Lamentation

LAMENTATION

A NOVEL

JOE CLIFFORD

Copyright © 2014 by Joe Clifford

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work offiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-133-1

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing Longboat Key, Florida

www.oceanviewpub.com
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For my brothers, Josh and Jason

I would like to thank my lovely wife, Justine, who gives me the time and space to create—and who later lends the critical eye to make my books better; and my son, Holden, for making me believe in the better parts of me.

Thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Kracht—a giant teddy bear can’t begin to show my appreciation; and to Frank, Pat, Bob, Emily, David, and everyone on the Oceanview team for taking a chance on me.

Thanks to the crime and mystery writing community. It never fails to amaze that the folks who write about murder, mayhem, and worse are, to a person, some of the kindest and most generous people I’ve ever met.

And, finally, thanks to my family, fans, and readers of my work. Your support is why I do this.

LAMENTATION

I had ducked inside the pantry to see what else we could sell when I tripped over a cord of wood and snared the back of my work coat on an old, rusty nail. The sharp point tore through the thick padding and ripped a hole in my long johns, all the way through my undershirt. I hurried to the sink and peeled off the layers. Just a surface cut. Thankfully, unlike the heat and power, the water was still on. I dabbed at the wound. Last thing I needed was lockjaw. I hadn’t had a tetanus shot in twelve years. The estate clearing business was big in Ashton, and my boss, Tom Gable, a good guy, but it’s not like the gig came with health insurance.

All afternoon I’d been up at Ben Saunders’ place, a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse in the foothills, cherry picking through the dead man’s belongings, loading the U-Haul for trips to flea markets and swap shops in southern New England. Saunders had lived alone and was a packrat. The cancer finally got him around Thanksgiving. Most of his stuff was junk. A dumpster sat in the snow-covered driveway overflowing with waterlogged pads of fiberglass, chunks of splintered wood, jagged shards of glass, trash bags jam-packed with leftovers that didn’t quite translate to dollars and cents. I was almost done, and I’d be glad for the day to end. If I wrapped up soon enough, I’d have time to shoot across town to catch Jenny before she put our son to bed. I hadn’t seen him all week.

Out the kitchen window, thick, black storm clouds roiled over Lamentation Mountain, churning like the gears to a violent machine, steamrolling the summit and sucking all light from the landscape, pastures and stonewalls shrouded in dense fields of leaden smoke. Cold
winds rustled through broken windows. The flapping insulation sounded like a plastic bag held out a speeding car on the highway.

The big, empty farmhouse smelled of abandon. Night was settling, and the snow began to fall heavier. It had been one of the worst winters on record. Certainly, the worst since the accident.

Twenty years had passed but my parents’ crash felt closer to last week. I stared in the direction of Lamentation Bridge, even though I couldn’t see much through the evening gloaming, freezing my ass off, making no effort to get redressed. I knew that somewhere in the dark lay the exact spot where their brakes had failed, and they plunged into the frigid gray water of Echo Lake; the night everything had changed for my older brother, Chris, and me. I could feel death’s presence lurking the entire week I’d been working there, a pall hanging over the place. It was the monkey on my back. The elephant in the room. The crazy little bird chirping in my ear.

The headlights from Tom’s truck fanned up the gravel drive, slicing through snowy pines and shining into my eyes.

I pulled my ripped shirt over my head and bundled back up, then headed outside to greet him.

Tom climbed down from the cab and lumbered over, broad shoulders curled, hands jammed in pockets. I could hear my untied work boots crunching frozen dirt and snow as harsh winds raced through the valley.

“Almost done,” I shouted above the din of engine and storm, nodding back at the old farmhouse. “Maybe one and a half, two hours left.”

Tom gestured for me to follow him back to his idling Ford F-350, which rumbled like a washing machine stuck with an uneven load. We hoisted ourselves into the warm cab, welcoming the hot air blasting through the vents.

I pulled the Marlboros from my coat and cupped my hands to light one. The radio softly hummed. The Allman Brothers, “Sweet Melissa.” That song had been playing the first time I kissed Jenny in Steve Ryba’s basement back in high school. Always hit me hard. Tom offered me the other half of a ham and cheese from the Gas ’n’ Go, but I shook him off. Last time I’d made the mistake of eating a gas station sandwich, I spent half the night with my face stuck in the toilet.

Tom reached in his coat and passed along an envelope.

By its heft, I could tell that there had to be at least a grand in there.

Tom was a good boss and treated me well. But the nature of estate clearing meant nothing was permanent, and the brutal winters often made it difficult to transport merchandise. Which frequently spelled downtime for me—downtime I didn’t want. A thousand bucks said we were looking at another one of those times.

“That should hold you over a few,” he said.

“If it doesn’t,” I said, tucking the envelope into my coat, “that’s not your problem.”

“Yeah, it is. You’re the best guy I got, Jay. I hate doing this to you, but everything slows down this time of year. You know that.”

I nodded.

“Might have another place up in Berlin. But that won’t be for at least three weeks. Finding somewhere to sell the shit, that’s another matter.” He forced a laugh. “Helluva place to run antiques.” His frost-burned cheeks winced a grin through the bushy beard that covered two-thirds of his face.

I gazed out the window. Distant lights flickered on the range like fireflies in a jar in the summer, as families retreated safely inside to batten down hatches and weather the latest storm.

I made for the handle. “Still a few things inside I have to pack. I’ve got a pair of floodlights in my truck I can use. I want to wrap this up for you today.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tom said. “I’ll take care of it.”

I didn’t like the way he looked when he said that. Because I knew what was coming next. I’d been getting that look since my mom and dad had died, ever since my brother had turned into what he’d become. It spelled a long night of aggravation.

“Turley’s looking for you,” he said.

He didn’t need to add the next part, but he did anyway. “They got Chris down at the station.”

Lamentation Mountain was a misnomer, since it wasn’t actually one mountain but a whole range of them, divided by the main thoroughfare of the Desmond Turnpike, which ran south all the way to Concord and north across the border into Montreal. There were no roads out of town to the east, and the only route west traversed the treacherous Ragged Pass, an icy deathtrap most of the year.

The Ashton Police Station was deep in the flats, across Camel’s Back and past Axel Rod Road. As I descended the ridge, snow dumped in big clumps, glopping on everything like wet, sticky rice, obscuring traffic lights and stop signs. The sporadic streetlamps couldn’t make a dent in the dark, which made the short ride take a lot longer than it should have. Not that I was in any rush to get there.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d picked up my asshole brother over the years. Shoplifting at the Price Chopper. Dealing at the TC Truck Stop. Garden-variety vagrancy. We were a small town, and people rarely pressed charges, but, still, it was embarrassing. Usually, they’d stick my big brother in a tiny cell for a night or two, then release him to me. Who else were they going to call? Chris was Ashton’s village idiot. And he was my problem.

The police station was brand-spanking new, part of the recently remodeled Town Centre. A few years ago, Ashton placed a measure on the ballot to allocate more police funds. Lombardi Construction got behind it, so it passed without a fight. Why wouldn’t Lombardi support the measure? They’d be building the damned thing. With Michael Lombardi in the state senate and Adam Lombardi running the construction
business, the family was the closest thing to royalty we had. Their dad, Gerry, even coached the high school wrestling team, on which Chris used to star back in the day, and the old man served on the board of UpStart, a mentoring program for at-risk boys throughout northern New Hampshire. Whenever he’d had too much to drink, Chris invariably would evoke the slight of having been left off the All-State team as the reason for his downfall. My brother never ran out of injustices to blame.

Besides the precinct, the renovated Centre also included a senior living facility, the library, and town hall. In a town of under three thousand, adding extra squad cars and a new holding cell smacked of overkill. But the drug epidemic up here was getting out of hand. At least that had been the posturing by local media. A recent poll in the
Herald
claimed that over half of high school students had admitted to trying some narcotic before tenth grade, if nothing more than popping the occasional painkiller from mom’s stash. According to the paper, drug use had become “a blight and a scourge on the community.” That may’ve been hyperbole, but it didn’t take much to put the fear of God into God-fearing people.

Not that there wasn’t a drug problem, especially at the truck stop, which was where most of those people seemed to congregate, setting up shop next door at the Maple Motor Inn, or in one of the sleazy motels along the Desmond Turnpike, waiting for their welfare checks on the first and fifteenth of every month. I’d seen firsthand the drug problem in Ashton, but giving cops shiny new toys to play with wasn’t going to change anything; people were going to do whatever the hell they wanted to do.

When I stepped into the police station lobby, the bright fluorescents stabbed the backs of my eyeballs, and the jacked-up heat gave me an instant headache. Remnants from the holidays adorned the office—homemade Frosty the Snowman cards from Willard Elementary, half a sleigh bell streamer hanging from an eave—even though Christmas had been over a month ago. The septic smells of warmed microwaved foods overpowered the small space and only made my head hurt worse.

I clomped my boots on the mat by the door, drawing the attention of Claire Sizemore, who’d graduated with my brother, ten years ahead of me. She was the only one in the office, sitting at a desk in a neat row of three by the window, doing a sudoku puzzle or something. She gave me a sheepish wave and hefted herself to her feet. Her dull, brown hair frizzed in a do-it-yourself dye job, and her languid eyes drooped like maple syrup from a freshly tapped tree. Each time I saw Claire, I’d recall the time I caught my brother fingering her behind the fried dough booth at the Chesterton Bazaar.