And you think ..."
"Reuben had only been back in town a few days,"
Ellie agreed.
"And the way he got killed, seems like somebody
was madder at him than even he could make somebody,
in that short amount of time," George said, following
her thought.
"But," Sam objected, "if it was revenge for something
that happened a while ago, why wait so long?"
"Right," Tommy Daigle chimed in; Sam had spent
the evening helping him haul the engine out of his jalopy.
I hadn't thought they could do it, but Sam had
rigged up a pulley device that he said lessened immensely
the amount of work required.
"Tate was back to town other times, my mom
said," Tommy informed us. "Raised a lot of--"
Hell, Tommy had meant to say, but caught himself.
His mother was an old-fashioned disciplinarian, and it
showed.
"Ruckus," he finished carefully. "So why now?"
Wade looked thoughtful. "Maybe revenge wasn't
all of it. You can put bad things in the past, if they
happened then and they're over and done with. But if
you thought that same thing was about to happen
again ..."
"Once burnt, twice shy," Ellie agreed, as one of the
candles began smoking and George pinched it out.
Their remarks made me think again about the past
and the present somehow coming together, connecting
the victims in some way I didn't yet understand. I took
a sip of the wine Ellie had refilled for me, and chose my
words carefully.
"Are any of you"--I didn't include the boys, of
course--"going to be sorry if I start really digging into
this? Because you're all part of this town's past, too,
you know."
I let the rest go unspoken: that Reuben Tate's
venom seemed to have touched almost everyone in
Eastport. That when you went poking into old secrets,
sometimes you also opened old wounds, ones you
hadn't even known were there. And sometimes those
old wounds belonged to your friends.
I wasn't asking permission, exactly. But I needed to
know.
"Least said, soonest mended, in my view," George
commented. "Bury him and be done with it, my best
advice ordinarily. Mess with Reuben or anything to do
with him, get messed up yourself."
He spoke easily. "But then there's Victor. Don't
guess you can just let him keep swinging in the breeze."
Ellie tapped her wineglass thoughtfully. "Ordinarily,
I'd agree: We're well rid of Reuben and the less
said about him the better. But this is different. And he
never hung any skeletons in my closet, I'm glad to
say."
Wade nodded, but not as decisively as George or
Ellie. "You just do what you have to," he allowed, "let
the chips fall."
Not an especially reassuring reply on his part, but
at the moment it was all I would get; Wade wasn't the
type to unburden himself at the dinner table.
Later, I looked wordlessly at him, and he nodded.
Afterward in the kitchen, helping to dry the dishes,
Tommy Daigle informed me that he and Sam were
combining the mystery of otherworldly spirit communications
with the technological genius of Samuel
Morse, by asking the Ouija board to spell its messages
out to them in Morse code.
Tommy had a round, freckled face that reminded
me of Howdy Doody's, topped with a thick shock of
hair so red it made Ellie's look strawberry blond. He'd
stuck with Sam pretty much all day, except when he
was at home doing the Saturday chores arranged for
him by his mother, and I felt grateful to him for it.
"Why do you want messages from spirits, anyway?"
I asked, resisting the impulse to brush Tommy's
hair out of his eyes. In the city, Sam hadn't had friends
like this: simple, steadfast.
"Maybe," Sam said, putting away silverware, "it'll
say who killed Reuben."
Tommy brushed his hair back for himself, revealing
the dent in his forehead, over his right eye. It
was deep and square, a white brand mark without any
freckles in it, as if somebody had hit him with a tack
hammer a long time ago. I didn't know how he'd
"Reuben had only been back in town a few days,"
Ellie agreed.
"And the way he got killed, seems like somebody
was madder at him than even he could make somebody,
in that short amount of time," George said, following
her thought.
"But," Sam objected, "if it was revenge for something
that happened a while ago, why wait so long?"
"Right," Tommy Daigle chimed in; Sam had spent
the evening helping him haul the engine out of his jalopy.
I hadn't thought they could do it, but Sam had
rigged up a pulley device that he said lessened immensely
the amount of work required.
"Tate was back to town other times, my mom
said," Tommy informed us. "Raised a lot of--"
Hell, Tommy had meant to say, but caught himself.
His mother was an old-fashioned disciplinarian, and it
showed.
"Ruckus," he finished carefully. "So why now?"
Wade looked thoughtful. "Maybe revenge wasn't
all of it. You can put bad things in the past, if they
happened then and they're over and done with. But if
you thought that same thing was about to happen
again ..."
"Once burnt, twice shy," Ellie agreed, as one of the
candles began smoking and George pinched it out.
Their remarks made me think again about the past
and the present somehow coming together, connecting
the victims in some way I didn't yet understand. I took
a sip of the wine Ellie had refilled for me, and chose my
words carefully.
"Are any of you"--I didn't include the boys, of
course--"going to be sorry if I start really digging into
this? Because you're all part of this town's past, too,
you know."
I let the rest go unspoken: that Reuben Tate's
venom seemed to have touched almost everyone in
Eastport. That when you went poking into old secrets,
sometimes you also opened old wounds, ones you
hadn't even known were there. And sometimes those
old wounds belonged to your friends.
I wasn't asking permission, exactly. But I needed to
know.
"Least said, soonest mended, in my view," George
commented. "Bury him and be done with it, my best
advice ordinarily. Mess with Reuben or anything to do
with him, get messed up yourself."
He spoke easily. "But then there's Victor. Don't
guess you can just let him keep swinging in the breeze."
Ellie tapped her wineglass thoughtfully. "Ordinarily,
I'd agree: We're well rid of Reuben and the less
said about him the better. But this is different. And he
never hung any skeletons in my closet, I'm glad to
say."
Wade nodded, but not as decisively as George or
Ellie. "You just do what you have to," he allowed, "let
the chips fall."
Not an especially reassuring reply on his part, but
at the moment it was all I would get; Wade wasn't the
type to unburden himself at the dinner table.
Later, I looked wordlessly at him, and he nodded.
Afterward in the kitchen, helping to dry the dishes,
Tommy Daigle informed me that he and Sam were
combining the mystery of otherworldly spirit communications
with the technological genius of Samuel
Morse, by asking the Ouija board to spell its messages
out to them in Morse code.
Tommy had a round, freckled face that reminded
me of Howdy Doody's, topped with a thick shock of
hair so red it made Ellie's look strawberry blond. He'd
stuck with Sam pretty much all day, except when he
was at home doing the Saturday chores arranged for
him by his mother, and I felt grateful to him for it.
"Why do you want messages from spirits, anyway?"
I asked, resisting the impulse to brush Tommy's
hair out of his eyes. In the city, Sam hadn't had friends
like this: simple, steadfast.
"Maybe," Sam said, putting away silverware, "it'll
say who killed Reuben."
Tommy brushed his hair back for himself, revealing
the dent in his forehead, over his right eye. It
was deep and square, a white brand mark without any
freckles in it, as if somebody had hit him with a tack
hammer a long time ago. I didn't know how he'd
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