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hung over the polluted Kenduskeag—Wally’s or the scabrous Paramount Lounge, where ancient
whores with waxwork faces still populated most of the stools at the bar. And did he tell jokes that got
the whole place laughing? Did people even approach him as he went about the job of pouring grain
alcohol onto the coals of rage at the back of his brain? Not unless they wanted impromptu dental
work.
“When my sister n nephew disappeared, them n Dunning was livin in a little rented house out by
the Cashman town line. He was drinkin heavy, and when he drinks heavy, he exercises his fuckin fists.
I seen the bruises on her, and once Mikey was black n blue all the way up his little right arm from the
wrist to the elbow. I says, ‘Sis, is he beatin on you n the baby? Because if he is, I’ll beat on him.’ She
says no, but she wouldn’t look at me when she said it. She says, ‘You stay away from him, Billy. He’s
strong. You are too, I know it, but you’re skinny. A hard wind would blow you away. He’d hurt you.’
It wasn’t six months after that when she disappeared. Took off, that’s what he said. But there’s a lot of
woods out that side of town. Hell, once you get into Cashman, there’s nothing but woods. Woods n
swamp. You know what really happened, don’t you?”
I did. Others might not believe it because Dunning was now a well-respected citizen who seemed
to have controlled his drinking a long time ago. Also because he had charm to spare. But I had inside
information, didn’t I?
“I think he snapped. I think he came home drunk and she said the wrong thing, maybe something
completely innocuous—”
“Inocku-what?”
I peered through the hedge into the backyard. Beyond it, a woman passed the kitchen window and
was gone. In casa Dunning, dinner was served. Would they be having dessert? Jell-O with Dream
Whip? Ritz cracker pie? I thought not. Who needs dessert on Halloween night? “What I’m saying is
that he killed them. Isn’t that what you think?”
“Yeah . . .” He looked both taken aback and suspicious. I think obsessives always look that way
when they hear the things that have kept them up long nights not just articulated but corroborated. It
has to be a trick, they think. Only this was no trick. And it certainly wasn’t a treat.
I said, “Dunning was what, twenty-two? Whole life ahead of him. He must have been thinking,
‘Well, I did an awful thing here, but I can clean it up. We’re out in the woods, nearest neighbors a
mile away. . . .’ Were they a mile away, Turcotte?”
“At least.” He said it grudgingly. One hand was massaging the base of his throat. The bayonet had
sagged. Grabbing it with my right hand would have been simple, and grabbing the revolver out of his
belt with the other wouldn’t have been out of the question, but I didn’t want to. I thought the bug
would take care of Mr. Bill Turcotte. I really thought it would be that simple. You see how easy it is
to forget the obduracy of the past?
“So he took the bodies out in the woods and buried them and said they’d run off. There couldn’t
have been much of an investigation.”
Turcotte turned his head and spat. “He come from a good old Derry fambly. Mine come down from
the Saint John Valley in a rusty ole pickup truck when I was ten n Clara was eight. Just on parle trash.
What do you think?”
I thought it was another case of Derry being Derry—that’s what I thought. And while I understood
Turcotte’s love and sympathized with his loss, he was talking about an old crime. It was the one that
was scheduled to happen in less than two hours that concerned me.
“You set me up with Frati, didn’t you?” This was now obvious, but still disappointing. I’d thought
the guy was just being friendly, passing on a little local gossip over beer and Lobster Pickin’s. Wrong.
“Pal of yours?”
Turcotte smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. “Me friends with a rich kike pawnbroker?