John Connolly - The Unquiet

“Who helped you with all of this?” I asked.

“Nobody,” she said. “I did it alone.”

“You drove your father’s car up to Jackman. How did you get back down after you’d abandoned it?”

“I hitched a ride.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

But I knew that she was lying. After all that she had done, she wouldn’t have taken a chance like that. Someone followed her up to Jackman, then drove her back east again. I thought it might have been the woman, April. I remembered the way they had looked at each other that night after Merrick had broken the window. Something had passed between them, a gesture of complicity, an acknowledgment of a shared understanding. It didn’t matter. None of it really mattered.

“Who was the other man, Rebecca, the one who took the photograph?”

“I don’t know. It was late. I heard someone drinking with my father, then they came to my room. They both smelled pretty bad. I can still recall it. It’s why I’ve never been able to drink whiskey. They turned on the bedside light. The man had a mask on, an old Halloween mask of a ghost that my father used to wear to frighten the trick-or-treaters. My father told me that the man was a friend of his, and that I should do the same things that I did for him. I didn’t want to, but…” She stopped for a moment. “I was seven years old,” she whispered. “That’s all. I was seven. They took pictures. It was like it was a game, a big joke. It was the only time it ever happened. The next day, my father cried and told me he was sorry. He told me again that he loved me, and that he never wanted to share me with anyone else. And he never did.”

“And you’ve no idea who it might have been?”

She shook her head, but she would not look at me.

“There were more pictures of that night in Raymon Lang’s trailer. Your father’s drinking buddy was in them, but his head wasn’t visible. He had a tattoo of an eagle on his arm. Do you remember it?”

“No. It was dark. If I did see it, I’ve forgotten it over the years.”

“One of the other children who was abused mentioned the same tattoo. Someone suggested to me that it might be a military tattoo. Do you know if any of your father’s friends served in the army?”

“Elwin Stark, he did,” she said. “I think Eddie Haver might have been in the army too. They’re the only ones, but I don’t think either of them had a tattoo like that on his arm. They came on vacation with us sometimes. I saw them on the beach. I would have noticed.”

I let it go. I didn’t see what else I could do.

“Your father betrayed those children, didn’t he?” I asked.

She nodded. “I think so. They had those pictures of him with me. I guess that’s how they made him do what he did.”

“How did they get them?”

“I suppose the other man from that night passed them on to them. But, you know, my father really did care about the kids he treated. He tried to look out for them. Those men made him choose the ones that he gave to them, made him pick children to be abused, but he seemed to work twice as hard for the rest because of it. I know it makes no sense at all, but it was almost like there were two Daniel Clays, the bad one and the good one. There was the one who abused his daughter and betrayed children to save his reputation, and the one who fought tooth and nail to save other kids from abuse. Maybe that was the only way he could survive without going insane: by separating the two parts, and by taking all of the bad stuff and calling it ‘love.’”

“And Jerry Legere? You suspected him after you found him with Jenna, didn’t you?”

“I saw something of what I had seen in my father in him,” she said, “but I didn’t know he was involved, not until the police came and told me how he had died. I think I hate him more than anyone. I mean, he must have known about me. He knew what my father had done and, somehow, it made me more attractive to him.” She shuddered. “It was like, when he was fucking me, he was fucking the child I was as well.”

She sank down on the floor and laid her forehead on her arms. I could barely hear her when she spoke again.

“What happens now?” she asked. “Will they take Jenna away from me? Will I go to jail?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing happens.”

She lifted her head. “You’re not going to tell the police?”

“No.”

There was no more to say. I left her in the basement, sitting at the foot of the grave she had dug for her father. I got in my car and I drove away to the susurration of the sea, like an infinite number of voices offering quiet consolation. It was the last time I would ever hear the sea in that place, for I never returned there again.

There was one more link, one more connection that remained to be explored. After Gilead, I knew what connected Legere to Lang, and what in turn connected Lang to Gilead and to Daniel Clay. It wasn’t merely a personal link, but a professional one: the security firm, A-Secure.

Joel Harmon was in his garden when I arrived, and it was Todd who answered the door and escorted me through the house to see him.

“You look like you might have spent time in the army, Todd,” I said.

“I ought to bust your ass for that,” he replied good-humoredly. “Navy. Five years. I was a signalman, a damned good one too.”

“You get all tattooed up in the navy?”

“Damn straight,” he said. He rolled up the right sleeve of his jacket, revealing a twisted mass of anchors and mermaids. “I’m real traditional,” he said. He let the sleeve fall. “You got a reason for asking?”

“Just curious. I saw how you handled your gun on the night of the party. It looked like you’d held one before.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Harmon’s a wealthy man. He wanted someone who could look out for him.”

“You ever have to look out for him, Todd?” I asked.

He stopped as we reached the garden, and stared at me. “Not yet,” he said. “Not like that.”

Harmon’s son and daughter were both home that day, and halfway down the lawn Harmon was pointing out changes to them that he hoped to make to the flowers and shrubs come the spring.

“He loves the garden,” said Todd, following the direction of my gaze and seemingly anxious to move the subject away from his gun and his obligations, real or potential, to Harmon. “Everything out there he planted himself, or helped to plant. The kids lent a hand too. It’s their garden as much as his.”

But now I wasn’t looking at Harmon, or his children, or his garden. I was looking at the surveillance cameras that kept vigil on the lawn and the entrances to the house.

“It looks like an expensive system,” I said to Todd.

“It is. The cameras themselves switch from color output to black-and-white when the lighting conditions are poor. They’ve got focus and zoom capabilities, pan and tilt, and we have quad switchers that allow us to view all camera images simultaneously. There are monitors in the kitchen, Mr. Harmon’s office, the bedroom, and in my quarters. You can’t be too careful.”

“No, I guess not. Who installed the system?”

“A company called A-Secure, out of South Portland.”

“Uh-huh. That was the company Raymon Lang worked for, wasn’t it?”

Todd jerked like he’d just been hit with a mild electric shock.

“I-I suppose it was.” Lang’s shooting, and the discovery of the child beneath his trailer, had been big news. It would have been hard for Todd to have missed it.

“Was he ever out here, possibly to check the system? I’m sure it needs maintenance once or twice a year.”

“I couldn’t say,” said Todd. He was already going on the defensive, wondering if he’d said too much. “A-Secure sends someone out regularly as part of the contract, but it’s not always the same guy.”