Chapter LIII

Mattia Reggio drove northwest in glorious sunshine. He had a big bag of discounted Swedish Fish from T.J. Maxx on which to nibble, although he also intended to stop along the way for a snack and to use a restroom. He was no longer able to walk more than a mile without thinking about taking a leak, and if he had to get up only once during the night to empty his bladder, he felt like offering up a prayer of thanksgiving. His wife kept urging him to see a doctor to confirm that there was nothing amiss with his plumbing, but he assured her it was his simply advancing years. There was hardly a man who didn't make it beyond fifty without passing more water more often, and Reggio had exceeded that milestone by almost two decades.

But unbeknownst to his wife, he was worried, because he had a suspicion that there might well be something wrong down there. He experienced intermittent pain in his ass and groin, and sometimes he saw blood in the bowl, but he kept this to himself. One of his drinking buddies, Ed Nibloe, had consulted an internist about pain when he took a leak, and next thing the guy was whipping out Ed's prostate and hacking at tumors. Now the poor bastard couldn't even fuck his wife and wore a bag or some such contraption to collect his piss. To Reggio, that sounded like the cure might be worse than the disease. Once you started allowing doctors to poke around your insides, they were bound to find cracks in the machinery. It stood to reason. But as any guy who'd ever tended an old house, car, or marriage would tell you, it was often better to ignore certain deficiencies and imperfections for fear that one might otherwise discover oneself stranded amid rubble, wreckage, or divorce lawyers. Leave well enough alone, that was Reggio's motto.

He ate another Swedish Fish and checked that he was keeping below the speed limit. He had a license for the gun in his pocket, the prohibition on possession of a firearm by a convicted criminal being five years in the state of Maine, and it had been many decades since Mattia Reggio last subsisted on prison food. But to be pulled over by cops would involve having his license run through the system, and being forced to answer questions about his affairs that he had no desire to answer, if only on a point of principle.

Amara had seen him stow away the gun; the woman was gifted with the eyesight of a hawk. She had always tolerated his old profession, but never approved of it. She loved him, she liked to say, despite her better judgment, but she loved him even more once he'd retired from the life.

"Where are you going?" she'd asked that morning, as he was checking the tire pressure with a pocket gauge. His father always used to do it before taking a trip, because he said you couldn't trust the ones in gas stations worth a shit. Now you were lucky if you could find a gas station that would even provide air, or not without charging you a buck or two for the pleasure, the clock ticking down as you scuttled like an idiot from tire to tire, praying your time wouldn't run out before you finished the job.

"Road trip," he said.

"With a gun?"

"It's for my own peace of mind. I'm not expecting to use it. I just want to ask someone a few questions."

Even as he answered, he realized that the three statements, when linked together, became drained of any sense or truth.

"Questions about what?"

"About the Colleen Clark thing."

"Does Mr. Castin know you're doing this?"

"Yes," said Reggio, then caught the cold gleam in her eye. Jesus, the woman ought to have been a cop. "Or no," he relented, "not as such, but I don't want him wasting his time on what might be nothing. If it pans out, it could be helpful, and if it doesn't, I'll have had myself a change of scenery."

"Perhaps you should run it by him, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case, you know, you—"

"Mess things up, is that what you were going to say?"

He was on the verge of shouting, and regretted it. He regarded raising one's voice, especially to a woman, as both a failure of courtesy and a sign of weakness. But for crying out loud, give a guy a break.

"No, that wasn't what I was going to say," she replied evenly, but he could tell it probably was, or some version of the same. "You've got nothing to prove, you know? Not to me, not to that detective, not to anyone."

He finished checking the tires. She was following him as he knelt by each one, never letting him out of her sight, never giving him a chance to escape her attention. This was why he'd never had an affair. He could have gone to the North Pole and fucked an Eskimo in an igloo a half-mile from the cold heart of nowhere, and when he stepped outside to zip up his pants, she'd have been waiting for him in a pair of snowshoes, all disappointment—or chiefly disappointment, with a healthy shot of fury on the side. It was lucky that he loved her, too. Some of his former acquaintances, the ones who liked to screw around on their mogli, used to kid him about it, but he'd never minded. Why risk years of resentment for a fleeting pleasure? Because if he'd ever had an affair, divorce wouldn't have entered into the equation. Amara wouldn't have given him the satisfaction, not when she could spend decades reminding him of his indiscretion instead. He'd never have known peace again.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked. She had spotted the overnight bag on the back seat.

"One night. Two at most."

"Call me when you get there, wherever ‘there' is."

"And when I wake, and before I go to sleep."

"You'd better." She gripped the lapels of his jacket and kissed him hard. "You're an exasperating man, you know that?"

"Would you have me any other way?"

"Was it ever an option? If so, I don't recall it being mentioned."

"Probably not," said Reggio. "But then, your father also warned me against marrying you because you couldn't be tamed."

This was true. Amara's father had admitted it during his wedding speech. His wife had kicked him under the table after he said it, causing him to spill his champagne.

"He was right," she said.

"Thankfully."

She released him only reluctantly, and stayed in the yard to wave him off.

Once on the road, Reggio had felt a sense of liberation and purpose that was unfamiliar, but welcome. The work he did for Moxie Castin contributed to his sense of self-worth, but it was often mundane. This was different. A little boy was missing, presumed dead, and his mother was about to face trial for his abduction and killing. Mr. Castin didn't believe she was responsible, and Reggio trusted his judgment. Reggio had a chance to do something useful, to make a difference. That was all most men wanted and the desire did not diminish with age. He selected '50s Gold on Sirius and turned Connie Francis up loud. It was, he concluded, a good day to be alive.