deck and around to the front of Paul’s little house. “Well,” she said, “I might as well finish planting these petunias. For—for when he comes home.”
“I’m sure he’ll be cheered by them,” I said.
We waved to each other and I started down Meadowridge Road to my parked car, and that’s when I saw the big man with the black beard.
12
H E WAS STANDING IN the middle of the narrow sand road, about fifty feet from me, wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless muscle shirt and dark glasses. It looked as if he was staring at me from behind those glasses, but I couldn’t see his eyes.
He looked familiar. I couldn’t place him.
I started toward him, and he turned and walked briskly away, heading back to the main street.
Then I remembered. I had seen him with his fist shaking in the air and anger cut into his face. Thomas Gall. He had been shouting above the tumult in the courtroom, spitting threats at Glen Falconer and the judge and the jury. And at Paul Cizek.
“Hey,” I called. “Hey, wait a minute.”
He didn’t turn. I started to jog after him as he disappeared around the corner.
When I got to the end of Meadowridge Road, I looked in the direction he had gone. A hundred yards or so down the street a dark pickup truck started up and pulled away from the side of the road, heading back toward the bridge that crossed the river into Newburyport.
I stood there watching the truck disappear down the street.
“Do you know that man?”
I turned. Maddy Wilkins was standing behind me.
“I know who he is,” I said. “Did you recognize him?”
She tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Sure. He’s a friend of Paul’s.”
“A friend?”
“I guess so. I’ve seen him a few times. I came over one night and they were sitting out on Paul’s deck.”
“What were they doing?”
She shook her head. “I’d just gotten out of work—it must’ve been close to midnight—and I saw his lights on, so I thought I’d drop in and say hello. When I saw Paul had company, I turned around and left.”
“You’ve seen him more than once, though, huh?”
“A couple times I noticed him sort of hanging around when Paul wasn’t here. Kinda like he was doing today. I never talked to the man or anything.” She frowned at me. “Is there some problem with him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
I took Route 1A, the slow road, back toward Boston. It crossed tidal creeks and meandered past marshland and farmland and woods and passed through quiet little New England towns like Newbury and Rowley, with white Protestant churches and white eighteenth-century colonials perched on the rims of emerald village greens. I bore left on 133 in Ipswich and headed out toward Cape Ann, and in Essex I stopped at a seafood shanty and bought a quart of mussels and a couple of fresh tuna steaks. I picked up 128 in Gloucester and headed home.
It was nearly five in the afternoon when I got back to my apartment. I made room for the mussels and fish by removing a bottle of Samuel Adams from the refrigerator. Then Sam and I wandered into the living room. The red light on my answering machine indicated that three people had tried to call me—or that one person had tried three times, maybe.
Nope. Three people. The first was Alex, asking what our plan was. The second was Olivia, requesting that I call her.
The third was Gloria, my ex-wife. “Have you talked to Joseph?” her recorded voice said. “You better give me a call.”
That sounded ominous, so I sat down, lit a cigarette, and dialed the Wellesley number that was still familiar more than a decade after it had been mine.
She answered after several rings. “Yes?” She sounded breathless.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“Oh, Brady.” I heard her let out a long breath. “Yes, I’m fine. I was just getting out of the shower.”
“What’s the matter with Joey?”
“Joseph?” She hesitated. “Oh. My message. Nothing’s the matter. Did I say
“I’m sure he’ll be cheered by them,” I said.
We waved to each other and I started down Meadowridge Road to my parked car, and that’s when I saw the big man with the black beard.
12
H E WAS STANDING IN the middle of the narrow sand road, about fifty feet from me, wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless muscle shirt and dark glasses. It looked as if he was staring at me from behind those glasses, but I couldn’t see his eyes.
He looked familiar. I couldn’t place him.
I started toward him, and he turned and walked briskly away, heading back to the main street.
Then I remembered. I had seen him with his fist shaking in the air and anger cut into his face. Thomas Gall. He had been shouting above the tumult in the courtroom, spitting threats at Glen Falconer and the judge and the jury. And at Paul Cizek.
“Hey,” I called. “Hey, wait a minute.”
He didn’t turn. I started to jog after him as he disappeared around the corner.
When I got to the end of Meadowridge Road, I looked in the direction he had gone. A hundred yards or so down the street a dark pickup truck started up and pulled away from the side of the road, heading back toward the bridge that crossed the river into Newburyport.
I stood there watching the truck disappear down the street.
“Do you know that man?”
I turned. Maddy Wilkins was standing behind me.
“I know who he is,” I said. “Did you recognize him?”
She tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Sure. He’s a friend of Paul’s.”
“A friend?”
“I guess so. I’ve seen him a few times. I came over one night and they were sitting out on Paul’s deck.”
“What were they doing?”
She shook her head. “I’d just gotten out of work—it must’ve been close to midnight—and I saw his lights on, so I thought I’d drop in and say hello. When I saw Paul had company, I turned around and left.”
“You’ve seen him more than once, though, huh?”
“A couple times I noticed him sort of hanging around when Paul wasn’t here. Kinda like he was doing today. I never talked to the man or anything.” She frowned at me. “Is there some problem with him?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
I took Route 1A, the slow road, back toward Boston. It crossed tidal creeks and meandered past marshland and farmland and woods and passed through quiet little New England towns like Newbury and Rowley, with white Protestant churches and white eighteenth-century colonials perched on the rims of emerald village greens. I bore left on 133 in Ipswich and headed out toward Cape Ann, and in Essex I stopped at a seafood shanty and bought a quart of mussels and a couple of fresh tuna steaks. I picked up 128 in Gloucester and headed home.
It was nearly five in the afternoon when I got back to my apartment. I made room for the mussels and fish by removing a bottle of Samuel Adams from the refrigerator. Then Sam and I wandered into the living room. The red light on my answering machine indicated that three people had tried to call me—or that one person had tried three times, maybe.
Nope. Three people. The first was Alex, asking what our plan was. The second was Olivia, requesting that I call her.
The third was Gloria, my ex-wife. “Have you talked to Joseph?” her recorded voice said. “You better give me a call.”
That sounded ominous, so I sat down, lit a cigarette, and dialed the Wellesley number that was still familiar more than a decade after it had been mine.
She answered after several rings. “Yes?” She sounded breathless.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“Oh, Brady.” I heard her let out a long breath. “Yes, I’m fine. I was just getting out of the shower.”
“What’s the matter with Joey?”
“Joseph?” She hesitated. “Oh. My message. Nothing’s the matter. Did I say
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