Page 57

Reggio sat at the pine table in Ellar Michaud’s kitchen. The interior was cleaner than he’d expected, but gloomier than he would have been willing to tolerate in a home of his own. It was a consequence of the trees that crowded to the west of the house, blocking out the last of the evening sunlight; and the size of the windows, which were smaller than the room justified. The table was handcrafted, and the chairs too; they were rustic without being crude and their joinery, like the kitchen cabinetry, looked solid and true.

The two men passed through an uncluttered living room on the way to the kitchen, although the former was as crepuscular as the latter. The couches and chairs were mismatched, while the wallpaper reminded Reggio of a funeral home. A small bookshelf held assorted hardcover volumes: Reader’s Digest works on housekeeping, gardening, and cooking, along with a set of encyclopedias that looked old enough to have antedated the moon landings, or even the Second World War. There was no fiction, and no Bible, which was unusual in Reggio’s experience of rural Maine. Neither could he see any religious iconography on the walls, only the kind of paintings and prints familiar from thrift stores: anonymous, bland depictions of landscapes and animals—art for those who either didn’t like it or mistakenly believed that they did.

The kitchen reeked of stewed meat and boiled vegetables. Bare sanded boards formed the floor, and Reggio spotted flecks of blood and small white feathers on the chopping block beside the sink. He had deliberately positioned himself so he could see both the front door, via the living room, and the kitchen door that opened into the yard. Michaud took the seat opposite, his back to the window. Reggio had put a piece of fresh gum in his mouth before leaving the car, and was now rolling the foil into a ball with his fingertips. Fucking nervous tic: he’d have made a lousy poker player.

“Is this your handiwork?” he asked Michaud, indicating the kitchen cabinets and the furniture.

“The joinery is, but my father made the table and chairs. They’re by way of being heirlooms now.”

“You live here alone?”

There had to be a woman around. The place had that feel, even had the laundry hanging on the line not confirmed it, but Michaud didn’t reply to the question.

“You said you had something to tell me about those newcomers living over on Hickman’s land.”

“I know Lars Ungar, or I know of him,” said Reggio. “He’s the one with the swastika by his eye.”

“I’m familiar with him,” said Michaud, “and his taste in prettifications. What about him?”

This wasn’t the speed or direction of conversation that Reggio favored. He’d come here to find out more about the driver of the car that had followed him from the county jail, but he was no Scheherazade, and there was only so long he could spin out a yarn. Even so, he didn’t need Michaud trying to bring him directly to the point.

“Look, Mr. Michaud, let’s be clear on this: I want to help you, but I was also hoping that you might be able to help me. Whatever information I have to offer may require something in return.”

“I don’t know nothing about those people, beyond that I don’t like them sharing my air.”

“Lars Ungar has done time,” said Reggio, “but not for the things he ought to have. He raped a woman up in Winterville a couple of years back, and she wasn’t the first, but nothing came of it.”

If Michaud considered this to be a grave moral or criminal error on Ungar’s part, he hid his disapproval.

“So?”

“Are you comfortable with having a rapist living so close to your holding?”

Michaud shrugged. “If I had a mind to, I could walk into the Junco in Gretton and point out men I know for sure to have abused women. If I was to put it to them, they wouldn’t even have the grace to look ashamed.”

Reggio made a mental note to give the Junco a miss, whatever the hell kind of establishment it was.

“There’s a difference between knowing what acquaintances may be capable of,” he said, “and leaving yourself and yours vulnerable to the predations of strangers.”

“Who says we’re vulnerable?”

“You have guns?”

“This is rural Maine. What do you think?”

“Well,” said Reggio, “I understand how that might make you feel more secure, but here’s the thing.” He leaned forward, as though to take Michaud into his confidence. “Rumor has it that Lars Ungar and his people also have guns. Lots of guns. You could even say that, with them, it’s by way of being an occupation.”