“I don’t care what you think of me. I know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.”
“You care what your family thinks of you. Those FBI agents sneaking around town, checking into your family’s business so they can give your sister the stamp of approval she needs. The local cops. Who’s that skinny guy from the state police? Lou Beeler. He’d like to know what I know about you. Get your nuts into the wringer. Find out what you were up to the day Chris Browning was murdered.”
Linc felt himself flush but refused to let Mattie see he was getting to him. “Having fun, aren’t you?”
“Oh, sure. I like cutting worms in half in the mud.”
Linc felt his stomach roll over at the thought of cut-up worms. “You’re lucky I’m not a killer. If I were, I wouldn’t be paying you to keep your mouth shut. I’d have you buried in a deep, dark hole where no one would ever find you.”
Mattie wasn’t the least bit rattled. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a killer or not. You’re a snot-nosed kid who stole from your family’s friends. Even if you didn’t break into Chris’s house and hit his wife over the head, steal her necklace, you gave whoever did the idea.”
“A copycat,” Linc said. “Except that doesn’t make sense. With all the rich people on this island in the summer, why target the Brownings?”
“Wedding money, maybe.”
“There was none.”
“Doesn’t mean the thief knew that or-” Mattie rolled onto his knees, digging with his bare hands into a tangle of greenery and roots. Linc wasn’t good with his flora and fauna. He had no idea what kind of plant it was. Without looking up, Mattie said, “Do you have my money?”
“It’s under a flowerpot next to your bicycle.”
“All of it?”
Linc hesitated. He’d done a cash advance on his credit card, cleaned out his bank accounts, hauled a bunch of stuff no one would miss to Ellsworth, the closest real town, and pawned it. He’d debated swiping a watch from his father, getting into his or Grace’s cash. But he hadn’t gone that far.
“Damn it, Linc-”
“No. I don’t have all of it. Two thousand. It’s all I could manage without drawing attention to myself. I can get more in a few days.”
Mattie sat on his butt in the wet grass and leaned back, spots of blood where he’d nicked his mud-encrusted hands. He’d worked in the rain. He wouldn’t care. “I don’t have a lot of patience left.”
“It won’t do either of us any good if I’m caught. My father’s not stupid. He’ll ask questions-he’ll see through me-”
“All right, all right. We don’t want Daddy getting all suspicious and pissy. Just get it done. I want my money. I deserve it.”
Linc could feel his blood roaring into his face, pounding in his ears. He noticed a scratcher lying in the grass and pictured it embedded in Mattie’s head, silencing him forever. But he couldn’t picture himself doing the embedding.
It had to be easier just to shoot someone, he thought. The coward’s way out. Just close your eyes and pull the trigger. If the target wasn’t moving, it wasn’t that hard to do.
He couldn’t picture himself shooting someone, either.
“I’ll do what I can to get you the rest as soon as possible.” Linc straightened, aware of Mattie’s amusement, and realized how frightened and sickened he must look. “Then it’s over. You can threaten me until you choke. There’ll be no more money, not from me.”
“I just want the ten grand. I’ll keep my word. Your secrets will be safe with me.”
His secrets. What did a creep like MattieYoung know about his secrets?
Linc saw the sun breaking through the clouds, felt a cold breeze against his back. Why did he want to hear Mattie say he didn’t believe he’d killed Chris? Why did it matter?
He gave the scratcher a little push with his toe. “Like I said, I know what I’ve done and what I haven’t done.”
“Yeah?” Linc grinned at him, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. “I know what you’ve done and haven’t done, too. Best to keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER 17
Sean and Ian Alden scrambled out of Owen’s truck and onto his rain-soaked deck. He appreciated their energy after a full day of camp. Doyle had called him on his cell phone, while Owen was having iced tea and chowder with Abigail, watching the skies clear under a yellow umbrella at a table overlooking Bar Harbor’s famous waterfront. They’d never made it to the academy building. Doyle was bogged down and needed Owen to pick up the boys and keep an eye on them until evening.
By the time Katie got back, Owen figured Doyle would have worked out how to manage without her.
Sean bent down and picked up papers-something-propped up against the French door. He made a face. “Gross. Owen, is she one of the people you couldn’t rescue in time?”
Ian leaned into his brother and took a peek. “Oh, yuck. She’s dead.”
Owen leaped onto the deck. The sun sparkled on the small puddles left by the rain, and he could hear the tide washing onto the rocks, seagulls, the engine of a far-off lobster boat. Not wanting to panic the boys, he said carefully, “What do you have there?”
“Pictures,” Sean said. “Aren’t they yours?”
“No. Let me see, okay?”
Sean handed him a clear plastic sleeve, dotted with raindrops. Inside were at least two, maybe more, eight-by-ten prints. Owen held the plastic by the edges, but it had been sitting out on his deck in the rain, Sean had handled it-any trace evidence would likely be long gone by now.
The top picture came into focus. His mind resisted taking in what he was seeing.
Doe…
“Owen?” Ian’s voice was low, panicked. “Owen, what’s wrong?”
She was lying on a blanket on the dock where the Brownings had taken her and rescue workers had tried to revive her. Only his sister-her lifeless body-was in the shot, as if she were out there all alone.
Strands of her wet hair covered her face.
Owen pictured the rest of the scene. His parents, holding each other in shock and grief. His grandmother, the indomitable Polly, her hands clasped in prayer. Chris and his grandfather, talking to the rescue workers and police, explaining what had happened. The Coopers, horrified, trying not to get in the way.
He didn’t remember seeing Mattie Young.
Sean froze, staring up at Owen. “Do you want me to call my dad?”
“It’s okay.” He forced himself to make eye contact with the two boys. “I need to look at the other picture in here. Hang on.”
The plastic sleeve had no clasp or other kind of seal, and he was able to slip his fingers inside and lift out the print that was under the one of Doe. But he didn’t need to take it all the way out. He recognized the rocks, the tall pines on the waterfront below the remains of his family’s original Mt. Desert house.
And he recognized the woman in the picture.
And himself.
“Abigail,” he whispered. “Hell.”
He had his arms around her, holding her back as the police arrived and she tried again to go to her husband.
She’d fought him with all the strength she had.
She was so young, in the grips of such terrible grief.
Ian gulped in a breath. “Owen.” The boy sobbed. “Owen, what-”
“Easy.” He slipped the pictures back into the plastic sleeve. “Let’s go inside.”
Whoever had left the pictures hadn’t broken into his house. He unlocked the door, but kept the boys close as they went inside. He put them on the high stools at the breakfast bar, then dialed Abigail’s number, letting it ring.
No answer.
He hung up. He had no idea what she’d done after he’d left her in Bar Harbor.
He dialed the local police station and spoke quickly to one of Doyle’s officers, who promised he’d send someone out there and get hold of the chief.
“Be sure to tell him his sons are fine,” Owen said.