Chapter XCI

Sabine Drew was waiting up for us in the living room when we got back. The innkeeper had retired to her quarters in a converted coach house at the back of the property, leaving the coffeepot, a decanter of sherry, and a classical music station playing low on the stereo. Sabine stood as we walked in.

"Something's happening at the Michaud property," she said.

"Like what?" I asked.

"I don't know for sure. I think someone was out there who shouldn't have been. I heard—no, Henry heard—a noise, like gunshots."

She saw the expression on Louis's face. It might have been described as neutral, but only if one were inclined to be charitable. Then again, it could be hard to tell what Louis was thinking. Rocks gave more away.

"I can tell that you don't believe me," she said to him, "but I'm not the only one who led you here. It was Mattia Reggio as much as I who brought you to this town."

Louis continued to say nothing, leaving me to speak.

"I got a call while we were out," I said. "Reggio's car was found parked at a motel down in Pittsfield."

Moxie Castin, a generous donor to the Maine State Troopers Foundation and an advertiser in the twice-yearly Maine State Trooper magazine, had received a boon in return from the state police. While it would have been premature to declare Reggio a missing person, the make and license of his car had been circulated, with a request for notification should it be spotted. Reggio's vehicle had been discovered less than an hour earlier in the parking lot of a motel on Somerset Avenue. The motel shared the lot with a strip mall and a couple of restaurants, although technically the motel's spaces were reserved, with signs on the wall requesting that mall and restaurant patrons park elsewhere. People often failed to notice them, or chose not to, and it wasn't worth the hassle of towing an errant car unless the motel was unusually busy, which it rarely was. It hadn't even registered with them until late in the day that Reggio's car didn't belong to a guest, and the police had spotted it before the manager had gotten around to deciding what to do about it. All of this I explained to Sabine.

"Do you really think he went down there after leaving Gretton?" she asked.

"If he did," I said, "he'd have contacted his wife before checking into that motel, but he didn't do either of those things. I don't think he ever left here, unless we choose to accept that he dumped the car and walked all the way to someplace else, and Reggio didn't even like walking to the curb."

I leaned against the door. I ached, but some part of me always ached these days.

"We also found out more about the Michauds."

Another good turn drawn from Moxie's list of creditors, this time a local lawyer, Curtis Cobbold, who was working for the Hickmans, or had been until Antoine Pinette showed up, at which point Cobbold decided that discretion was the better part of not going to jail.

"They're hardly the lifeblood of the community," I continued, "and you won't find them selling jam at the county fair. There are apparently two houses out on their property, but one is all boarded up, or was the last time anyone but the Michauds saw it. They don't bother people, and people don't bother them, except for their neighbour, Hickman, with whom the Michauds are in dispute over a boundary line. That dispute has escalated with the arrival on the Hickman land of some outsiders, a bunch of far-right extremists, except these aren't the usual sad incels and conspiracy freaks. They're led by a man named Antoine Pinette. I know Pinette. We had a run-in with him after his brother threw a firebomb at the Clark house. Pinette is up here as well. He might even be the one who nearly ran you over earlier."

Sabine looked confused. "How do they fit into all this? Could they be involved in the abduction of Henry Clark?"

"I don't see how or why. Their presence may be a coincidence, or bad luck. It might even bear out something you told me down in Portland when we first met at the Bear."

"Evil finds its own," said Sabine.

"Pinette's objectionable, not evil," I said, "but the principle still holds."

"So when are you going to confront the Michauds?"

"Not until we have a better idea of what's going on in there. We're going to wait until the dead hours, when they're sleeping, before we start sniffing around."

"But we're also considering paying a visit to Pinette afterward," said Louis, speaking at last.

"Why?"

"Because Antoine is smart," I answered. "If he's chosen to establish himself with Hickman, you can be sure that he's taken an interest in his neighbors. Right now, he may know more about the Michauds than anyone else in Gretton. But we'll take a look at the Michaud house along the way. No point in approaching Antoine from a position of total ignorance."

"Will he help us?"

"Only one way to find out," I said. "We just came back to make sure you were okay, and to let you know the lay of the land."

"That's very thoughtful, but I'll be coming with you."

"Ms. Drew," said Louis, "none of this qualifies as a Sunday social."

"You know," said Sabine, "you can be quite patronizing when you choose."

"He can be quite patronizing even when he doesn't choose," said Angel.

"I want to be there at the close," said Sabine. "If Henry Clark is on the Michaud property, I don't want it to be cadaver dogs that find him. If you try to go without me, I'll find a way to follow."

I gave up arguing.

"Then get some rest," I said. "We'll be leaving before dawn."

She pulled up a footstool, settled into her chair, and wrapped a blanket around herself.

"I'll sleep here just in case you were thinking of forgetting to wake me."

"Huh," said Louis, "you know us so well, it's like you're psychic."

He was almost smiling, although it might also have been a grimace.

"I know enough to be frightened," she said.

"That's not being psychic," said Louis. "That's just being smart."