Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

O n an overcast day in mid-October, Gilbert MacNeil left the Maine State Prison after serving five years for manslaughter. Five years hadn't been long enough to get used to the way the chill breeze felt against his clean-shaven cheeks or the back of his neck. They hadn't let him grow his hair to his shoulders like he usually did before it got really cold. Five-hundred years wouldn't be enough for him to get used to waking up, looking out the window, and not seeing the ocean.

Gil had gotten used to other things—watching his back, sleeping with one eye open, not knowing who to trust, and keeping anything important to himself.

Maybe those last two hadn't been so hard to get used to after all. Not growing up the way he had.

He left the prison with the clothes on his back, the twenty-eight dollars he'd had in his jeans pocket when they'd picked him up, and a plastic carrier holding a thirty-five-pound housecat.

When he opened the door to his Uncle Doddie's powder-blue pickup and hoisted the carrier onto the bench seat, Uncle Doddie asked, "What the shit?"

Gil opened the cage and the massive, long-legged black cat with the white star on his chest climbed into his lap, rubbing his head against the stubble on the bottom of Gil's chin.

"The prison had a program," Gil explained. "We could adopt homeless cats and take care of them. The lady who came from the animal shelter said completing the program looked good to the parole board, so…."

He didn't add that the program had been a godsend, because he'd been desperately, painfully lonely, and he didn't add that since taking custody of the cat, his time in the prison had gotten noticeably easier. For the first time, he felt he had a real friend. Gil didn't want to come across as a wimp, especially not a superstitious one.

Uncle Doddie watched from the corner of his eye as the cat made biscuits with his hockey-puck-sized paws. "That's the biggest damn cat I've ever seen. Maybe his father was a jaguar. What's his name?"

"Mr. Brimstone," Gil said. At the quizzical tilt of his uncle's head, Gil added, "He came named already."

Uncle Doddie gave Mr. Brimstone a scratch behind the ears and turned the key in the ignition. He'd had this truck for as long as Gil could remember, and it hadn't changed at all, from the Moxie sticker on the dash to the faint smell of fish, Canadian Club, and damp upholstery. Mr. Brimstone settled into his lap, his belly against Gil's chest and his paws on Gil's shoulder. Together, they watched the little town of Warren give way to mile after uninterrupted mile of towering pines and groves of birch against the constant and majestic backdrop of the mountains.

They stopped at a gas station for coffee and sandwiches and a tin of sardines for the cat. Gil let him do his business next to a scraggly patch of yellowed grass behind the store, and three hours later, they arrived in Gil's hometown of Cutler. It was a quarter to five and already mostly dark. Gil was glad for the dark; he hoped it might hide him from the eyes looking out between the clefts in the curtains of the old houses they passed. He knew what they'd be saying down on the docks: "I heard Gilbert MacNeil got out of prison. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it? If he's anything like the rest of the family, he'll be back in before the snow melts."

They didn't understand that he'd had no choice. He knew he didn't have the balls to explain it to them either. He never had. Instead, he'd hide out when he could and keep his eyes down and his mouth shut when he couldn't. He wouldn't speak out when the town residents disparaged him where he could easily hear every nasty word. He'd pretend he didn't care.

For now, though, he'd enjoy his first night back in the sprawling, meandering house he'd been describing to Mr. Brimstone in whispers. "Wait until we get home," he'd say as he lay on his cot in his cell. "You'll love it. It twists and winds like a rabbit warren, and there are rooms nobody's been in since probably the sixties. They're full of all kinds of treasures. Lots for you to explore." The main part of the house had been constructed sometime in the early 1800s—nobody was quite sure when—and right up until Aunt Kate died in 2011, the family had added on space wherever they had room. The result was a mismatched, cobbled-together construct with the layout of a jigsaw puzzle piece. Gil set Mr. Brimstone on the gravel driveway and smiled at the old cedar shingles, faded and gray from well over a century of briny air. A weight he'd gotten so used to bearing that he barely noticed it lifted from him, carried away with the fallen leaves on the cold autumn breeze.

Uncle Doddie clapped Gil on the shoulder. "I'll put a pot of coffee on." He ascended the creaky porch steps and opened the door. A moment later, warm, golden light spilled from the bay window, gilding the few tenacious coneflowers that hadn't succumbed to frost.

Just as Gil grabbed his duffel bag, gravel crunched as another truck pulled into the driveway, this one massive and brand-new, shiny red with an extended cab and dual rear wheels. Its bulk made the man who climbed from the cab seem even smaller. Grady LeBlanc, in his expensive leather jacket and worn, dirty trucker cap, sauntered up to Gil, stopped six feet away, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I heard they let you out," Grady said, looking Gil up and down as if he might bear some permanent mark of having been in prison, a glowing scarlet letter.

Grady took a step closer, but Mr. Brimstone shot out of the bushes and intercepted him, standing protectively in front of Gil, his puffed-up fur making him look even larger.

Grady stepped back. "Jesus, what is that thing?"

Instead of responding, Gil bent and lifted the cat into his arms. It felt good to have Mr. Brimstone there as an ally… or a shield.

Coward , he admonished himself.

"Anyway." Grady lifted his chin, his small stature forcing him to look up at Gil. "You're back just in time. There's a shipment coming up from Florida in the next few weeks. You can pick it up and get it into Canada, just like we used to."

Gil knew he should say no, finally find the balls to stand up to this little asshole. Instead, he muttered, "I'm on parole. They're going to be keeping a close eye on me."

"You'll have to be extra careful then, won't you?" Grady looked up at Uncle Doddie's house and sighed, his breath a white plume. "I always liked this place. I have heard that this old cedar siding is falling out of favor, though. It can be a real fire hazard in certain situations."

"Grady…."

"I'll let you know the details soon. Your phone number's the same? I'll give you a call." Grady clapped Gil on the shoulder, climbed back into his truck, and left Gil standing there.

The temperature was dropping, a thick mist rolling in, making the vegetable garden around the side of the house look blurred, ghostly. The foghorn sounded in the distance, and Mr. Brimstone nipped at Gil's chin.

"All right, buddy," Gil said, turning and going inside.

The scents of the house—coffee, burnt wood, old carpet, and a slight undercurrent of lemon furniture polish—embraced him. He looked at the cluttered bookshelves lining the living room walls, the faded floral wallpaper, the potbelly stove glowing in the corner, and the mismatched furniture. Uncle Doddie was already asleep in the recliner, but he'd spent ten hours on the road picking Gil up from the prison, and he was seventy-four years old. He'd managed to remove one boot.

Gil set Mr. Brimstone down where the green shag carpet of the living room met the chipped beige tile of the kitchen. "This is it, buddy. Home. It's…. Isn't it great?"

The cat followed him into the kitchen and sat nipping at the claws on his back foot while Gil heated up some canned beef stew. He picked a few chunks of meat out of the broth and put them on a plate for Mr. Brimstone, saying, "We'll get you some cat food tomorrow. Promise. Now, follow me."

They went down a long hall and took a left into one of the newer wings of the house. The posters Gil had taped to the wood-paneled walls were curled and faded; dust covered the coffee table, mini-fridge, and the microwave on its stand. One of his sweaters lay on the floral-patterned sofa, untouched for all these years. Beyond, the bedroom was in a similar state: all Gil's clothes hanging in the closet, a couple of books holding down some takeout menus on the nightstand. It was cold and musty, and Gil set the plates down and stacked some birch branches into the fireplace across from the wrought-iron bed while Mr. Brimstone sniffed the braided rug.

"It's all just the way it was," Gil mused. "It's like the last five years never happened." He sat on the edge of the bed and put Mr. Brimstone's dish beside him like he always had in prison. He'd never made the cat eat on the floor. "We could just pretend it was all a bad dream, huh buddy?"

The huge cat ignored him in favor of the beef cubes.

"What am I going to do about that asshole Grady?" What would happen to the cat if Gil landed back in prison? What would happen to him—and Uncle Doddie—if he refused to do what Grady wanted? Not for the first time, Gil thought about getting rid of Grady, except Grady was hardly working alone. As he shoveled stew into his mouth, he came to the same conclusion as always: There was no way out of this.

He was fucked.

Gil set his bowl on the floor and flopped back onto the bed. He worried sleep might elude him, but the long day caught up to him and he started to drift off. A soft scratching sound roused him, and he found Mr. Brimstone pawing at the window.

"You sure you'll be able to find your way back?" Gil asked.

The cat chirped and batted the checkered curtains. Gil looked outside. Beyond the yard and pumpkin patch, the fog rolled in thick, the big pine trees dark against it. Leaves skittered by, and the moonlight gave everything a silvery glow.

"I guess it's a good night to be a cat," Gil said. "Besides, you deserve some freedom. Just promise you'll come back. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Mr. Brimstone butted his head against Gil's jaw, and Gil opened the window a few inches. He watched the cat trot across the lawn until the shadows and mist swallowed his lanky, black body, wishing he could escape as easily.