John Connolly - The Unquiet

The sound of the doorbell woke me. The texture of the light had changed. It must have been past noon. I stood, supporting myself against the bathroom wall until I was sure that my legs would not buckle beneath me, then staggered to the chair where I had left my clothes the night before. I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, threw a hooded top on to ward off the cold, then tentatively walked barefoot down the stairs to the door. Through the glass, I could see three figures standing outside, and there were two unfamiliar cars in my drive. One was a Scarborough P.D. cruiser. I could tell by the colors.

I opened the door. Conlough and Frederickson, the two detectives from Scarborough who had interviewed Merrick, were on my doorstep, along with a third man whose name I did not know, but whose face I remembered from Merrick’s interrogation. It was the man who had been talking to the FBI man, Pender. Behind them, Ben Ronson, one of the Scarborough cops, leaned against his cruiser. Usually, Ben and I would exchange a few words if we passed each other on the road, but now his face was still and without expression.

“Mr. Parker,” said Conlough. “Mind if we come in? You remember Detective Frederickson? We have a few questions we’d like to ask you.” He indicated the third man. “This here is Detective Hansen from the state police over in Gray. I guess you could say he’s in charge.”

Hansen was a fit-looking man with very black hair and a dark shadow across his cheeks and chin that spoke of too many years of using an electric razor. His eyes were more green than blue, and his posture, relaxed yet poised, suggested a wildcat about to spring on easy prey. He was wearing a nicely cut dark blue jacket. His shirt was very white, and his dark blue tie was striped with gold.

I stepped back and allowed them to enter. I noticed that none of them turned their backs on me. Outside, Ronson’s hand had drifted casually toward his gun.

“Kitchen okay?” I said.

“Sure,” said Conlough. “After you.”

They followed me to the kitchen. I sat down at the breakfast table. Ordinarily, I would have remained standing so as not to give them any advantage, but I still felt weak and uncertain on my legs.

“You don’t look so good,” said Frederickson.

“I had a bad night.”

“Want to tell us about it?”

“You want to tell me why you’re here first?”

But I knew. Merrick.

Conlough took a seat across from me while the others stayed standing. “Look,” he said, “we can clear all of this up here and now if you’ll just be straight with us. Otherwise”-he glanced meaningfully in Hansen’s direction-“it could get awkward.”

I should have asked for a lawyer, but a lawyer would have meant a trip there and then to the Scarborough P.D., or maybe to Gray, or even Augusta. A lawyer would have meant hours in a cell or an interrogation room, and I wasn’t sure that I was well enough to face that yet. I was going to need a lawyer eventually, but for now I was in my own home, at my own kitchen table, and I wasn’t about to leave unless I absolutely had to.

“Frank Merrick broke into my home last night,” I said. “He cuffed me to my bed”-I showed them the marks on my wrists-“then he gagged me, blindfolded me, and took my gun. I don’t know how long he left me like that. When he came back, he told me that he’d done something that he shouldn’t have, then chloroformed me. When I came to, the cuffs and tape were gone. So was Merrick. I think he still has my gun.”

Hansen leaned back against the kitchen counter. His arms were folded across his body.

“That’s quite a story,” he said.

“What gun did he take?” asked Conlough.

“Smith amp;Wesson, ten millimeter.”

“What load?”

“Cor-Bon. One-eighty grams.”

“Kinda tame for a ten,” said Hansen. “You worried about the frame cracking?”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“You’re kidding, right? The hell does that matter now?”

Hansen shrugged.

“Just asking.”

“It’s a myth. You happy?”

He didn’t reply.

“You got the ammo box for the Cor-Bons?” asked Conlough.

I knew where this was headed. I suppose I knew from the moment I saw the three detectives on my doorstep and, had I not felt so sick, I might almost have admired the circularity of what I suspected Merrick had done. He had used the gun on someone, but he had kept the weapon. If the bullet could be retrieved, then it could be compared with the box of rounds in my possession. It mirrored exactly the manner in which he had been linked to the killing of Barton Riddick in Virginia. Bullet matching might have been discredited but, as he had promised, he had still managed to do enough to land me in a lot of trouble. It was Merrick ’s little joke at my expense. I did not know how they had traced it back to me so quickly, but I suspected that had been Merrick ’s doing as well.

“I’m going to have to call a lawyer,” I said. “I’m not answering any more questions.”

“You got something to hide?” asked Hansen. He tried to smile, but it was an unpleasant thing, like a crack in old marble. “Why you getting all lawyered up now? Relax. We’re just talking here.”

“Really, is that what we’re doing? If it’s all the same to you, I don’t care much for your conversation.”

I looked at Conlough. He shrugged.

“Lawyer it is, then,” he said.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Not yet,” said Hansen. “But we can take that road, if you want to. So: arrest, or conversation?”

He gave me a cop stare, filled with false amusement and the certainty that he was in control.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” I said. “I’m sure I would have remembered, just to make sure that I didn’t have the pleasure again.”

Conlough coughed into his hand, and turned his face to the wall. Hansen’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m a new arrival,” said Hansen. “I’ve been around some, though, done my time in the big cities-just like you, I guess, so your reputation doesn’t mean shit to me. Maybe up here, with your war stories and the blood on your hands, you seem like a big shot, but I don’t care much for men who take the law into their own hands. They represent a failure in the system, a flaw in the works. In your case, I intend to repair that flaw. This is the first step.”

“It’s not polite to disrespect a man in his own home,” I said.

“That’s why we’re all going to leave now, so that I can continue disrespecting you someplace else.”

He waved his fingers, indicating that I should stand. Everything about his attitude toward me spoke of utter contempt, and there was nothing that I could do but take it, for the present. If I reacted further, I would lose my temper, and I didn’t want to give Hansen the satisfaction of putting the cuffs on me.

I shook my head and stood, then put on an old pair of sneakers that I always kept by the kitchen door.

“Let’s go, then,” I said.

“You want to lean against the wall there first?” said Hansen.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I replied.

“Yeah, I’m a regular joker,” said Hansen. “You and me both. You know what to do.”

I stood with my legs spread and my hands flat against the wall while Hansen patted me down. When he was happy that I wasn’t concealing assorted weaponry, he stepped back, and I followed him from the house, Conlough and Frederickson behind me. Outside, Ben Ronson already had the back door of the cruiser open for me. I heard a dog barking. Walter was racing across the field dividing my property from the Johnsons’. Bob Johnson was some ways behind Walter, but I could see the expression of concern on his face. As the dog drew nearer, I felt the cops tense around me. Ronson’s hand went to his gun again.