‘When did this happen?’

‘Four or five times that I can recall: twice last month, once this month, the last time just yesterday.’

I leaned forward. ‘The truck came through yesterday?’

Geagan looked flustered, as though fearful that he’d made a mistake. I could see him counting back the days. ‘Yep, yesterday morning. I saw it coming out as I was heading back to my place from town, so I don’t know what time it went in.’

I knew from the little that Walsh had told me that Proctor had probably been dead for two or three days. It was hard to tell given the heat in the room, and the consequent speed of putrefaction. Now it seemed that Tobias had been at the motel since Proctor had died, but hadn’t taken the trouble to look for him; that, or he knew Proctor was dead, but said nothing, which sounded unlikely. Whoever Proctor had been firing at, it wasn’t Joel Tobias.

‘And it was definitely the same truck as before?’

‘Yeah, I told you: I’ve seen it a few times. Harold and the other guy, the driver – no, wait, there was one time when I thought there might have been three of them – would unload stuff from the back, and the truck would drive away again.’

‘Did you ever mention this to Harold?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wasn’t bothering me, and I didn’t think Harold would appreciate me asking. He must have known that I might hear or see them, but up here it doesn’t pay to question other people about their business.’

‘Didn’t you wonder what he was doing?’

Geagan looked uneasy. ‘I thought he might be considering reopening the motel. He talked about it sometimes, but he didn’t have the money he needed to restore it.’

Geagan’s eyes wouldn’t meet my face.

‘And?’ I said.

‘Harold liked to smoke a little pot. So do I. He knew where to get it, and I’d pay him for it. Not much, just enough to keep me going through the long winter months.’

‘Was Harold dealing?’

‘No, I don’t believe so. He just had a supplier.’

‘But you thought he might have been storing drugs in the motel, right?’

‘It would make sense, especially if he was looking to make some money to reopen the place.’

‘Were you tempted to take a look?’

Geagan looked uneasy. ‘I might have been, once, when Harold wasn’t around.’

‘What did you see?’

‘The rooms were all blocked up, but I could tell that some had been opened recently. There were wood chips on the ground, and the dirt was all torn up. There were grooves in the earth, like they’d wheeled something heavy inside.’

‘You never saw what they were bringing in when you looked out of your window?’

‘The front of the truck was always facing me. If they were unloading anything, then it was easiest to keep the back of the truck to the motel. I could never quite see what they were moving.’

Never ‘quite’ see. ‘But you think that you might have spotted something, right?’

‘It’s going to sound strange.’

‘Believe me, you don’t know from strange.’

‘Well, it was a statue, I guess. Like one of those Greek ones, y’know, white, and from a museum. I thought it was a body at first, but it had no arms: like the Venus de Milo, but male.’

‘Damn,’ I said softly. Not drugs: antiquities. Joel Tobias was just full of surprises. ‘Have you talked to the police yet?’

‘No. I don’t think they even know I’m up there.’

‘Talk to them in the morning, but leave it till late. Tell them what you told me. Last thing: the police think Harold killed himself three days ago, give or take. Did you hear any shots during that time?

‘No, I was down in Boston visiting my folks until the day before yesterday. I guess Harold killed himself while I was away. He did kill himself, didn’t he?’

‘I believe he did.’

‘Then why did he lock himself up in that room to do it? What was he shooting at before he died?’

‘I don’t know.’

I waved at the bartender for the tab. I heard the door open behind me, but I didn’t look around. Stunden and Geagan looked up, and their faces changed, brightening after the darkness of our conversation.

‘Looks like somebody’s luck may be about to turn,’ said Geagan, straightening his hair, ‘and I sure hope it’s mine.’

As casually as I could, I tried to glance over my shoulder, but the woman was already by my right hand.

‘Buy you a drink, Mr. Parker?’ asked Carrie Saunders.

28

Geagan and Stunden rose to their feet and prepared to leave.

‘Looks like I’m shit out of luck. Again,’ said Geagan. ‘Beg pardon, miss,’ he added.

‘No apology necessary,’ said Saunders. ‘And this is professional, not personal.’

‘Does that mean I still have a chance?’ asked Geagan.

‘No.’

Geagan gave an exaggerated sigh. Stunden patted him on the back.

‘Come on, let’s leave them to it. I’m sure I got a bottle somewhere at home that could help you with your troubles.’

‘Whiskey?’ said Geagan.

‘No,’ said Stunden. ‘Ethyl alcohol. You might need to cut it with something, though…’

They made their excuses and left, although not before Geagan cast a final lingering glance in Saunders’s direction. The guy had clearly spent too long in the woods: if he didn’t get some action soon, even moose would be in danger from him.

‘Your fan club?’ asked Saunders, once the waitress had brought her a Mich Ultra.

‘Some of it.’

‘It’s bigger than I expected.’

‘I like to think of it as small but stable, unlike your patient base, which seems to be dwindling by the day. Maybe you should consider an alternative profession, or cut a deal with a mortuary.’

She scowled. Score one for the guy with the chip on his shoulder.

‘Harold Proctor wasn’t one of my patients. It looks like a local physician was prescribing his meds. I contacted him in an effort to have him participate in my study, but he didn’t want to cooperate, and he didn’t ask for my professional help. And I don’t appreciate your flippant attitude toward what I do, or toward the former servicemen who’ve died.’

‘Get off your soapbox, Dr. Saunders. You were in no hurry to offer me help the last time we met, when I was under the misguided impression that we wanted the same thing.’

‘Which was?’

‘To find out why a small group of men, all of whom knew one another, were dying by their own hands. Instead, I got the party line and some cheap analysis.’

‘That wasn’t what you wanted to find out.’

‘No? They teach you telepathy at head school too, or is that something you’ve been working on when you get tired of being supercilious?’

She gave me the hard stare. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah, why don’t you order a real drink? You’re embarrassing me.’

She broke. She had a nice smile, but she’d fallen out of the habit of using it.

‘A real drink: like a glass of red wine?’ she said. ‘This isn’t a church social. I’m surprised the bartender didn’t take you outside and beat you with a stick.’

I sat back and raised a hand in surrender. She put the Mich aside and signaled the waitress. ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’

‘It’ll look like we’re on a date,’ I said.

‘Only to a blind man, and then he’d probably have to be deaf as well.’

Saunders was certainly a looker, but anyone seriously considering engaging with her on an intimate level would need to wear body armor to counter the spikes. Her wine arrived. She sipped it, didn’t appear to actively disapprove, and sipped again.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked.

‘The cops told me that you were in Rangeley. One of them, Detective Walsh, even described your car for me. He told me that I should slash your tires when I found it, just to make sure you stayed put. Oh, and for the sake of it.’

‘The decision to stay was kind of forced upon me.’

‘By the cops? They must really love you.’

‘It’s tentative, but mutual. How did you find out about Harold Proctor?’ I asked.