Home Repair Is Homicide - Crawlspace Part 9

But that also was a topic for later. "And we'll talk about what else to do about Carolyn and Sam," she added. Thinking, Sure, right after I jump off a tall building and learn to fly.

Because what the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do when-On the porch she turned. He was nowhere in sight. "Chip?"

Inside, the phone began ringing. "Chip, d.a.m.n it ..."

The front door was unlocked. The kitchen shone spotlessly, smelling of soap and scouring powder. It meant her housekeeper-slash-stepmother, Bella Diamond, had been here recently.

But Bella wasn't here now. A mixing bowl and spoon stood on the kitchen counter. The dogs looked up sleepily from their beds.

"h.e.l.lo?" she called out. "Is anyone home?"

The phone kept ringing. She dashed to answer, but as she did, it stopped.

The machine's red light winked at her, though, signaling that a call had come in earlier. She pressed the "play" b.u.t.ton- "I'm going to kill you!" a high, disguised voice promised cheerfully, followed by a giggle.

Click.

CHAPTER 4.

A MILLION DOLLARS.

Chip Hahn felt ashamed even to be thinking about it as he shoved his way through the shrubbery at the back of the Tiptree house. A million in cash ...

Wincing as the thorns on some kind of red-berried bushes scratched at his hands, he cringed inwardly even harder at the kind of greedy jerk he knew he was being.

It was even worse than last night, when he'd actually been thinking about doing something bad to Carolyn. Only this time, he wasn't stopping at thinking about doing a bad deed. This time ...

In his mind he recited again the coordinates Roger Dodd had written down, where he said he'd floated the money: 44.91 N, 67.02 W ... For once, Chip thought grimly, his good memory had come in handy.

And with any luck, maybe Roger Dodd's brother, Randy, hadn't gotten to the cash yet. Hurry ...

He pulled his trusty iPod from his s.h.i.+rt pocket and thumbed his playlist on without looking at it, Blondie's cla.s.sic "Heart of Gla.s.s" with its pulsing ba.s.s and crystalline vocals urging him forward. The big white house behind him loomed over the expansive yard like an observation tower.

Next, he cut through a dormant rose garden put neatly to bed for the season, row upon row of low, perfectly s.p.a.ced bushes covered with burlap and tied with twine.

He darted between the bushes, careful not to disturb the loose mulch heaped around them. The house they belonged to was a low, white cape with two stone lions on the front steps, a wide center chimney, and a ma.s.sive copper beech in the front lawn.

A curtain twitched in an upstairs window of the cape. A burl as big as his head seemed to stare ominously at him from the beech tree's rough bark. Chip hustled across the frozen lawn to the sidewalk beyond, looked up and down it.

One way led into a warren of small streets, frost-browned yards with boats on rusty trailers, and dirt driveways containing older-model cars and trucks. The other way, downhill toward the water, lay a stretch of larger homes featuring Andersen windows, prepainted siding, and red-brick front walks.

He recognized them, or at least he understood instinctively the impulse they represented: Keep your things nice.

The ba.n.a.l phrase encompa.s.sed what he'd been taught from the time he was a very small child. Your house, your car, the parts that other people could see of your body ... It was a cla.s.s thing, he knew, this obsession with personal maintenance.

It said you deserved your wealth, that you had been born or had become the sort of person who was inclined to preserve and defend capital, and Chip knew that drill only too well. After all, he'd been rich himself once, and at a level that made the well-kept dwellings he was rus.h.i.+ng past look like the most abject poverty.

But deciding to be a writer instead of going to Yale Law and joining the family's generations-old firm as an a.s.sociate, wading in hip-deep, as his father had so delicately put it-Hahn & a.s.sociates was a global concern that hid its bloodl.u.s.t for courtroom victory, along with its dodgier clients (of whom there were many), beneath a stodgy exterior-had taken care of that. In the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's opinion, not wanting to be a lawyer in his firm was like wis.h.i.+ng you had horns and a forked tail. Or actually having them ...

Hurrying downhill toward the water that glittered at the foot of the street, Chip recalled the night he'd broken the news. The Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had glared at him, all wattled and lizard-eyed, from the far end of the dining room table.

Between them, there had been about an acre of white linen covered with china, crystal, and silver. The meal had been roast beef, bloodily dripping. There was no one else in the room. A bell sat by the old man's right hand.

"Screw you," the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had said, and, ignoring the bell, had thumped the table to demand more cabernet.

Chip had been only eighteen then, and had believed the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d might change his mind. He hadn't, though, which mostly accounted for Chip's financial situation right now. People who refused to do what he wished, the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d thought, deserved what they got.

Which of course had been nothing. At the corner in front of the long, low Motel East overlooking the bay, Chip made a beeline for the Volvo in the lot, grabbed his topcoat from the back seat, and pulled it on. Glancing around guiltily, though he wasn't sure why, he headed downtown, trying not to think about where Carolyn might be right now and what might be happening to her.

Serves her right, a mean little part of his brain said. But she didn't deserve this-whatever this was-and Chip couldn't go on pretending he felt that way for long.

Because even as the harsh thought died, the rest of his mind went on pondering what Sam Tiptree's mother had asked: Do you have feelings for her?

Of course not, he replied silently again. Or anyway, not the kind Sam's mother meant. But he didn't hate Carolyn the way he'd thought, either. Instead, in her sudden absence he felt as if something sharply painful had stopped hurting, and he missed it.

He felt ... confused. Which he wasn't a bit used to feeling. And thinking about Carolyn just made it worse. A lot worse, he thought. Painfully worse.

So don't. Think about the money.

He hurried on. Downtown in the old red-brick buildings some of the shops were open now: a hardware store, a pizza joint. An old, battered pickup truck went by-not the one he'd seen last night-hauling a load of firewood.

Late morning, and the day's business was going on all around him, as if he and Carolyn had never been here. As if somebody hadn't grabbed her.

But something might still be happening to her now, or might already have happened, that he didn't even dare imagine.

He stared at the s.p.a.ce in the lot where the Volvo had been last night, willing her back unharmed. Suddenly even her thieving of his idea didn't seem so bad.

It was just Carolyn, trying to make something of herself and not wanting to go on doing what she had been. Like me. She could have his precious book idea, he realized suddenly, plus the money from the ones they'd already written together.

Anything she wanted. If only she was okay. To his horror, his lip began trembling. A million, he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat.

But it just wouldn't work. A million dollars, ten million ... Who did he think he was kidding, anyway? He might fantasize about being the kind of guy who would steal it.

Fantasy, though, was as far as that idea would go. Because if money was all he wanted, there were easier ways to get it. Like for instance sucking up to the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

So, what are you really doing, buddy boy? he asked himself. For that, though, he didn't have an answer, only a painful sense of urgency that made him want to writhe. Or run ... but not away from anything. Toward it, rather, whatever it was ...

The iPod finished Blondie, started on the Boss. "Born in the U.S.A." blared its anthem-like opening bars into Chip's earbuds. He'd accidentally pushed the oldies list, not what he'd wanted. But he didn't feel like fooling with it now, as from the parking lot he hurried along a path behind the old waterfront buildings overlooking the boat basin.

A riprap of pink granite boulders formed a low, slanting wall that continued down to the waves. Beyond, the breakwater was an L shape; inside were floating piers in a wooden maze, to which dozens of boats were secured by heavy lines.

Big, beat-up fis.h.i.+ng vessels with lobster traps stacked on their decks bobbed cheek-by-jowl with broad-beamed rowboats, oars s.h.i.+pped and gear stowed neatly. Scanning the marina for any sign that Carolyn had been here, he made his way past the boat ramp, past the shuttered hot dog stand where Sam's bicycle still leaned lonesomely, and beyond, out onto the wide concrete breakwater itself.

As soon as he left the protection of the buildings, the wind began biting at him again. And not just wind ...

You wanted her dead, a cruel voice in his mind tormented him. You thought about it, you wanted to ...

But he hadn't done anything. He'd been so angry, was all. The whole long, conflict-filled evening atop the tiring drive, his ongoing worry over who their mysterious next-day's interview subject would turn out to be ...

It had all been too much. But he still felt just hideously bad about it, as if he'd willed something to happen to Carolyn and then it had. And if he hadn't stepped out of sight between those buildings, he might've seen it, been able to stop it.

Now, though, maybe he could make up for it. As he stepped onto one of the metal gangs leading down to the finger piers, an even more elaborate fantasy than the one about money rose in his mind: rescuing Carolyn. Sam too.

And then maybe the million, which would come to him in some hazy but completely justifiable way that he couldn't yet imagine. As a reward, sort of.

Not that any of that made sense. The icy wind, high waves, and unfamiliar waters around here put any such notions into the realm of impossibility.

Yet here he was, walking out along a wooden dock section. Half a dozen smaller, plank-built finger piers branching off from it were each home to three or four boats floating alongside, all rafted together by more lines.

Mostly they were diesel-engined working vessels. He'd have had no notion of even how to get one of them loose from its neighbors, much less how to pilot one. Fifteen minutes aboard and he'd accomplish a s.h.i.+pwreck, most likely, get himself towed in by the Coast Guard, but nothing more.

That little whatever-it-was, there, though, all by itself at a finger pier of its own ...

He crouched to examine the craft. It was a homely little wooden vessel, broad and beamy, with a newish thirty-five-horse Evinrude and what appeared to be a pair of decent life jackets. The open boat had only a coffee can for bailing, too, which meant she didn't leak.

And ... there was a key hanging in the ignition. Don't even think about it, he told himself. Don't be an idiot, make things worse, get into trouble.

But he knew how to run this boat, how to start the engine and how to handle the tiller. The Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had owned one just like it up on Saranac Lake, and as a young teenager Chip had taken it out plenty of times, alone and with Sam Tiptree.

So, how could it be a problem? Why shouldn't he just hop in? Other than the fact that the boat didn't belong to him, that is, and there didn't seem to be anyone around here to ask if he could borrow or rent it.

Hesitating, he scrutinized the craft more closely. Thick orange rubber gloves and what must be a chart folder wrapped in plastic were stashed under the boat's bow.

Not only that but the faintly visible dark line on the red plastic gas can stowed in the stern said there was plenty of fuel. Finally, there were oars set in decent oarlocks, so if worse came to worst he could always row.

Someone will stop you. And if not, someone will catch you. You can't just ...

But no one was even in sight. Looking around again, ready to jump back and stutter out an apology at the slightest hint of trouble, he stepped into the boat. It felt rea.s.suringly familiar, and no one shouted at him.

He sat and push-b.u.t.toned the ignition. The Evinrude fired up on the first try, with a low, confident rumble, and still no one made any protest.

He couldn't believe it. He wondered what it was like, living in a place where no one would steal a boat like this, where you could leave things out unlocked.

Or at any rate, no one but Chip would steal it... . He spared a mo ment to switch his music playlist. David Byrne and Brian Eno's "Strange Overtones" began coming out of his player, the electronic harmonies and a dreamy, faintly ominous vocal just strange enough to calm and energize him at the same time.

It sounded ... intelligent. Like not everyone in the world was stupid and brutal.

Listening, Chip huffed a few breaths in and out. Maybe he would just sit here, and if anyone came along and yelled at him he would climb out, act like he was just some dope who didn't know any better.

But even as he thought about this, he was already getting up, shedding his topcoat and pulling on one of the life vests with its thick canvas straps and heavy-gauge metal buckles, and moving forward toward the gear in the bow. Hat, gloves, charts-rapidly he sorted through all the stuff and decided what to do with it.

He put the hat and gloves on. They wouldn't keep him warm forever, but-But what? a voice demanded suddenly in Chip's head. Just what the h.e.l.l are you planning to do here, pal?

Got an idea? Or are you just muddling stupidly along with no plan at all, as usual?

Chip didn't know the answer to the questions that the voice in his head kept asking. He did notice, though-and not for the first time, actually; he'd had quite a lot of interior monologue going on lately-that the voice sounded like Carolyn's.

He thought that if you wanted a critical voice, hers was the one to use. Harsh, nasal, and much like the cry of the seagulls now cl.u.s.tering on the breakwater ...

What a mean thing to think, he scolded himself. He squelched the unkind comparison, atoning for it with the knowledge that he would have given plenty to hear Carolyn's voice for real right now.

But for the first time since he'd discovered that she was gone, he noticed also that he didn't have that scary, untethered feeling, like a balloon whose string someone had let go of. Here in the wooden boat that he was about to steal- Borrow, he corrected himself. I'm bringing it back- Here, he still didn't know what had happened to Carolyn or what to do about it. But he knew how to do something, and he had to, or he would go nuts.

And this was it. So he would go out there and cast his eye around. After all, from what little he knew, it seemed logical that both Carolyn and Sam might've been taken away by water, and that they might even have been taken together.

Sam's abandoned bike, Roger Dodd's guilty admissions, and Eastport Police Chief Bob Arnold's report of a stranger on the breakwater last night, one who'd used a fright mask to scare away potential witnesses and who might briefly have stolen a car-There must've been one when Carolyn disappeared, Chip thought. There'd be few other ways to make her vanish right off the street like that, so suddenly and silently, other than by bundling her into a vehicle. He pulled the chart envelope open and unfolded the chart.

Pa.s.samaquoddy Bay, it said, and at the number of tightly packed curving lines drawn on it, he paused in dismay.

Channels, ledges, ridges, and peaks ...

That wasn't a bay out there. It was a mountain range with a thin layer of water on top of it. There were a million things in it that a boat could hit, all made of granite.

And to judge by the speed of the chunks of driftwood and clumps of seaweed scooting along atop it, the currents must be murder.

You could die out there, warned the voice in his head.

Because this wasn't Saranac. If he got in trouble, the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't be calling out the cavalry, or a mechanic to fix things if the engine should fail.

Not that the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d ever had done any such thing, but Chip had depended on the marine mechanic in Saranac more than once, when the outboard had suddenly c.r.a.pped out. And there were a dozen other things Chip should be doing on land, anyway.

Calling Siobhan, and possibly Carolyn's parents. Keeping Sam Tiptree's mother company, maybe finding a photograph of Carolyn so the police could ...

But he couldn't imagine what to say to Carolyn's editor or to her parents, either, even if he did get in touch with them.

Hi there, just wanted to let you know your girl's been s.n.a.t.c.hed by a killer. ...

No, he couldn't call them. Not yet. A sick, drowning feeling swept over him. And there was a picture of Carolyn on the back of every one of her books; the police could use that.

So n.o.body needed him. No one but Carolyn and a guy named Sam Tiptree, who was older now but who once upon a time had thought Chip was the greatest sports expert in the world, because he could tell an inside fastball from a high curve, and throw one.

He looked down at the chart again, and then back out at the choppy water. From here to the little island almost due north ... It wasn't far, really.

Only a couple of miles, and he'd be within sight of land all the way. If worse came to worst, he could stand up and yell, and wave his arms Someone would see him. And the idea of sitting around Sam's mother's house waiting for something to happen was unendurable.

He couldn't do it. It was as simple as that. So he would have a look, just go out there and have what Carolyn would have called a "peekaroonie" at the situation.

Do some research. And while he was at it, keep an eye peeled for a solitary buoy, right about-he squinted at the chart and then out at the waves-there. A buoy with money attached should be floating, right on that spot. Chip could just go out there and check.

As he imagined it, the only useful thing the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d had ever told Chip popped into his head. Standing in his paneled study looking out over the skyline, Central Park, and the gauze of light spreading to the north and west, the old man had sipped bourbon contemplatively and said: "Ninety percent of everything, boy. Ninety percent of this whole d.a.m.ned shootin' match is just showing up."

He'd knocked back the rest of his drink and glowered darkly. "And the rest," he'd slurred, "is pure dumb luck."