy; it may have gotten your sister killed.”

Mandy simply shrugged her bare shoulders, continuing to weave her hair in knots around her fingers.

Sara said, “Where did Missy come into the cash? Her drawer is full of it. Did she have a part-time job?”

Mandy said, “She was only thirteen. Who would hire her?”

“Right. She didn’t have a part-time job, then, and for birthdays you get twenties and tens, not ones and fives. Come on, Mandy, there’s something you’re not telling me. What was your little sister up to? I know she was hanging around with your cousin, Jordy. Jenny Dojcsak told me as much.”

“Jenny is a cow. She’s ‘dissing her because Missy isn’t here to say otherwise.”

“Why would she do that?”

Mandy shrugged. “She wants Jordy for herself.”

“So, Jordy and Missy
were
close. Sounds to me like a boy-friend, girl-friend relationship. Is that how it was?”

Mandy said, “You’re sick.”

Unwilling to be deterred, Sara said, “How’s this for sick: most folks around town think it’s your dad.”

The glaze receded from Mandy’s eyes, like a veil. For a moment, she became alert. Sara believed her to be on the verge of disclosure, of revealing some meaningful truth that could be the difference between a long, drawn-out investigation and a speedy resolution.

“You won’t get me to say anything that isn’t true, and that’s a dirty lie. My father would kill you if he heard you say it.”

“Is he capable?”

Mandy took a moment to consider her reply. “If I knew something, I’d say.”

“Not if you’re protecting someone, you won’t.”

“Missy is gone. No one left to protect.”

“I don’t believe Missy didn’t tell you, Mandy, if only to brag.”

“Brag?”

“Are you a virgin?”

“You
are
sick. Must be true what they say.”

“What who says?”

Mandy said, “That you’re a lezzie, that you get off on girls.”

“It’s what I love about your generation, Mandy, your capacity for tolerance.” Standing from the bed, Sara said, “Could Missy have made someone jealous, one of the other girls; jealous enough to do her harm? Was she being bullied? From what we know, it didn’t take much for her to die; it could have been a man, woman, boy or girl.”

Mandy turned to her side, curling her body into a fetal position. “I’m tired now, I don’t want to talk anymore. I want you to go.”

“A few more questions.”

“
No
more questions.”

Moments later, as if the strain of the conversation had become finally unbearable, Mandy was asleep—or feigning it—having dropped off suddenly. In her dreams, the girl now sobbed intermittently, a snuffling sound resembling a tortured snore. Lacking the heart to wake her, Sara released Mandy’s fingers from her hair, pulled a duvet over her sleeping body and closed the light before leaving.