out of boredom. A man could only do so much ice fishing during a Vermont February.
He took out the other two darts and set them down on his table in the alcove at the back of the Olde Mill Tavern. He’d come early. It was just 6:30 and the place, not being an after-work watering hole, was quiet, the jukebox sleeping, the TV above the bar, where a bartender cut up limes, was set to mute and CLOSED CAPTION . The house lights shone on hardwood tabletops that middle-aged waitresses wiped down with cider vinegar. He thought of his mother again. In her day, restaurants and bars had been choked with cigarette smoke she’d breathed in for twenty years until it had killed her.
A few old sods sat at the bar nursing beers and watching the news as Rath sipped a Johnny Walker Black, the best option the place offered. No single-malt here. He’d stopped by the drugstore and learned it would be several days before his Vicodin prescription could be filled. He tossed a few darts, turning over the missing girls’ files in his mind. Drank his Walker.
He was pulling the trio of darts out of the corkboard when he saw Laroche striding toward him.
Rath tossed back his Walker, “Couldn’t find a sub after all?”
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Laroche said, his face fraught with frustration. “I must have left ten messages. ”
“I thought I’d let you swing in the breeze.” Rath winked.
Laroche loosened his tie, took off his ill-fitting sport coat fraying at the cuffs, and draped it over a chair. His wrinkled white oxford was stained mustard at the pits. He ran his long fingers through his thinning hair, then signaled the sole young waitress who hopped over jauntily, her eyes alert and inviting.
“What can I get yah,” she trilled.
“Bud bottle,” Laroche said.
“Another Walker black,” Rath said. “With ice.”
“Easy-peasy,” she chirped.
Rath shot another trio of darts, letting Laroche stew.
The girl danced back over with a Bud longneck and Walker, set them on the table. Laroche handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. “Thanks, mister,” she said, and sashayed off, high on life or one of its substances.
Rath stared at Laroche. Why was he paying for Rath’s drink when Rath had tugged his chain? Laroche sat in the chair where he’d tossed his coat. He looked stricken.
Had Laroche learned his wife’s night involved a man? Rath suddenly felt like a bit of a heel. Laroche was a good guy.
Rath glanced at the TV to see Senator Renstrom of Missouri, a long-shot candidate in the GOP presidential primary. He was planning an early fundraising stop in Vermont.
“I have news,” Laroche said, his face long and old now. Rath felt badly. He’d strung the joke out too long, not returning calls. The guy was clearly pained by learning about his wife.
Then, suddenly, Rath knew. He killed his Walker, his face going numb.
“It’s Ned Preacher,” Laroche said.
“What about Preacher?” he said, his voice a whisper.
“He’s up for parole.”
Rath felt a stab of pain in his eyes. “No,” he said. “He got twenty-five to life . ” His voice rose with desperation. “It’s only been sixteen years.”
“You know how these things happen,” Laroche said, his voice coming from down a long, dark tunnel. Rath knew all right. These things happened because the system let them happen. Why they were let to happen, that was the question. The answer stoked a rage in Rath: money.
In January 1989, Preacher had sodomized a twelve-year-old girl in Glens Falls, New York. Afterward, feeling “a kindness,” he’d let her go, naked and bleeding, into the Adirondack wilderness. “If God wanted her to live, she would,” he’d said. He’d stripped a child of her dignity and her trust in humanity, soiled her for his own cruel satisfaction, but since he’d “cooperated” and pled down from the aggravated first-degree rape and kidnapping he’d actually committed to a fabricated third-degree sexual
He took out the other two darts and set them down on his table in the alcove at the back of the Olde Mill Tavern. He’d come early. It was just 6:30 and the place, not being an after-work watering hole, was quiet, the jukebox sleeping, the TV above the bar, where a bartender cut up limes, was set to mute and CLOSED CAPTION . The house lights shone on hardwood tabletops that middle-aged waitresses wiped down with cider vinegar. He thought of his mother again. In her day, restaurants and bars had been choked with cigarette smoke she’d breathed in for twenty years until it had killed her.
A few old sods sat at the bar nursing beers and watching the news as Rath sipped a Johnny Walker Black, the best option the place offered. No single-malt here. He’d stopped by the drugstore and learned it would be several days before his Vicodin prescription could be filled. He tossed a few darts, turning over the missing girls’ files in his mind. Drank his Walker.
He was pulling the trio of darts out of the corkboard when he saw Laroche striding toward him.
Rath tossed back his Walker, “Couldn’t find a sub after all?”
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Laroche said, his face fraught with frustration. “I must have left ten messages. ”
“I thought I’d let you swing in the breeze.” Rath winked.
Laroche loosened his tie, took off his ill-fitting sport coat fraying at the cuffs, and draped it over a chair. His wrinkled white oxford was stained mustard at the pits. He ran his long fingers through his thinning hair, then signaled the sole young waitress who hopped over jauntily, her eyes alert and inviting.
“What can I get yah,” she trilled.
“Bud bottle,” Laroche said.
“Another Walker black,” Rath said. “With ice.”
“Easy-peasy,” she chirped.
Rath shot another trio of darts, letting Laroche stew.
The girl danced back over with a Bud longneck and Walker, set them on the table. Laroche handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. “Thanks, mister,” she said, and sashayed off, high on life or one of its substances.
Rath stared at Laroche. Why was he paying for Rath’s drink when Rath had tugged his chain? Laroche sat in the chair where he’d tossed his coat. He looked stricken.
Had Laroche learned his wife’s night involved a man? Rath suddenly felt like a bit of a heel. Laroche was a good guy.
Rath glanced at the TV to see Senator Renstrom of Missouri, a long-shot candidate in the GOP presidential primary. He was planning an early fundraising stop in Vermont.
“I have news,” Laroche said, his face long and old now. Rath felt badly. He’d strung the joke out too long, not returning calls. The guy was clearly pained by learning about his wife.
Then, suddenly, Rath knew. He killed his Walker, his face going numb.
“It’s Ned Preacher,” Laroche said.
“What about Preacher?” he said, his voice a whisper.
“He’s up for parole.”
Rath felt a stab of pain in his eyes. “No,” he said. “He got twenty-five to life . ” His voice rose with desperation. “It’s only been sixteen years.”
“You know how these things happen,” Laroche said, his voice coming from down a long, dark tunnel. Rath knew all right. These things happened because the system let them happen. Why they were let to happen, that was the question. The answer stoked a rage in Rath: money.
In January 1989, Preacher had sodomized a twelve-year-old girl in Glens Falls, New York. Afterward, feeling “a kindness,” he’d let her go, naked and bleeding, into the Adirondack wilderness. “If God wanted her to live, she would,” he’d said. He’d stripped a child of her dignity and her trust in humanity, soiled her for his own cruel satisfaction, but since he’d “cooperated” and pled down from the aggravated first-degree rape and kidnapping he’d actually committed to a fabricated third-degree sexual
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