I hung my head with weariness. “Terrific. Can he do that?”
“Legally? I’m not sure; normally, the town attorney would check on something like that, but I seriously doubt Gary Nadeau’s going to stick his neck out.” She paused and then let out a short, mirthless laugh. “That’s an option, by the way; if it turns out the meeting’s illegal, you and Tony could try suing the town.”
I whistled at the mere thought. “That might be fun.”
She didn’t react.
We had been here before, Gail and I: Each of us could see the other’s viewpoint, often with empathy, but our responsibilities were frequently at odds. The stress of a mind going down a road not of the heart’s choosing could take its toll. It could even border on the absurd. I found it sadly disillusioning to stand next to an attractive, naked woman, under a sparkling-clean sheet of stars, only to ponder the coolness that kept us apart.
“I met a woman who’s acted as a kind of unofficial counselor to John with his drinking problem-someone he met at the Retreat.”
“What did she have to say?”
“That he’s been a closet drinker from the start, that he never did get on the wagon like we’d thought when we rehired him.”
“Jackson’s going to love that.”
“He may not find out about it. The point is, this woman thinks it plays in John’s favor. She says an alcoholic like him is so focused on getting his next drink that he doesn’t take time off to go running around torturing people.”
Gail didn’t seem impressed. “Well, if Luman doesn’t find out about it, it won’t matter, and if he does, he won’t care. He’ll just say it’s self-serving, psychological bullshit. I wouldn’t be able to argue the point; a lot of addicts are violent.”
I was a little irritated at her narrow view. “The point is, I think John didn’t do it; I don’t give a damn about Luman Jackson.”
“Maybe you should. John Woll isn’t the one who’s going to drag you over the coals.” She paused, reflecting on that very point. “Why has Jackson become so unstrung over this?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. Under different circumstances, I think I’d try to find out.”
“How do you mean, different circumstances?”
“I don’t have the manpower, and he has the spies, or at least some information pipeline I haven’t been able to track. Something came up this morning at a squad meeting which was handed to me on a plate by Brandt this afternoon, right through Luman Jackson.”
This time she showed some interest. “How could that have happened?”
“There was a rational explanation, but I don’t know if it was the truth.” I ran down the conversation I’d had with Brandt earlier.
She chewed that over for a while in silence. “I guess it’s not so hard to figure out why he called tomorrow’s meeting. I didn’t know he and Wentworth were acquainted, but he sure as hell toadies up to the higher class in this town. It’s the only time I ever see him bow and scrape; it’s a real stomach-turner, in fact.” She let out a long, deep sigh. “What a mess this is.”
I moved closer to her and placed my arm around her waist. She reciprocated and drew me close. I was filled with a sense of relief. Somehow, obliquely, we’d managed to clear the air. Knowing the tough times we’d survived, and the presumably grueling session we were to share in a few hours, I was particularly grateful for this hiatus. With so much general animosity and tension around us, I needed to know that our friendship was sound.
“Thank you, Gail.”
She turned and kissed me, her breast brushing my arm. “For what?”
I hesitated, trying to put it right, knowing it would fall short, and that it wouldn’t matter anyhow. “For your spirit.”
She patted my bare hip. “Come on, let’s stare up at the stars for a while.”
31
I had just been handed my mail, my phone messages, and the daily report by Maxine Paroddy through Dispatch’s freshly hung door when Tony Brandt left his office diagonally across the room and grabbed me on the way by.
“Ready for the slaughter?” He headed for the back stairs up to the second floor, where the selectmen held their meetings.
I was both trying to follow him and go through my correspondence, with more or less success. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee first.”
“No can do, unless they have some in there.” We walked down the upstairs hallway to the front of the building. Ahead of us, clustered in front of the doors leading to, respectively, the town manager’s office, the town attorney’s office, and the board of selectmen’s meeting room, were Tom Wilson, Gary Nadeau, and Brandt’s secretary, Judy. Off to one side was James Dunn, whose face looked like he was standing barefoot in manure.
Brandt swept by them as he had me earlier, marching toward the far-left door. “Hi, boys and girls.” By his tone and demeanor, he struck me as the happiest of Hannibal’s soldiers, off to conquer Rome. I just hoped the results weren’t the same.
He led the way into a large, newly redone room smelling of fresh paint, cut wood, and new carpeting. The back, from where we entered, was filled with metal folding chairs arranged in rows. Facing us, their backs against the sunlit windows, the five selectmen sat at a long semicircular table, looking like a half-baked imitation of the Supreme Court.
By instinct, we clustered in separate groups: Brandt, Judy, and I off to one side of the center aisle; Wilson and Nadeau to the other. Dunn stayed disdainfully in the rear, by the door, as if planning to leave discreetly as soon as the lights dimmed and the play began.
Indeed, the lighting was theatrical, coming mostly as it did from the windows. It forced us to squint slightly and made the faces of those across from us dark and slightly menacing. Brandt said something to Judy. She looked doubtful but, with a little more prodding, finally got to her feet and walked around to the back of the selectmen, lowering the blinds of each of the windows with a snap. Dunn, for his part, hit the switch by the door for the overhead lights. Suddenly, the room was bathed in bland, even, artificial light.
Luman Jackson, tall, hawk-like, and furiously scowling, twisted in his chair, hoping perhaps to burn Brandt’s emissary with the heat of his glare. It almost worked; the poor woman returned to Tony’s side looking diminished in stature.
Brandt merely smiled at Jackson. “Sorry. Hard to see.”
I noticed Gail was hiding her smile behind her hand.
Jackson was not amused and pointed at Judy. “What is she doing here? This is an executive session.”
“This is my secretary, Judith Levine. I invited her here to take a verbatim transcription of everything that’s said today.”
“We already have someone doing that.” He nodded toward the most recent member of the board, a pale-faced accountant named Orton, who was already scribbling furiously.
“Good,” was all Brandt answered.
There was a pause, during which I guessed Brandt was supposed to give Judy her marching orders. He just stared at Jackson, waiting for the meeting to begin. Judy looked like one of the vestal virgins about to be thrown on the fire. I seriously doubted that any notes she took following this would be readable.
Jackson tried a more direct approach: “I’m requesting that you ask your secretary to leave before we begin, Chief Brandt.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Chairman, but thank you all the same.”
The silence was thundering. I thought I could hear my watch ticking on my wrist. Mrs. Morse, who’d been ineffectually holding her chairman’s gavel from the start, slowly leaned over toward Jackson and whispered into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but his mind apparently did. He nodded once curtly and announced as if nothing had happened, “This meeting is now in session.”
Gail cleared her throat gently and pointed delicately at Mrs. Morse. Jackson looked from one to the other with irritation and then flushed slightly. Indeed, Mrs. Morse, no shrinking violet herself, looked ready to use the gavel on Jackson’s head.