That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. For the weeks leading up to that Fourth, the plan was for him and Zevon to meet Ginny Connolly and Mary Kate O’Hara at the park and for the four of them to head out to Humpback Point. Just the four of them and no one pretended they were headed out there to watch the fireworks from Stiles. They’d kept it pretty quiet. The girls were sixteen, and though no one in Paradise made a big deal about statutory rape back then, they all agreed it was best not to advertise. He’d scored half an ounce of good weed and taken bottles of Southern Comfort and Jack Daniel’s from his dad’s liquor cabinet. He’d even paid Dragoa twenty bucks to use his rowboat. It was all perfect until Zevon backed out that morning. Fucking Zevon had ruined everything and paid for it with his life. But not even that sacrifice could undo the old blood. Now, as he walked to the maintenance shed, he knew there would be more blood. There would have to be.
And here they were again, the three of them. They had tried very hard not to ever be seen in public together for fear of anyone in town piecing together the events of that night. In spite of the fact that it was pretty clear early on, after the police interviews, that both girls had kept the secret, they could never be one hundred percent certain. They had worried most about Molly Burke. Although they were seniors and didn’t know any of the girls very well, they’d heard that Molly Burke and Mary Kate were best friends. Dragoa, the stupid hothead, had suggested killing Molly, but had been voted down. They had another way of keeping tabs on Molly. He convinced John and Alexio that if Molly knew anything, she would tell Zevon and that Zevon would tell him. Of course, in the end, the joke was on him. He was the one to confess their sins to Zevon.
“Did you hear what Stone said on the TV today?” Dragoa said almost before he’d stepped fully into the maintenance shed. “They got our DNA, maybe.”
“I heard.”
“They found hair and fiber samples from that goddamned picnic blanket you made us wrap them in,” Millner said. “I told you to just chuck ’em in the freakin’ hole. I mean, jeez, they was already dead. What the hell did it matter?”
“It’s twenty-five years too late for second-guessing, guys. Besides, we would have had to get rid of the blanket anyway. If we burned it, we would have attracted attention. If we tossed it in Sawtooth Creek, we risked having it traced back to the building we buried them in. And don’t forget, that blanket is the thing that helped us carry their bodies without getting covered in their blood. Sometimes there aren’t good choices, just less bad ones.”
“They know there was more than one of us,” Millner said.
“They don’t know. They think it’s a possibility. Very different things.”
“Cut it out, man,” Dragoa said. “You heard that reporter from Boston. She said that because one of the girls was stabbed and that the other had a fractured skull that it meant there had to be more than one killer.”
“She said it suggested there might be, not that there was. Jesse didn’t confirm it. He said he will follow the evidence.”
Millner laughed. “Stone always says that crap. Do you think they really found all that evidence like Stone is saying?”
“Well, maybe if Alexio had been able to control his appetites better. Maybe if he didn’t stab Mary Kate so many times, there wouldn’t have been so much blood and a need for—”
“I was drunk.”
“You’re always drunk.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Dragoa said, charging at him. “I’ll kill you, you mother—”
Millner grabbed him, clamping his arms around the fisherman. “Relax, buddy. Relax. It don’t matter now.”
“Johnny’s right. I’m sorry. None of that matters now. The only thing we can do is wait it out.”
“We been waiting it out for twenty-five years,” Millner said.
“Then a few more days won’t matter.”
Dragoa didn’t like it. “Easy enough for you to say.”
“You’re wrong, Alexio. It’s not any easier for me. I’ll see what I can find out and I’ll keep in touch same way as always.”
There was no handshaking when he left. There never was. As he walked quickly back to his vehicle under cover of darkness, his mind was churning as it had on that beautiful summer night all those years ago.
52
Jesse was angry to see how few people came to the wake for Ginny and Maxie. It was held at the same funeral home where Mary Kate O’Hara had been laid out. Along with Jesse and Molly, only Al Franzen, Stu Cromwell, Bill Marchand, and an old priest from Sacred Heart had turned out. Jesse could hear the excuses in his head, the stuff about how small towns dealt with their shame and their secrets. But today he wasn’t in the mood for excuses or for rationalizations. There was one person’s absence in particular that bothered him: Alexio Dragoa. He was nowhere in sight. Given Jesse’s suspicions about the fisherman and Dragoa’s confrontation with Maxie at the bar, he was sure Dragoa would turn up. Maybe at the church, Jesse thought, like with Mary Kate.
Molly elbowed Jesse. “That’s so Maxie.”
“What is?”
“Her coffin... the lid is open. God, even in death the woman is vain.”
“Don’t blame her. Check out Franzen. It’s his doing. I’m sure of it.”
Al Franzen, looking frail and distraught, had moved a chair to within a foot or two of the coffin.
“He really loved her,” Jesse said. “He fed off her energy. No matter what you thought of Maxie, she was full of life.”
Molly resisted the urge to argue with him.
Marchand leaned over to Jesse, said, “Sorry about yesterday. I don’t enjoy playing the heavy.”
“I figured the warning was coming. Might as well have heard it from you.”
“You going over to the church?”
“Uh-huh. You?”
“Can’t,” Marchand said. “Business. Sometimes that earning your daily bread gets in the way.”
“Tell me about it.”
Marchand patted Jesse on the shoulder. “Again, sorry about yesterday.”
About five minutes later, the insurance broker knelt down by both coffins, mouthed silent prayers, crossed himself, and slipped out.
With all eyes on Marchand, Jesse walked over to the back row, where Stu Cromwell was seated. Cromwell looked in worse shape than Al Franzen. Cromwell was in his sixties, but he was one of those people who, because of their energy, was kind of ageless. But the newspaperman looked every bit his age that morning.
“Another rough night with Martha?” Jesse said.
“What? Huh?” Cromwell sounded as if he had been very far away. “Yeah, it’s rough. She’s in so much pain.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Following up. The missing cabbie is front-page news today, or haven’t you seen the paper?”
Jesse nodded. “I’ve seen it.”
“You seem POed, Chief.”
“There’s no one here.”
Cromwell said, “After our talks, that surprises you?”
“Disappoints me.”
“I’m a newspaperman, so I’m cynical by nature. My view is that if you give anyone ample opportunity, they will disappoint you. The people of Paradise are no better or worse than anywhere else.”