Chapter II

Colleen Clark lived in the Rosemont area of Portland, not far from Dougherty Field. It was a locale in which one might have expected to find a prosperous young family, with all the advantages of suburban living while still being close to the center of the city. The Clark residence wouldn't have been hard to identify even if Moxie hadn't given me the street number: someone had daubed the words BABY KILLER on the front of the house in red paint. An attempt had been made to obscure it with whitewash, but the letters persisted in showing through. The drapes were drawn, no car stood in the driveway, and the garage door was closed. The front door was on the eastern side, away from the street. It was a peculiar arrangement, as though the plans had been misread, or the house had been dropped randomly on its plot from the air.

I parked a short distance away, but couldn't see any sign of reporters. Perhaps the warning to Stephen Clark against engaging with the media had become a general advisory to the press and TV people themselves, now that a prosecution was imminent. It wouldn't stop online trolls from posting their bile, but they preferred to operate from the safety and anonymity of their caves, and anyone who gave them attention deserved to have their electricity shut off. I was old-fashioned about reporting: if it wasn't worth paying for, it wasn't worth reading.

I spotted the patrol car just seconds before the officer at the wheel got out. His presence explained why the street was so quiet. Someone, possibly a resident with influence, had complained about the mob, and anyone who didn't belong was now being sent on their way. Also, it wouldn't look good if someone took it into their head to assault Colleen Clark, or not before a jury had the chance to find her guilty. I showed the cop my ID and explained that I'd been engaged by Colleen's lawyer. I was now working on her behalf, so he'd be seeing a lot of me from here on out. He told me to wait while he confirmed this with Moxie and ran it by his superiors, before giving me the all-clear.

"When did that happen?" I asked, pointing to the ghost of the words on the wall.

"Two nights ago, before a car was assigned. We just started keeping an eye on the place this morning."

"I may bring in someone of my own, no offense meant."

"None taken. It's not a glamour detail."

I thanked him and headed for the house. I could, of course, have arranged to meet Colleen at Moxie's office, but I wanted to observe her in her own environment and view the room from which her son had vanished. I didn't expect to learn anything more than the police, but it was an important first step in understanding what might have taken place.

Moxie had supplied me with contact details for Colleen, including her new cell phone number, and promised to let her know that I was on my way. Regardless, I decided to call before knocking, because in her situation I'd have been cautious about opening my door to strangers. She picked up on the second ring. Her voice was very small, and I could almost see her preparing to flinch. New number or not, she'd probably received enough abuse to last two lifetimes. Whatever might happen in the future, it would be years before she heard a knock on the door, or the ringing of a phone, without her stomach tightening.

"My name is Parker," I said. "I believe Moxie Castin told you I'd be calling."

"Where are you?"

"Outside. I can be on your doorstep in ten seconds, if that's not inconvenient."

"It's not inconvenient at all. I'll be waiting."

As I set foot on the Clark driveway, an elderly woman had appeared on the doorstep of the house next door, her arms folded and her face set like a sulky child's. Her silver hair was cut close to the skull, revealing a hearing aid behind each ear.

"You from the police?" she said.

"No, I'm not."

"Huh?"

"I said—"

"Huh?"

"I said, ‘I'm not the police!'?"

It came out louder than I'd intended. The pilots of planes coming in to land at Portland Jetport now probably knew I wasn't a cop.

"Who are you, then?"

I could have lied, or told her to mind her own business, but the police would already have spoken with her, which meant that I'd need to speak with her, too. As part of the preparation for a possible trial, I'd be following in the footsteps of the law like a delayed shadow.

"I'm a private investigator," I said.

"Huh?"

I walked to the boundary hedge, where I could strike some balance between volume and mutual comprehension.

"I'm a private investigator." I showed her my ID.

"I can't read that," she said. "I don't have my glasses."

"How about you just take my word for it?"

"I'll just take your word for it," she said.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, I'd have been searching for a hidden camera.

"That's very good of you."

"You working for the Clark girl?" she asked. Seen up close, she had shrewd eyes, and the wiriness of a long-lived hound.

"I'm working for a lawyer," I said neutrally.

"Her lawyer?"

I had to admire her persistence.

"Would that be a problem?"

"Not for me."

"Then would you mind if I spoke with you later?"

"I wouldn't mind at all. I'm not going anywhere. My name is Livonia Gammett, but you can call me Mrs. Gammett. If I get to know you, and decide I like you, I'll consent to answering to Livvy."

She prepared to go back into her house.

"And mind how you step," she called over her shoulder. "They threw bags of excrement at her door during the night. I cleaned up most of it, but I can't guarantee I got it all."

Now I saw the stains on the driveway and the doorstep, although the door itself had been wiped clean. I could also smell disinfectant, and what it had been used to disguise. You didn't have to look very hard to be disappointed by human beings. We were not all bad, just enough of us, although the rest had to work very hard to make up for that minority.

The door to the Clark house opened before I could ring the bell. The interior was dim and quiet. A woman's pale face peered out at me, and I saw something familiar in it, like the spirit of someone I'd once known passing briefly through the body of another. Grief calls to grief, pain will find its echo, and sorrow, for all its idioms, is a universal language.

"Please come in," said Colleen Clark.

I hesitated. The sense of loss was suffocating.

"Thank you," I said, and joined her in the shadows.