Three Can Keep a Secret (14 page)

That and maybe find out what had happened during the last hours of his life.

The stripped bed had been neatly covered with a coverlet. Instinctively, Lester dropped to the floor and laid his cheek against the carpeting, studying its nap between the door and the bed to check for the signs of a vacuum cleaner's back-and-forth furrows. But it appeared as if they'd only addressed the bed following the removal of Marshall's body. Les would have to double-check with Hannah Eastridge that such was standard protocol at The Woods, but he didn't doubt it. His wife, Sue, had once worked at a far-less-upscale nursing home near Springfield, but she'd commented on how, even there, the staff was attentive to neatening up after a resident's death, in part to make it easier on the family who'd come in later to remove personal effects. These places were production lines of sorts, after all
—
it wasn't good for business to let a bed stay empty for long.

While he was on his hands and knees, Lester crawled along the floor, small flashlight in hand, sweeping his eyes to and fro, looking for any dropped or forgotten object that might prove useful. But the cleaning crew that came by weekly
—
and which Lester had already been told had last visited five days earlier
—
was apparently thorough. Aside from a single lost ballpoint pen that he found under the dresser, there was nothing.

Starting with the dresser, however, Les began working methodically from top drawer to bottom. He found a man's jewelry box in the upper right-hand drawer alongside two watches, a Cross pencil, a plastic container of collar stays, and a stack of folded handkerchiefs. He slid the box to the fore, opened it, and discovered a jumbled assortment of cuff links, rings, association pins, and tie clips.

Grunting quietly, he turned to retrieve the camera that he'd placed on the floor by the bedroom door, and found himself staring at a man in a dark blue custodian's uniform with a woman's stocking pulled over his face. In the instant that it took him to register this, the man smacked him on the side of the head with something hard.

Lester felt his knees give out as he flinched against the explosive pain. He heard more than saw the shape of the man retreat, and lashed out to stop him, his hand flailing in the empty air.

"Stop," he heard himself say, or thought he said, as he struggled in vain to stand, propping instead against the dresser. There was something happening in the room
—
what, he couldn't tell
—
distinguished by a shadow falling across him, followed by the sound of running feet and the slamming of a distant door, which he knew to be the apartment's entrance.

He finally lurched to his feet, smacking his shoulder against the open dresser drawer, and fell toward the bedpost, trying to reach the door while hanging on like the passenger of a ship about to capsize. He kept shaking his head, hoping to clear his vision.

His balance and eyesight improving, Les picked up speed as he cut through the kitchenette and tore open the front door. He ran out into the hallway, just in time to see the last of his assailant rounding a far corner.

"Jesus," he muttered, touching his temple, and took off in pursuit, quickly glancing at his hand. There was some blood, but not much, which he took as a good sign. Running, he reached for his cell phone and auto-dialed the VBI dispatch number.

"This is Spinney," he panted to the operator. "I'm in foot pursuit of a male inside The Woods of Windsor. Do you have my location?"

"Yes, sir," she said, almost disturbingly calm. "Your GPS is coming through clear. Can you give me a description?"

"Male. Five-ten. Slim build. Dark blue maintenance uniform. Call Sergeant Carrier of the local PD and send backup."

"Yes, sir."

He reached the end of the hallway, recovered enough that anger had replaced astonishment. There was another corridor ahead
—
empty
—
with an
EXIT
sign above a door about halfway down. Reaching it quickly and yanking it open, he heard footsteps pounding down the stairs below him.

He exchanged his phone for his gun and took the steps four at a time, swinging from the steel tubular railing and kicking off the walls at each turn to give himself extra thrust. Below, he heard the bang of a fire door, suggesting that the man ahead had reached the outdoors and a broader choice of escape routes.

"Come on, come on," he chanted to himself, hoping no misstep would result in a broken leg.

He reached the bottom and stopped abruptly at the door, listening intently over his own breathing. He was suddenly conscious of the possible consequences of crashing through that door
—
and maybe meeting a man with a gun.

He took two deep breaths, seized the door's panic bar, and pushed slightly, keeping his body alongside the metal frame to one side.

It turned out to have been the wrong time for caution. When he finally exited the building, there was nobody in sight.

"Damn," he said, and broke back into a run, heading toward the nearest parking area.

Coming over the top of the slope separating the building from the lot, however, the only signs of life visible were two cruisers with their lights flashing, entering from the highway at speed and splitting up to cover as much of the parking area as possible.

There were only a few empty cars scattered about, and nothing to be seen of a man on foot.

Lester stood panting on the crest of the small hill, his hands on his hips, scanning all that he could see for any motion, while four uniformed officers left their vehicles and spread out.

Spinney recognized Rick Carrier. "You see anyone driving away when you entered?" he shouted down to him.

Carrier shook his head and began walking uphill to meet him.

Lester checked the side of his head again, his adrenaline ebbing and his knees getting wobbly. He sat down on the close-cropped grass, pulling out his phone to issue an alert for an anonymous man of unremarkable stature wearing a maintenance uniform.

Right, he thought, as he pushed the
CALL
button. Good luck with that.

Stamford, Vermont, was one of the state's original settlements, chartered in 1753, a fact about which Willy Kunkle couldn't have cared less. One tidbit that he had picked up, though
—
in a state he found otherwise way too interested in its own history
—
concerned a Stamford man supposedly named Allen who'd hidden in a cave atop a mountain now named in his honor, in order to avoid fighting in the Revolutionary War. Willy liked the story in particular, since Vermonters so regularly touted Ethan Allen for his bravery as the head of the Green Mountain Boys.

Willy wondered
—
families being the curious things they often were
—
if the two men were related.

It wasn't an entirely random thought. He was driving down Route 8, off the tapered southern end of the Green Mountains, along Stamford's strung-out bottomland between the Hoosac and Taconic Ranges, in order to interview Eileen Rozanski Ranslow
—
the sister of the man whose only monument nowadays was a coffin full of rocks. Given his research to date, Willy had become convinced that the Rozanskis were another clan with a story they'd deemed worth hiding.

He slowed his car to note the addresses passing by. Years ago, the state-stipulated 911 regulation that all houses should be clearly numbered had for some reason been decreed voluntary. As a result, all too few of them were.

Happily, the Ranslows had heeded the rule, which Willy hoped was a good sign. If they were compliant enough to make that effort, who knew if they might not be willing to speak with the likes of him?

The house was set back from the road, clad in white clapboards, and about a hundred years old. Willy pulled into the gravel driveway, killed his engine, and in one fluid movement, swung out of the car, noticing the by-now routine detail of how the front yard's grass had acquired a coat of plant-smothering river mud. He was longing for the first full day in which the subject of Irene
—
or any evidence of her destruction
—
wouldn't come up in conversation.

Which was clearly going to be a long time from now. Luckily for the Ranslows, though, at first glance, it didn't seem as if they'd lost more than their lawn.

The front door opened as he approached the house, and a small, somewhat squared-off woman wearing glasses and holding a dish towel stood before him with a questioning look.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Mrs. Ranslow?" he replied, pulling out his credentials. "I'm Special Agent Kunkle, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time."

She allowed the faintest of smiles as she said, "I don't know. Are you about to make it a bad time?"

He laughed, taking note of how carefully she was watching him. "I hope not. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your brother Herb."

She nodded several times. "Ah. I was wondering when somebody would come by."

He kept smiling. "Well, I guess that's me. Seems like you know what got me here."

"The graveyard thing," she confirmed. "Sure."

"Right," he confirmed, again struck by her self-constraint. "Could I come in?"

Instead of answering, she stepped aside to allow him passage.

The house reminded him of a thousand others he'd entered
—
furnished with hand-me-downs and Walmart sets, the walls bare aside from some family photos, the requisite huge flat-screen TV reducing the living room to a single function. It was at once neat enough and messy enough to support a family that
—
as Willy had researched
—
consisted of this woman, her truck driver husband, and their two teenage sons.

She led him into the living room, where the set was on but muted, pantomiming the world beyond like the flashing scenery outside a train window.

Eileen Ranslow did not offer Willy any amenities, nor the usual apologies for the home's appearance. Preceding him, she sat on the edge of an upright chair facing the couch, the dish towel still in her hands, and waited for him to choose a seat.

He took the couch opposite.

"What do you want to know?" she asked him.

He took his cue on how to proceed from her
—
straight down the line, but with enough Big Brother to encourage her to be open from the start. "Are we alone?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Hank and Ted are where?" he inquired, using her sons' names.

It worked. She hesitated and the hands holding the towel moved closer together. "They're at school, at a work detail to help clean up after Irene."

"And Phillip? Making deliveries?"

"Trying to," she said.

"You've lived here about twenty years. Is that correct?"

"Twenty-one."

"And you're the only member of your immediate family, aside from your brother Nate, to have moved away from where you grew up."

Her mouth tightened a fraction before she answered, "If you know this stuff, why're you asking me?"

He fixed her with a severe look. "My information may not be accurate. Please answer the question, Mrs. Ranslow."

"Yes, then."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'm the only one except Nate.
"

"
You don't keep in touch with folks back home?
"

"
Not much."

"Not much, or not at all?"

Another small flare crossed her features.

"Is there something wrong with that?"

He stayed silent, watching her.

"Not at all," she said, her eyes dropping to the towel, which she draped across her left knee.

"Why is that?"

"Family stuff. I made a new life here."

"You have a falling out?"

She seemed to consider that before replying, "I wanted to see other places."

"What did you do between leaving home and settling here?" he pressed, having been told by others that she'd left home shortly after Herb's supposed funeral and her other brother's disappearing altogether.

"I drifted around," she said vaguely.

"You got arrested a couple of times," Willy reminded her. "Disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly. What was going on?"

"I was unhappy. I was young." She sat forward for emphasis. "I thought you wanted to talk about Herb."

"Where is Nate now?" Willy asked, ignoring her.

"I don't know. Maybe he's dead." Her voice had picked up an edge.

"Like Herb?" Willy suggested leadingly.

She became silent. Willy rose and circled the cluttered coffee table to sit beside her on a matching chair, a foot away. She shifted defensively but stayed put, at the same time staring at his inert left arm.

"I was shot in the line of duty," he explained, his voice softer and confiding. "Years ago. I know what it's like to be in a tough place. I kept my job because people stuck up for me."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"I'm going to take a wild guess, Eileen, but I think
you're
in a tough place. Something happened twenty-seven years ago that tore up your family, probably playing a part in why your mom died of a broken heart."

At the allusion to Dreama Rozanski, her daughter's eyes welled with tears, which she didn't bother wiping away.

"How long did your dad live?" Willy asked softly. "After whatever happened with Herb?"

"A few years," she said dully.

Finally, he got to his reason for being here. "Tell me about that, Eileen
—
what happened to Herb?"

She sighed and said, almost inaudibly, "He got caught up in the sawmill."

"Did you see it happen?"

She shook her head.

"Were you there, at home?"

"Mom was. I was at a friend's house."

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"They told me when I got home."

"Did you see your brother?"

"Which one?" she asked, which he thought interesting.

"Let's start with Herb."

"No. They said it was too bloody."

"So where was he? Where'd they put him?"

"In a closed box. It was the coffin later.
"

"
How 'bout the sawmill? Did you go in there?"

"Later, I did," she admitted, and shivered. "It was horrible. Blood all over."

"Okay," Willy said. "What about Nate? Where was he in all this?"

"He was there."

"At home? At the mill, working with them?"

"The mill." Her words had become so soft that he placed his head inches from her mouth.

"What did they say happened?
"

"
An accident. Herb got pulled into the saw."

"Is that likely? Some mills are more dangerous than others."

"I wouldn't know."

"Describe the mill to me."

She tilted her head back, as if interpreting an image off where the wall met the ceiling.

"Open sides. Lots of those pulley things. My dad had to put his truck near one wall to drive everything."

"There was more than just the saw, then?"

"There was a big saw. That's where it happened. But there were other machines, too. It was super noisy."

"What happened to it afterwards?" Willy asked. "When I was there, it had been burned down as a fire department exercise."

"Nothing," she said. "Nobody ever went in it again."

"Tell me about Nate, Eileen. How did he take this?"

"He left. The next day."

"Was there a fight?"

"No," she said with more strength, but her eyes wandered to the floor. "The next morning, he was just gone."

"What did your parents say or do about that?"

"Nothing," she repeated. "They just kind of retreated into themselves."

Willy pressed her. "I think you're leaving something out about Nate. Tell me."

"He looked awful."

"How?"

"He was cut and bruised and maybe some of his fingers were broken.
"

"
From what?" Willy asked. "A fight?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think maybe he fought with Herb?
"

"
Maybe.
"

"
In the mill?
"

"
I don't know."

Willy reached out and touched her hand. "Eileen, this is important. Do you think they had a fight, and that's what sent Herb into the saw blade?"

She nodded without comment.

Willy nodded and mentally reviewed everything she'd told him. "On the day of the accident," he began, "how did your father handle the authorities? He couldn't just bury Herb and have done with it."

"The sheriff came over after I got home. They talked. I watched them through the kitchen window. It was open."

"The sheriff saw the body?"

"He saw the box," she countered. "He wanted to open it, but my dad got mad
—
said he knew his own son, and could tell a dead man from a live one."

Willy let out a small, contemptuous puff of air. "And the sheriff bought it," he stated.

"The box wasn't opened up," she replied as an answer.

Willy waited before asking, "What really happened to Herb?"

She gave a half shrug. "I guess he didn't die."

"Where did the blood come from?"

"It was his. He was really hurt. I mean, he must've been. He just didn't die. Whose blood could it've been?"

"People have told me they think this whole thing killed your parents," Willy told her, moving on.

Her voice shrank down once more. "I guess."

"Eileen," he said, matching her tone. "I think you knew about all this when I walked up to your door. I know the price this has taken on you, on your family. But I've also got to know the details. I'm sorry."

"Why?" she challenged him, staring at him, her cheeks coursed with tears. "What does it matter now?"

"You know what keeping it a secret has cost you," he explained. "How could my uncovering the truth be any worse?"

To her silence, he continued, "How many years have you had this bottled up? How many times have you wished you could be honest with your sons? What stories have you made up about your childhood, knowing they were the sort of lies you tell your kids never to tell? You know in your heart this has got to stop."

Speechless, she barely nodded in agreement.

"Tell me what you know," he almost whispered.

"I have Nate's phone number," she admitted at last. "Or the store he lives near. He's pretty much a hermit."

Willy kept any satisfaction out of his voice. "When did you two last talk?"

"Maybe a year ago."

"So he knows nothing about the grave being exposed?
"

"
Not from me."

"Where's that store located?" he asked.

"Below West Glover, sort of between Hardwick and Barton."

That put it in the state's Northeast Kingdom
—
a place, like Stamford, not heavily populated. But unlike here, famous for the way it defended its isolation. It was custom-made for someone wanting to fade from view.

He touched her wrist. "Thank you, Eileen. I'll let you know how it goes. But you know the favor I need to ask now, don't you?"

"Don't warn him?" she asked.

"Exactly. Or all of this
—
and the trust you've just put in me
—
will be for nothing. With any luck, I'll be the one who might get you all talking again."

She barely nodded her acknowledgment.

"One last thing," he mentioned as he rose to leave. "Have you kept in touch with Herb? Do you know where he is now?"

"No," she said, looking up at him. "I thought he was dead until they told me about the empty grave."

Willy had to take her at face value there, but he didn't like it.