Chapter LXXVII

The Kopper Kettle had been a fixture in Topsham since the 1980s. I knew a man who used to drive up there from Portland every Friday just to have the black pastrami eggs Benedict, followed by a raspberry muffin. The rest of the week he ate like a rabbit that was off its feed, but Fridays were guilt-free.

I parked by the blue entrance awning shortly after 1 p.m., the Stars and Stripes flapping in the breeze. I could hear a bird singing from nearby and picked out a little vireo standing by one of the diner's window boxes, which made me feel better about the world. I left Angel and Louis to get some air and intimidate passersby while I went to find Beth Witham. All three of us entering the Kopper Kettle together might have resembled a team of kidnappers.

Witham wasn't hard to spot, being the sole server on the floor and the only person under sixty working that day. She was built like a long-distance runner, so she probably wasn't secretly bingeing on those raspberry muffins in the back room. Her red T-shirt displayed tight, hard muscles on her arms, and she wore her dark hair tucked under a cap. She was a few years older than Colleen Clark, with the harried look of someone who was holding down more than one job. I knew that look. I saw it a lot in Maine. She wore no rings, but a tiny bluebird was tattooed on the skin between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.

"The bluebird of happiness?" I said, when she arrived to take my order.

"I couldn't get the real one to visit," she said, "so I acquired a counterfeit. What would you like?"

"Just coffee, please."

I placed a business card on the table, but she didn't pick it up. Judging by the hardening of her expression, that bluebird was ready to take flight.

"I thought someone might find their way to me," she said. "Which side are you on?"

"Justice, as distinct from the law. I considered having a special suit made, with an optional cloak, but I didn't want to come off as showy."

"Save the charm," she said. "This isn't a seller's market."

"I work for Moxie Castin. He's representing Colleen Clark."

"Did she do it?"

"No."

"But you would say that, wouldn't you?"

Had I been more musical, I could have set that exchange to a tune and claimed royalties.

"Not if it wasn't true. That pitch is for lawyers alone."

She took the card and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

"We close at two. I usually stay around to help clean up, but I'll see if I can take a pass today. I have to be at the Target at Topsham Fair Mall by three to start my second job, and I'll need to take a twenty-minute nap in the car before then or else I'll drop during my shift."

"I'll try not to take up too much of your time."

"You won't have to try, because I won't let you. There's a Panera close by, if you want to wait. It should be quiet soon enough."

"I'll see you there. And thank you."

"You haven't heard what I have to say yet."

"You could have told me to take a hike," I said, "and then I wouldn't have heard anything but birdsong."

She lifted her right hand and moved her thumb and forefinger, lending the illusion of movement to the tattoo.

"Tweet-tweet," she said. "I'll get you that coffee to go."

THE TOPSHAM FAIR MALLhad a Renys, so I set Angel and Louis loose in it while I headed to Panera. Angel and Louis found Renys fascinating because it resembled a store from the middle of the last century, somewhere that would clothe you, feed you, and even equip you for the wilderness before sending you on your way with a smile and a lobster fridge magnet that you didn't need but cost only ninety-nine cents, so what the hell.

Beth Witham entered Panera at about 2:15 p.m. She'd changed her T-shirt and dropped a fleece jacket over it, but the cap remained in place. I'd taken a seat by the window where we wouldn't be overheard, and substituted the cup of Kopper Kettle coffee with an iced tea that I didn't want. I offered to get Beth something, but she said she was good. She removed her jacket and placed it on the chair beside her.

"Do you run?" I asked.

"I have an old treadmill and some gym equipment in the garage at home, but I'm so tired lately that I don't have the energy to do more than a couple hours a week."

"That's more than a lot of others do."

"But less than I used to. I got the virus right at the start of that whole mess and haven't felt the same since. I'm weary, and my stomach hurts. My doctor looked at me blankly when I told him, so I don't waste my money on him anymore. I'm not sure he even graduated med school, not unless he paid a bribe. But you're not a doctor, so what can you do about it, right?"

"I can sympathize."

"That'll have to do, won't it? We may as well get started, for what it's worth. Ask your questions."

"I'm interested in your ex-boyfriend, Stephen Clark."

"Who told you that he and I used to be together?"

"A friend of a friend. Six degrees of separation falls to three in this state."

"Can't deny what's true," she said, "much as I'd like to when it comes to Stephen. What did you hear? Unless you're interviewing all his ex-girlfriends, in which case I might feel less special."

"Does he have a lot of exes?"

"A few. He was a good-looking guy. Still is, judging by what I've seen of him lately on TV. He also wanted to better himself, which made him stand out from the rest of the boys I went to school with. Their ambitions didn't amount to more than a new truck every third year and manual labor that paid double on weekends."

She took in the mall parking lot. She, too, had been ambitious, certainly for more than she currently had. Now, like so many people, she was holding down two jobs and worrying about getting sick.

"On the other hand—" she resumed.

"There's always another hand."

"Yeah," she said, "sometimes one that packs a punch."

"Was he violent toward you?"

"Is that what you were told?"

"Isn't that what you were implying?"

"How many questions do you think you've asked in your life?"

"More than I've heard answered, but that's true for all of us."

"A philosopher too," she said. "My, my."

I waited. It bore repeating: I was good at waiting.

"Have you met Stephen?" she asked finally.

"I have."

"Did he put up a good front?"

"I'm still trying to decide."

"That's all he is, pure front, but it took me too long to recognize it. He had aspirations, but none of the character or substance required to back them up. I watched his rage grow because of it."

"How long were you together?"

"Two years. Not long, I suppose, but long enough."

"For what?"

"For Stephen to reveal himself. You asked if he was violent toward me. The answer is yes, but only once. I didn't wait around to see whether it might happen again. I'd watched that story unfold between my parents when I was growing up, and I wasn't about to replicate it in my personal life. It was my mother, incidentally, not my father, just to counter any assumptions you might have. She drank and he didn't, but she had other problems as well. She was mentally ill, but people didn't talk about that the way they do now. Alcohol made it worse, although it was a function of her illness. She ground my father down, physically and emotionally, but he never once raised a hand to her in retaliation and it was never spoken of either inside or outside the home. He was ashamed, I think. He was a man being beaten by his wife—and he wasn't small, either: not in stature, not in any way. He'd just stand there and let her hit and scratch until she wore herself out, then put her to bed. The thought of leaving her never arose. He loved her, you see. That was his tragedy. It would have been easier for him had he not."

She scowled, but more at herself than me, annoyed at how much she had suddenly revealed. I thought she might be very lonely.

"What happened to them?" I asked.

"My mom died and my dad started living. He's with another woman now. She's good to him. They live up in Macwahoc. They visit when they can. It's easier for them to travel than for me." She shook her head. "Jesus, listen to me: Chatty Cathy, unburdening herself to a stranger. Look, the point is that I know violence and I won't stand for it. When Stephen hurt me—and he hurt me bad—we were done."

"What led to the incident?"

"That's a very diplomatic way of phrasing the question," she said. "Another ex of mine once asked me what I'd done to Stephen to get him all riled up. Because I must have done something, right? I sent that one on his way, too, the asshole. You want to know what I did to enrage Stephen, Mr. Parker?"

She leaned forward.

"I got myself pregnant, that's what I did. I ran out of birth control pills, was short on cash, and thought I had the dates all figured out so we could fuck without risk, but I was wrong. I could have asked Stephen to wear a rubber. He would have, because he wasn't difficult in that way, not like some I've met, but I thought it would be okay to ride bareback. I did the test twice, because I didn't want to believe the result the first time, even though I knew it was right. I could feel it was right. I didn't tell Stephen until I was sure. I was afraid to. I thought I had a good idea of how he'd react, but I was wrong about the degree."

"Why were you afraid?"

"Because Stephen had told me over and over that he never wanted children," she said. "At first, I put it down to how immature some young men can be. They're convinced they're going to be handsome forever, and don't want anything that might tie them down. They're like bucking broncos, but life tames them. Gradually, I came to understand that Stephen was different. He really didn't want kids. He had this visceral antipathy to fatherhood. He didn't even like being around other people's children. What's more, he claimed to find pregnant women repulsive. He said that if I ever became pregnant, he'd dump me without a second thought. But that wasn't what he did."

"What did he do?" I asked.

She took a long, deep breath.

"He punched me repeatedly in the stomach. He only stopped when I vomited. Then he dumped me."

"Did you consider going to the police?"

"Sure, but I elected not to," she said. "I know it goes back to my father and how he remained silent all those years about being abused by his little wife. I felt ashamed. I was disgusted with myself for sleeping with—for loving—a man who could do that to me. I didn't want folks pointing at me on the street or talking about me behind their hands, because what happened would get out if I pressed charges. It was around that time I took up running and learned how to box. I wasn't going to be any man's punching bag again."

"And the baby?"

"I miscarried not long after. I was only surprised it didn't happen sooner. Given what Stephen had done to me, I was sure I'd lose the baby that night, but I didn't. I was worried he might have damaged my insides, but I'm fine. I'd still like to have a child someday, or more than one, but it hasn't happened yet. Do you have children?"

"I have a daughter," I said.

"What's her name?"

"Samantha. Sam. She lives with her mother in Vermont."

"Do you get along with her?"

"I try to. She's an unusual child."

"I like the name Samantha," said Beth. "I have a list of names for my baby, and they're all girls' names. Funny, but I've never countenanced having a boy. I hope I don't. Girls are more trouble for a couple of years, but they're smarter—and kinder, too. This world isn't overflowing with kindness. We could do with more of it."

She checked her watch.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I really do need to take that nap."

"I have a few more questions, then we're done."

"Shoot."

"You and Stephen grew up together, right?"

"We went to the same school, but he was a couple years ahead. We didn't start going out until after we'd both graduated."

"Did you ever have cause to visit Gretton?"

"Gretton? What a shithole that was, and last time I drove through, it hadn't improved any. It did have a bar, though: the Junction, known as the Junco, that some of the boys liked, because age was just a number there. I'm surprised they didn't have high chairs and plastic sippy cups for half the customers."

"Was Stephen Clark one of the boys who went to the Junco?"

"Sure. I remember he fucked a girl from Gretton in the parking lot. That was before we started seeing each other. The pack he ran with ribbed him about it for months after, so everyone knew. She wasn't even pretty, they said, just a local Gretton freak. It's a weird town anyway, but this girl had it in her bones."

"Do you recall her name?"

"Lord, no. I doubt even Stephen could bring it to mind, once he'd sobered up after the act."

"Does the name Mara Teller mean anything to you?"

"No, that's not someone I know."

"It may not be important, but do you think you could find out who that girl was?"

"Seriously, after all this time?"

"Seriously," I said. "After all this time."

"I can try. And let me guess: I shouldn't tell anyone why I'm asking."

"It would be better if you didn't."

"I can't promise I'll learn anything. I don't stay in touch with but a handful of people from my childhood."

"I'd appreciate the effort."

She was gathering up her things, preparing to go. I didn't have long left with her.

"How did you feel when you read about the abduction of Stephen's child?" I asked.

She didn't answer immediately. I'd noticed her taking her time throughout our conversation. Beth Witham was a woman who stepped cautiously.

"I thought it was a misprint," she said, "because I couldn't believe he had a kid of his own. I thought at first that it might have been his wife's from a previous relationship, but then I said to myself that Stephen would never have married a woman who'd had a child. He always told me he couldn't imagine fucking a woman who'd given birth, let alone marrying her and helping raise another man's son."

"People change."

"Some do: they get worse. The beating I took from Stephen was a hard lesson to learn, but I've always been grateful that I didn't end up married to him. There's something dead in him, rotting away deep inside. I bet it poisons him more and more with every year that goes by. Now ask me if I think he could have killed his son. Forget about alibis. Just ask me."

"Do you think he could have killed his son?"

"No," she replied. "It's going to sound odd, especially after what he did to me, but Stephen doesn't possess the psychological strength to take a life and live with the consequences. He cried after he beat me. I think he was genuinely shocked by his loss of control. He's a weak man trying to find a shortcut to becoming a strong one. That never ends well."

She put on her jacket.

"But if you asked me if I thought he'd let someone get rid of the child for him," she continued, "I'd say that was possible. What I still don't understand is how he ended up with a baby to begin with."

"Accidents happen," I said. "You can attest to that."

"Was it an accident?"

Now it was Beth Witham who waited for a reply. It turned out she was good at waiting too.

"His wife told me that he wanted the baby," I said. "They had the child at his instigation."

"So it wasn't an accident?"

"No."

"Well, there's your final question," she said. "Why would a man who dislikes children, and finds pregnant women repulsive, elect to have a child? You run down the answer to that and you'll be closer to the truth about what happened to Henry Clark."

Beth Witham, I concluded, was wasted at Target.

I WALKED HER OUT.Angel and Louis were waiting by the car, each of them holding a Renys bag. They just couldn't resist temptation.

"Are they with you?" Beth asked.

"They're my associates."

"They don't look like private detectives. Don't take this the wrong way, but they look like criminals. If they came into the store, I'd lie down on the floor with my hands behind my head."

"Sometimes," I said, "that's precisely the effect we seek."

"What do you figure they bought at Renys?"

"I shudder to think."

She faced me so she could look me in the eye as she spoke.

"You have an idea where that boy might be, don't you?" she said. "That's why you're not traveling alone. You're going to look for Henry Clark, and you know that whoever took him won't like it."

I nodded.

"Do you think they might be in Gretton?"

"It's a place to start."

"I'll get that name for you," she said, "but she was just a girl, one of many those boys fucked and forgot. I doubt she bore a grudge. Stephen did worse to me, and even I wouldn't have wanted to see his life collapse the way it has. No one would."

"Yet someone did."

"Or so it seems."

It struck me, not for the first time, that in my line of work, I met more clever women than men. Perhaps it reflected a greater societal imbalance.

"When you find them, hurt them," said Beth Witham. "Then ask them about Stephen Clark."