Chapter XLVI

Moxie Castin lived in Deering Center, in a grand old house that once belonged to his uncle. Precisely how it had come to be in Moxie's possession remained unclear, since rumor had it that his uncle hated Moxie's guts and would have burned the place to the ground rather than see his nephew happily situated in it, but the ways of lawyers are not like those of other men. The uncle died, and after a suitable period had elapsed, the house became Moxie's.

Deering Center was formerly known simply as Deering, back in the 1800s when it was an independent entity. In the last year of that century, it was absorbed into Portland and the name was changed, but it still resembled a country town, aided by its proximity to the thirty acres and more of Baxter Woods, which Moxie's home abutted. As he parked his car, one of his neighbors, Phil Ferry, was picking a couple of pieces of windblown trash from his lawn while his dog, a near-blind terrier named Artie, went for its nighttime pee in the bushes. Ferry was an old coot with long white hair, and sideburns that connected to a mustache above his bare chin, a style once popularized by the Union general Ambrose Burnside, hero of the Siege of Knoxville, but rarely glimpsed since his passing.

"Saw you on TV," said Ferry.

"How did I look?"

"I got to say, you looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"It's what I was bred for."

"Plus," said Ferry, "you got skin harder'n a jockey's ass. You'll need it, too, for what you're mixed up in. Half the state already has your client fitted for a jail suit."

"Only half? That seems generous."

"Not so much, since the other half wants to bring back hanging for her."

Moxie juggled his paperwork while he tried to locate his house keys. He usually enjoyed shooting the breeze with Ferry, who had a distinctive view of the world and a gently combative relationship with his wife. As Ferry had once explained to Moxie, his wife was forever accusing him of failing to listen to what she was saying. "But," Ferry explained, "she talks so much that if I start listening to everything she says, I'll never have time to do anything else." That he had spoken while his wife was within striking distance indicated either a comfort born of a half-century of marriage or a death wish. Tonight, though, Moxie wasn't in the mood for conversation. He wanted to eat a sandwich, drink a glass of milk, and sleep without dreaming.

"Were you expecting company?" asked Ferry.

"Company?" Moxie found his house keys only to lose them again in the nether regions of his briefcase.

"Of the female persuasion."

"I swear," said Moxie, "the most beautiful woman in the world could parade naked through my bedroom, and she'd have more hope of raising the dead than getting a response from me. Why do you ask?"

"Because I thought I saw a woman on your property, could be an hour ago. She went around back, which was how come I wondered if she might not have been expected, and knew where you kept a spare key. When I went out to check on her, she was gone."

Moxie paused.

"Did you get a look at her?"

"No, sir. I could tell it was a woman, but no more than that."

"What about a car?"

"I didn't see or hear a vehicle. I suppose she might have gone into the woods, but who'd be walking those trails in the dark? I took a look at your back door, for security's sake, but it was locked up tight."

The dog finished its business. Dimly, it recognized Moxie and wagged its tail. Moxie patted it absently.

"If you see anyone around here again," he said, "I'd be obliged if you'd let me know. You have my number."

"Or I could call nine-one-one, if you prefer."

"I'm not anticipating that level of vexation on my doorstep."

Ferry picked up his dog.

"With the Clark case, maybe you ought to be," said Ferry. "Because I am."

STEPHEN CLARK WAS SMOKINGa cigarette at the table in his sister-in-law's yard. Before him was a glass of the sixteen-year-old Lagavulin he'd rescued from his marital home before leaving. It had been a gift from Gary Champine, senior vice president and personnel officer of DavMatt-Hunter—well, less a gift and more a consolation prize for missing out on a promotion for the second year running, albeit with a suggestion, however vague, that the next year could be his. Clark wasn't sure he believed it, though. He'd believed it the previous year, and the year before that, but wasn't disposed to be fooled three times in a row. He was sure that Champine didn't rate him highly, a view supported by restroom gossip.

But Gary Champine was now dead. He was among the men involved in the crash on I-91, along with one other senior vice president and two executive vice presidents, essentially annihilating the second tier of DavMatt-Hunter's management. A strained phone call from the company CEO, Kenny Knapp, had apprised Clark that he was now acting executive vice president for sales, an appointment that would be confirmed formally once the board of directors had an opportunity to convene. The subject of remuneration would be dealt with as soon as possible thereafter. For the present, it was crucial that the ship was steadied so key investors didn't take fright and run. The company would also have to find time to bury and mourn its dead, Knapp said, but Clark noted that burial and mourning qualified as marginally more than afterthoughts for Knapp, who'd have whored his daughters to add 10 percent to DMH's share price. Clark had responded by assuring Knapp that he wasn't even thinking about money right now, only the future of the company and the relatives of their deceased colleagues and friends. That was how the call had ended, with both parties having made all the right noises, and sincerity left to the fancy of the beholder.

Now here was Clark, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, and a better future stretching before him. His sister-in-law emerged from the house to stand at the edge of the cone of illumination cast by the porch light.

"What are you doing out here in the dark?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just reflecting."

"On those poor men?"

"Yes."

"What a terrible thing," she said. "Just awful."

She came to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He reached for it, grasping it tightly. He'd always liked her. Sometimes he thought she might have married the wrong brother, and suspected she felt the same way.

"It is," he said. "One of them gave me this whiskey."

He raised the glass.

"Then it's an apt way to celebrate his life," she said.

Clark took a sip of the Lagavulin and rolled it in his mouth. It brought to mind Gary Champine, with his too-white teeth and his too-tight suits, his $200 haircuts and his collection of showy watches. Champine had died in the ambulance, the last of the four to give up the ghost. Clark hoped he'd suffered.

"?‘Celebrate,'?" he said. "Yes, that's the word."