The Candidate (14 page)

AS ERICA RIDES BACK TO South Station, she tries to put the pieces together.
How to Conduct Warfare of the Mind.
Is it a manual of brainwashing? Does it detail techniques to gain control of a victim's mind, to turn him into an automaton who will do what he is told, no matter how evil?

If so, was this mode of warfare, were these techniques, practiced on Ortiz? Vander saw him and Celeste chanting some call-and-response incantation in Chinese. And Celeste was in the lead, the dominant player. And what about Markum? And Tuttle? Is there some kind of conspiracy behind it all? Tuttle lived in Woodstock, New York, about three hours from Boston . . .

Erica leans forward and says to the driver, “Can you take me to the nearest car rental, please?”

As Erica drives west on the Mass Pike through the intermittent thunderstorms, she calls Moy and asks her to find Tuttle's address. It feels good to be alone, in a car, a compact car, driving, moving toward some
answers. They recognized her at the Avis counter and wanted to give her a free upgrade, but she declined—she likes the ease and feel of smaller cars.

That's one of the ironies of being rich and famous—people are always throwing swag at you, upgrades and perks and gift bags filled with two-hundred-dollar sunglasses and Dr. Dre headphones, and at every turn there's a sumptuous lobster-laden buffet. Being rich and famous, of course, you can easily afford it all, while those who really need help are stretching their food-stamp budgets to feed their families and haunting the Goodwill to clothe them.

Erica reaches New York State. She drives over the mighty Hudson, wide and slow and serpentine. She remembers her day on Josh's boat. He's lively and warm and a little goofy, but she senses a rock-solid integrity under his boyish locks, and when he ran his fingers down her cheek after she got that troubling call from Vander, she was touched by his sincerity and concern. They've spoken a few times since and have a tentative date set for tomorrow, sans kids.

As for Greg, they haven't spoken since that terrible night when he de facto admitted to an affair with Laurel Masson. Of course she's burning with curiosity about its length and intensity. Was it a one-night tipsy fall into the sack? Or is it ongoing and developing into something serious? Or is it somewhere in between—a casual affair between two busy adults? Her feelings would change depending on where it fell on the scale, but the hurt is still so fresh, so raw, that Erica prefers just to push the whole mess out of her mind, out of her heart. Well, she can try anyway.

She drives south on the New York State Thruway and then exits and heads west to the village of Woodstock. The sky has cleared and she's charmed by the town's ragtag, albeit upscale, hippie vibe—there's a spontaneous musical celebration on the village green, complete with drummers and guitar players, latter-day hippie chicks, pony-tailed middle-aged men and near-naked toddlers all dancing with abandon, the scene watched over by day trippers clutching bags filled with boutique
scores. It's all borderline satirical—spruce things up around the edges and this could be Hippieland, a new attraction at Disney World.

Moy got her Tuttle's address—it's right in the village—and so Erica decides to park in a town lot and walk. She puts on her shades and a cap and savors strolling unrecognized through the colorful streets. She makes her way to a neighborhood tucked away behind the village green, in a hollow beside a roaring stream. The houses are Arts-and-Craftsy, small but charming in a whimsical way. She finds Tuttle's house, which is small and neglected. The tiny front yard looks like the toy department at the Salvation Army, and there's a rusting wind chime that Erica finds deeply depressing.

It's almost a month since the murder-suicide, and the story has lost some of its urgency. No matter how big a story is, the world always moves on. Erica hopes Tuttle's widow, Amy, will have been out of the limelight long enough to gain some perspective. She was all over the news in the days following the crime, and she came across as lost, defensive, and overwhelmed. Erica thought about calling first, but decided a surprise visit would up the odds of getting unfiltered answers. She knocks on the front door. There's no response. She can hear the sound of a television from inside, so she knocks again.

“Yeah, coming.” The door opens and Amy Tuttle stands there. She's in her midtwenties and looks wan and exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and long scraggly hair, wearing a thin shift, barefoot. She takes one look at Erica and says, “Well, shut up, look who's here. Where's the camera crew?”

“It's just me,” Erica says, extending her hand.

Amy Tuttle looks down at the proffered hand and finally shakes it. Hers is damp and limp. “What do you want?”

“Just a few minutes of your time, if possible. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about your husband.”

Amy tilts her head and narrows her eyes; for a moment a little smile plays at the corners of her mouth and Erica can tell that she enjoys the attention. Always a good sign for a reporter.

“Come on in.”

Erica follows Amy into the house, which is so small it looks like it was built for a family of gnomes. The décor is over-the-hill-hippie—lots of low furniture, messy pillows, and swirly posters. Clearly none of her husband's life insurance payout has come through yet.

Amy plops down on what looks like a huge beanbag. “The kids are in school. Well, preschool.”

Erica sits on a straight-back chair—it wobbles. “First of all, I'm very sorry about everything you and your family have gone through.”

“It sucks.”

“How are you and your children doing?”

Amy scoops up her unruly mane in her fingers and holds it over her head a moment before letting it cascade down. “We're getting by.” Then she smiles. “I guess you could say I'm a lady-in-waiting.”

“As you know, there's been very little progress in the Buchanan bombing case. I'm trying to find out why your husband did what he did.”

“He did it to take care of me and Lucy and Corey. We've been living on mac 'n' cheese for three years.”

“Most people would be incapable of committing murder and then suicide, no matter how much they wanted to take care of their family.”

“You didn't know Peter . . .” Her voice softens. “He was a seeker. He didn't care about the material plane. Like jobs and stuff. He was searching for, you know, God and Nirvana and the meaning of the cosmos.”

“Is that why he went away on retreats?”

“Yeah, he was always going away on his
quests
. Once he went to Costa Rica and climbed up into a tree house and took some jungle drug and didn't come down for three days.”

“And didn't he go away in the weeks before . . . before he committed the crime?”

“Yeah, he did. He went out to Kripalu. You know, it's a big spiritualist yoga-y place over in Massachusetts.”

“I've heard of it. Isn't it expensive?”

“Yeah, but he always did a work-study scholarship thing.”

“What was the focus of the retreat?”

“I don't know . . . finding your inner light. Isn't that what they're all about?”

“And did he call when he was out there?”

“Now and then. He would get this all-natural high, he called it, and pretty much forget about us. He was supposed to be gone for a week. Then he stayed an extra week.”

“Do you know why?”

“Yeah, he decided to sign up for some Chinese something or other.”

Erica sits up straight. “Chinese what?”

“Some ancient Chinese spiritual quest workshop. He was all fired up about Confucius and Buddha and darma and karma.”

“When he came back he was all fired up?”

“Well, really, when he got home he was kind of weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Distant. Quiet. I thought it was because he was on a spiritual plane. Then a few days later he flew out to Detroit and . . . well, we all know what he did.”

“Did he tell you who led the Chinese workshop?”

“He never told me stuff like that.”

“And you never went with him?”

“Nah. The only thing I'm seeking is my kids' next meal.”

“Well, when you get your insurance money, that will never be a problem again.”

“Yeah. I went to a financial planner,” she says, curling her legs up under her.

“So you're moving on?”

“Oh yeah, sure, I'm moving on. I'm moving on to waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, seeing
you
standing there as Peter blows his brains out. I'm moving on to Lucy and Corey crying, screaming really, for no reason anytime day or night. I'm moving on to
trying to know what to tell them when they ask me ‘Why did Daddy do it?' for the five hundredth time.” A dark, cynical expression settles on her face. “My husband killed a lot more than himself when he stuck that gun in his mouth.”

“I'm very sorry.”

Amy picks up a half-smoked joint from the table next to her and lights it. She takes a deep puff, holds it in, and exhales. Then she says, “Hey, it's all good.”

On the drive down to the city on the thruway, Erica calls the Kripalu Center. She reaches Mindy Wilson, the head of enrollment.

“This is Erica Sparks with a couple of questions.”

“Let me save you some breath. Peter Tuttle was here for a weeklong workshop called ‘Spiritwalker—a Journey in Shamanic Empowerment.' When it was over he signed up for ‘Rising Moon,' a five-day intensive in Chinese afterlife mythology. That ended on May 26 and he left campus that day. And, no, I don't know where he was between May 27 and June 2, when he returned home to Woodstock . . . I hope that didn't sound
too
rote.”

“Can you tell me who led the Chinese afterlife workshop?”

“His name is Dave Brennan. Fascinating man. Former marine. He served in the Iraq War, suffered PTSD, and turned all his energies to spiritual growth. He says it saved his life.”

“Do you have contact information for him?”

“We don't give that out. But you can find it on his website.”

“Did you have any personal contact with Peter Tuttle?”

“I did, when he came into the office to sign up for the second workshop.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“He was very anxious, was sweating profusely. Didn't look me in the eye. We get a lot of people who are missing something in their lives. They come here to try and find it. But even given that, he seemed like a young man at sea. Drowning. Desperate.”

Ripe for the picking.

Erica arrives home close to midnight, exhausted physically and emotionally. And starving. She heads into the kitchen and finds a smoked salmon sandwich waiting for her on the counter, with a note in Becky's writing:
In case you need a little midnight sustenance
.

Erica sits at the kitchen table and takes a grateful bite. The sandwich is delicious, spiced with mustard and horseradish. She wonders what Becky made Jenny for dinner. Then she tries to piece together what she learned today—but her brain isn't up to the job. So she just savors the sandwich.

Then comes a soft cozy, “Hi.”

Erica is momentarily startled. She looks up to see Becky standing in the doorway. She's wearing a nightgown and slippers.

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

“We thought you might be hungry. I waited up to hear you come in.”

“That's not necessary.”

“I promised Jenny I would. She worries.”

“How did homework go?”

“Well. How did things go up in Boston?”

“They went fine, Becky.”

“Oh good. It sounds like you're on to something . . . ?”

“We'll see, won't we?”

There's a pause. Becky comes into the kitchen and absently wipes down the counter with her palm, then sweeps the stray crumbs into her other palm. It's a proprietary gesture, and Erica resents it.