David Gates - Preston Falls

Mel breaks away and sits up, hugging her knees, head down so you see the no-colored part down the middle of her hair. Then she raises her head to look at Jean. "Mother, you can not tell anyhody."

"It's all right, honey." She touches Mel's knee. Mel twists out of reach.

"It's not all right," she says. "If you tell anybody, I'll kill you. I will, Mother. I will really stab you when you're asleep."

"I understand." Suddenly Jean has this revelation: that she's always been afraid of Mel. But she can't tell if it's a true revelation. "I have to say, though," she says, "it's not exactly a secret. You know, Erin was worried and told people at school—"

"But they don't know I was stupid. They just think I ran away from home or something."

"You're not stupid, sweetie," says Jean. "Believe me. Look, we're all suffering right now."

"Yeah, like Roger's really suffering."

"Roger's having a very hard time. He's just a little boy who doesn't understand what's happening to everything. And so he's acting out. Roger needs all the help both of us can give him."

Mel looks at the floor.

"Do you remember when he was a little baby?" says Jean. "You loved him so much." At least this is the family myth.

"Well, he's not a little baby anymore," Mel says. "He's nine years old. Mother."

"And don't you remember when you were nine?" Jean's knees and ankles are starting to hurt from hunkering down on the floor. "I know he can be a pain in the butt."

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"I hate him. There's something really creepy about him."

"It's normal to feel that way, sometimes," says Jean. Willing it to be true. "But you know, when you're both grown up and have families of your—"

"Are you kidding? I would never have a family."

"Well," Jean says. "You may feel differently." Her big defense of their family. Of the human species in general.

"I won't.''

"Okay. It's not anything you have to decide today, I guess." Jean's got to get up; this is really uncomfortable. "I just want you to know that I love you very very much and I'm so thankful that you're safe. Okay?" She stands up and stretches. "We should probably find Captain Petrosky. Do you like him?"

"He's okay." Mel doesn't even look up. "I guess he's pretty cool."

"Tell me something. Is there any of that seltzer left to make more tea? If you could get that started, I'll go see if I can find him. Did you have anything to eat today? "

Mel shrugs. "He took me to McDonald's. That's probably what his kids like. So I'm like sort of hungry, but not really?"

"Well, I'm starving. I haven't had anything since lunch." Lunch being a couple bites of a Fig Newton she bought on the way up, then chucked out the window. She reaches down to help Mel up. Which is a way of telling her to get up. "There's probably some soup here, or there might be a can of that vegetarian chili." Maybe in front of Mel and this policeman she'll be too embarrassed not to eat.

"Okay, I'll look." Mel stands up by herself, ignoring Jean's hand. "It's so weird up here."

"How so?"

Mel looks at her as if she can't believe she heard something so stupid, then trudges over and opens the cupboard next to the sink. Well, Mel's right: it wouldn't have killed her to admit this place is weird.

Jean starts up the stairs, and Petrosky calls, "In here." He's in Willis's study, sitting at the computer; the broken eyebrow window's blocked off with a pillow and the space heater's going. "Caught in the act," he says. "Once I get started on hearts, it's all over."

"Oh, I know," says Jean. Actually, she never plays computer stuff.

"I hope you don't mind, but I sort of poked around in the C drive a little," he says. "Does your husband deal in musical instruments? Sideline of his?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Does he deal in them? No. He sort of collects guitars, but he doesn't like buy and sell."

"Tell me what you make of this." Petrosky clicks the mouse, and Jean comes to look over his shoulder. She takes a forbidden glance down at his lap — just folds of fabric — then looks at the screen. (What's got into her?) He clicks on the list of documents, double-clicks on one called SALEBILL, and the screen fills with type. "Seventy-five hundred dollars," he says. "For one, two, three — five guitars. Plus an amplifier. I wouldn't have thought Mr. Castleman was the musical type."

Jean looks at the thing. "I have no idea." She feels like she has to sit down, but there's just the one chair.

"Did your husband actually own all these instruments?"

She looks down the list. Martin, Gibson, Rickenbacker. . "Well— I'm not absolutely sure, because I don't have the numbers anywhere, but yes. Those are all ones he had."

"Was your husband in any kind of trouble financially?"

"Just the usual. That / know of. Bills, payments. We were always sort of squeaking by, but we were squeaking by."

"He ever do drugs?"

"Oh please," says Jean.

"Hey, lots of people smoke a little dope once in a while; that's not so out of line. Guy your husband's age? I'd be more surprised if he didn't. Look, I used to party myself. And you know, frankly — I probably shouldn't say this, but our line of work, we see much worse things around alcohol. Drunk drivers, spousal abuse. That's just my opinion."

"No, he never did drugs," Jean says. "I mean, as a kid, yes. You know, a student. And I guess after that. But I never knew him to ever do anything. He told me he stopped smoking pot because it made him paranoid."

"He use cocaine?"

"I'm sure he tried it. But we're talking about years ago." Jean sits down on the floor and hugs her knees.

"See, the reason I ask," says Petrosky, "we naturally pulled up information on your husband, and one of the things, of course, that we came across was the incident that you're familiar with, which your husband was taken into custody? Now, anybody can lose their temper and get into an altercation. But by the same token, it can also be part of the profile for substance abuse. So times being what they are, it's something we have to look at." He half turns in the chair, and Jean sneaks another

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glance as he tugs at the knees of his pants to make the sharp creases hang straight.

"I have to say that was not all his fault," she says. "I mean, I was there — and yes, he was wrong, but—"

Petrosky holds up a hand. "I'm not trying to judge it. All I'm saying, it's just a thing that struck our attention as being out of the usual. But the other thing that—"

"Mo-ther?" Mel, calling from the foot of the stairs.

"We're up here. In Daddy's study."

"Everything's ready."

"Okay, be down in just a minute."

"She's something," Petrosky says, shaking his head. "This hasn't been easy on her, I can see that. But she's got an awful good heart."

"I like to think so," says Jean. "This thing today scared me to death, though."

Petrosky nods. "Tell me something. How, exactly, did your husband come to have dealings with Mr. Castleman?"

"Oh, God," says Jean. "I don't really know. Except that, you know, he lives so close. My husband bought firewood from him."

"I take it he's not your kind of guy."

"No, I don't like him."

Petrosky picks up a perforated side strip torn from computer paper and holds it up with both hands, as if examining a piece of movie film. "Let me try to show you what this looks like when we look at it. Here's Mr. Castleman. Known drug person, would have gone to prison — I don't know if you know that story."

"Enough of it."

"Okay, and here's Mr. Reed, who defends half the drug cases in central Vermont." He fusses again with his pants leg. "And then here's your husband. Knows them both. Travels back and forth regularly between here and New York City, raises a large sum of money selling off his collection of musical instruments — to Mr. Castleman, of all people — shows a history of erratic behav—"