Buried Dreams (6 page)

Now it was the older brother's turn. "The guy who got killed."

"Right, the guy who got killed," I said. "How much to rake his yard?"

The younger one said, "You mean, in money?"

"That's right."

The two brothers looked at each other and not wanting Mom or Dad to come out and give me hell about talking to their boys without permission, I took out two ten-dollar bills. I passed one to each of them. "Here," I said. "Do a good job, okay?"

They both looked surprised and didn't say anything, but I was glad when I got to my Explorer: They were both racing up the sidewalk, dragging their rakes behind them, as they went to Jon's yard.

At home I made a fire in the fireplace --- a strange phrase, I know, since it's the only place one should really make a fire --- and checked the phone messages. Nothing new. I hesitated for a moment, thinking it would be nice to hear Jon's voice again, coming out of the speaker, but I thought that was just a bit too ghoulish. I was tired and achy and hungry, and made a ham and cheese and mushroom omelet for lunch, and ate it while sitting on the couch, balancing the plate on my knees, while I spent a quiet afternoon watching a documentary on the History Channel about Allied bombing tactics during World War II. The History Channel has been one of my great joys and frustrations for television viewing, for it's a great place to escape the mindless chatter on the bulk of my other cable channels, but it's also a great place to lose chunks of valuable time.

But today, losing time was a good thing, for it allowed me not to think about how I had dealt with Diane, my oldest friend in Tyler. For when she had asked me if I had anything more to offer, I knew I should have said something about what Jon had mentioned weeks ago. Three people. Jon had gone to three people, looking for more information on that farm site in Tyler that supposedly had contained a Viking settlement before being plowed under. I didn't know their names, but I knew their occupations ---anthropology professor, American Indian activist, and retired Tyler museum curator --- and I also knew one other thing. After having talked to one of these three people, Jon had soon found the artifacts, and had soon been murdered.

A hell of a coincidence.

And as I got over to the kitchen to wash the dishes after hours of television viewing, the coincidences just kept on piling up, for when the phone rang it was Felix, and he was just the man I wanted to see.

A half hour after he called, Felix was at my house, bearing gifts. He had brought a fettuccine dish and salad and garlic bread, which he heated up in my kitchen. The formal dress he had at the funeral was gone, replaced by stonewashed jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. We both ate at the small table and had a bottle of Australian merlot, and when it came to the coffee and cannoli stage, Felix got right to it. "I've done some preliminary work on your man's brother," he said.

"What do you have?"

Felix said, "Guy's been in trouble since he could pee standing up. Lots of juvie stuff that's sealed away, of course, and a short stint in the navy, followed by a dishonorable discharge for brawling. Then, a bunch of muscle jobs here and there, construction and landscaping work, broken up by jail time."

"What for?"

"Robbery, assault, burglary, some drunk drivings."

"Any homicide, or attempted homicide?"

"Nothing I could find out," Felix said. "But it's early yet. This guy really spent most of his time here and in Maine. Didn't spend too much of his exciting life down in Massachusetts. Current residence is in Porter."

"Still, I appreciate it."

Felix nodded, used a fork to slice off a piece of cannoli. "All right," he said. "Now that you have his record, anything strike you strange about it?"

"One big thing," I said. "Which is..."

"Which is how did a guy who spent most of his life either doing grunt work or being in the county or state lockup, how did a guy like that end up running an antique store?"

"Nicely done," he said. "Glad to see that you're as sharp as ever."

"Spare me the compliments. There's more to running an antique store than just renting a storefront and putting some old furniture in there. You've got to know what you're selling, know the history and the provenance, and you got to have rock-solid reputations with the other dealers. It's a very close, clannish bunch, and everybody knows what everybody else is up to. You have a record, you do some things that aren't on the straight and narrow... well, your business won't last long."

"Sounds right to me."

'What do you know about his business?"

Another bite of the cannoli. "Not much. Except I know where it's located, and where he lives, which is in the same place. Small building outside of the harbor district. His living quarters are right above the store."

I got up and poured us another cup of coffee. "And his neighbors?"

"An adult bookstore and a gas station. Not a very upscale neighborhood. Quick talk with people at both establishments came up with nothing."

I sat down and passed the cup over to Felix. He put in some sugar and half-and-half and said, "I have a suggestion."

"Go ahead."

"You're serious about finding this character before the cops, right?"

"That's been the general idea."

"Well, one approach might be to visit his building. See what can be found."

"The cops have probably already been through it, once or twice."

"True," Felix said. "But there might be something there they might ignore, something I can use."

"Through your usual contacts?"

He took a sip from his coffee cup. "Don't make fun of my contacts, Lewis. They often know a hell of a lot more than the cops."

"No fun intended," I said. "Okay. A visit to the house and store it is. When do we go?"

"What do mean we, young man?"

"I mean the two of us would be going in, not just you. That's the fair thing to do."

He shook his head. "Nope. That'd be the dumb thing to do. Look, if I go in, I'm going in and doing something I'm familiar with, all right? And one man going in and one man going out is a hell of a lot easier to manage than two men. Plus, if I get caught... well, I've got the background and ability to either talk my way out of it, or have a lawyer friend take care of me. But you? Your record is somewhat clean, Lewis. Why not keep it that way?"

"Because I need to do this, that's why."

"Not a good answer."

"Best I can do for right now," I said.

Well, that conversation went around in circles for a while, until we both got tired of it and Felix retrieved his coat and I walked him to the front door. As he put the coat on, he looked at me and said, "Why not let Diane take care of it? She's a fairly competent detective for this state."

"Yeah, but she hasn't managed to catch you for anything."

That brought a smile. "Not for lack of trying. Seriously, though, why not let the professionals do their job?"

I realized I had been holding my breath, and I let it out. "Something you would understand, I'm sure. This time, it's personal."

Felix looked at me with an odd look on his face, and then tapped the side of my shoulder. "You should really let Diane and the cops handle it. We're going into my world, now, and it'd be for the best if I work alone."

"What do you mean, your world?"

"You know," he said. "The world of grudges, revenge, blood feuds, arguments settled with two bullets in the hat or a ride out in a boat. That's my place in the universe. Not yours."

"You mean, the North End way?"

"You could say that."

"Well, don't forget my Irish background," I said. "We know a few things about feuds and such."

Another smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"Okay, now that we've gotten our family backgrounds out of the way, when do we go visit Ray Ericson's place?"

Felix checked his watch. "Let's say ... three a.m.?"

I tried to hide my enthusiasm. "Sounds great."

"No, it's an awful time, but a good time to get things done. Look, I'll come pick you up, about two-fifteen. Get some sleep, all right?"

''I'll try."

"Good," he said, and he walked out my door into the cold October night.

I washed the dishes, dried them, and put them away, and I knew I should have gone upstairs, at least to lie down and rest. I would have to be up and about at two a.m., and that time of the morning was going to come damn quick.

But the dinner and the coffee and the events of the day made me restless, made my legs jumpy, and I knew a night of reading or surfing the Internet or seeing what was on the History Channel wasn't going to work. I had to do something different, something physical, and then I went back into the kitchen, and in the back of one of the drawers, I pulled out an old serving spoon. From underneath the sink I found a wire-mesh colander, and with tools in hand, I went to the door to the cellar, and went downstairs.

The single light was on and I had grabbed a flashlight as well. I turned on the flashlight and illuminated the small cellar, remembering the time I had been down here with Jon, talking about history, talking about my home. I reached up and touched the old timbers, almost imagined I could feel the strength of the wood, and the patience in the years that the wood had served here, holding up my home. I shone the light around in the corners of the cellar, at the old stonework, remembering again what Jon had said about the history of one's place. This was now my home, and the history here belonged to me.

I knelt down on the cold dirt, placed the wire colander at my side, and started digging.

Chapter Four

Two a.m. can come pretty early and pretty damn cold, and I was standing outside, shivering slightly, waiting for Felix to pick me up. I was at the parking lot for the Lafayette House, which is across the street from the hotel. Most of the lights at the hotel had been dimmed, and from where I stood in the lot, I couldn't see my house, which suited me fine. About fifty or so feet from the parking lot was a rocky stretch of shoreline, and the incessant waves of the Atlantic, performing their million-year-old show. I put my hands in the pocket of my jacket, shivered again, and looked up, hoping to see some of the winter constellations, announcing their early arrival. But there were no overhead lights to be seen, just a flat, black surface that told me it was overcast and that more rain was no doubt in the offing.

At what must have been 2:15 a.m., give or take a nanosecond, a car slowed down on Route 1-A ---also known as Atlantic Avenue --- and a black Lexus with Maine plates purred up next to me. I opened the door, slipped thankfully into the warm interior, and looked around.

"Very nice," I said.

"Thanks," Felix replied.

"Mercedes in the shop?"

"Nope," he said. "Job like this, I like to use rentals. Cops and AGs have funny rules nowadays, and one of the funniest concerns seizing vehicles used in crimes. I like my Mercedes too much to give it over to the state of New Hampshire if something gets screwed up tonight."

"Sounds reasonable to me. But a Lexus? Pretty high-priced."

"Cops see a car that doesn't belong, they get suspicious if it's just run-of-the-mill. A parked Lexus means money, means rich people, and why would rich people be breaking into an antique store at the ungodly hour of three in the morning?"

We were now on Route I-A, accelerating gently into the night.

Felix said, "Thermos bottle under your seat. Some coffee if you'd like."

I bent over and retrieved the bottle, and in the dashboard lights noted Felix's appearance. I knew I looked and felt like the truth, which was a lousy night trying to get to sleep, preceded by a lousy couple of hours digging through my cellar and finding nothing except a few rocks and pebbles. But Felix looked freshly showered and cleanly dressed, like he could operate on three hours of sleep and an oil change every three thousand miles.

"Felix?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you ever look ... tired? Or disheveled?"

He laughed. "Don't got time for that crap."

We reached Porter about a half hour later, and as Felix had said, Ray's antique store --- Seacoast Antiques, such a well-thought-out name --- was in a part of Porter that didn't get mentioned in that city's chamber of commerce mailings. We were on a stretch of Route I-A that boomed its way over the Piscassic River bridge on the way to Maine. On one side of the store was an all-night service station, and on the other was an adult bookstore. The gas station was well lit and the lights were all off at the adult bookstore, like the owners were embarrassed at what they offered behind its darkened door. Seacoast Antiques was a two-story brick building, unlit, with two storefront windows. Up above, on the second story, were smaller windows, also darkened. Felix pulled into the store lot and drove out back, where a tall fence separated the property from a set of homes. Felix backed in next to a dumpster and switched off the engine and waited.