My legs shook and my stomach clenched. I pulled the glasses off, forced a swallow and heard indecipherable whispers breaking over the trees and across the dirt lot. They swirled around me, and I told myself not to be afraid, that this was all in my head, but the fear refused to subside. My mind told me to run, to get into the car and drive away from there without ever coming back. Instead, I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes and held them shut. After a few seconds I slowly opened them.
The whispers had stopped. Or maybe they’d never really been there at all. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter as much now.
I climbed back into the car and headed toward the city proper.
After nursing a cup of coffee at a local diner for over an hour, I drove around New Bedford for another thirty-odd minutes until I’d summoned the nerve necessary to return to Milner Avenue.
It was nearly eleven when I pulled over in front of her cottage a second time. Everything looked the same, until I realized the front door was open. There were no other cars around so I assumed she’d either been sleeping when I’d come before or someone had dropped her off in the interim.
I stepped from the car and scanned the trees and brush. Visible waves of heat rose from the dirt to distort the landscape, but nothing else moved.
I removed my sunglasses, tossed them onto the dash then walked toward the house with a purposely-unassuming gait. At the screen door I hesitated and craned my neck in an attempt to see deeper into the cottage, but due to the lack of light within, it was impossible. Both of the front windows were also open and protected only by screens. The house was quiet but for a subtle thudding sound from somewhere nearby. I knocked on the screen door but no one appeared or answered, so I listened more carefully.
The thudding was coming from behind the house.
As I turned the corner I saw a large throw rug draped over the clothesline. Behind it, someone was hitting it, knocking dust free with a broom. The thudding stopped rather suddenly, and from behind the rug a woman emerged.
Her hair was cropped short and spiked in a style that made it difficult to tell if it was meant to look disheveled or if she just hadn’t combed it in a while. Hair that had been auburn in the photograph was now jet-black. She looked physically smaller than the photograph suggested, far thinner and considerably older. The woman in the photograph had been no more than early twenties; this person was early thirties. I raised a hand to my eyes to shield the sun so I could get a clearer look at her, but still couldn’t be certain it was the same person.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but are you Claudia?”
She slipped under the clothesline, the broom still in her hands. She wore an old shirt with faint black and white checks she’d only bothered to button to the middle of her chest. The shirt arms had been hacked away with scissors, leaving behind strings and strands dangling awkwardly from sockets where sleeves had been. Heavily worn Levis and a pair of scuffed black boots rounded out the ensemble. Her left ear was pierced several times but her right sported only a single small hoop. Her complexion was pale, her eyes tired, and it looked as if this was the first time she’d seen sunshine in quite a while. She wore heavy eyeliner but no other makeup.
She sized me up a moment without responding.
“I’m looking for Claudia Brewster.”
“You a cop?” she asked, her voice whispery and a bit deep for such a petite woman.
“No, I’m—”
“Then you’re trespassing. Fuck off.”
“Are you Claudia Brewster?”
“Brewer.”
“Brewer then.”
“What do you want?”
“My name is—”
“What do you want?” She let the broom rest on the ground and leaned on it, crossing her hands over the end of the knob. I noticed small black tattoos just below the first joint of each of her fingers. Each was different—a star, a crescent moon, an ankh, a pentagram—but inked in the same bland, amateurish style.
“I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
I wiped my hand on my jeans and offered it to her. She glanced at it with disinterest. “I’m Alan Chance,” I said. She gave no reaction. “Bernard was a friend of mine.”
She maintained her distant cool. “Who?”
“Bernard Moore.”
“Never heard of him.”
“I’m not here to play games, lady. Bernard’s dead. He hanged himself.”
After a moment she nodded, face expressionless. “I know.”
“I found this in with his things after he died.” I pulled the photograph from my pocket and held it out for her. “I’ve been through hell trying to find you.”
“You wouldn’t know Hell if you were burning in it.”
The deadpan tone of her voice gave birth to a tide of discomfort—if not outright fear—that fired through me like electrical current. As it dissipated, I pushed the photograph at her again.
This time she reached out, took the picture and studied it a while. The quiet returned until she said, “That was taken years ago. Another life. Long… long fucking time ago.”
“You can keep it if you want,” I said.
“I don’t know what he was doing with it, that was taken years before I met him. An old… somebody I knew back then took it.”
“I figured you gave it to him.”
“Maybe I did. Maybe he stole it. Who knows? A lot of life’s a blur, know what I mean?” She tucked the photograph into her back pocket. “So is that it, you just came here to give me that?”
“I came here for answers.”
“If you got this far you already have them,” she said.
“Some. Not all.”
We stared at each other a while. Her eyes were disconcerting. They had once been rather beautiful—like in the photo—but now looked dull and old beyond her years, soulless. “I need to know what you know.”
“About what?”
“About Bernard. About what he was involved in and about what in the name of Christ is going on.”
She ran her tongue slowly along her bottom lip, moistening it. “Christ ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
“I need to know what you know,” I said again.
“No you don’t. You want to know. There’s a difference.”
“Strange things have been happening since Bernard’s death.”
“I bet.”
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“With all that’s happening. I need to find the truth.”
“Truth’s overrated.” Claudia swung the broom up behind her head until it rested behind her neck, then slung an arm over either end the way James Dean had held a rifle in that famous pose from the film Giant. Even in her own space her movements were telling, her body language indicative of someone for whom most of life had been spent in situations where she was unwelcome, made to feel self-conscious or didn’t want to be. At once a longtime victim and battle weary survivor, she possessed an inherent toughness and a deliberately honed exterior that left no doubt about the authenticity of either. At close range, it was easy to believe she had likely been victimized in more ways than I could ever imagine, but she was far from a helpless waif. She looked as strong and potentially dangerous as she did pained, just as capable of victimizing someone else, if need be. She seemed to me the kind of person who would kill if cornered, and perhaps already had at some point.
I stood there awkwardly. “Will you help me or not?”
“What do you want from me?” She shook her head. “I don’t even know who you are and I’m supposed to just—”