Page 47

MY PHONE BLASTED me out of a deep but troubled slumber at 8 a.m. I calculated that I’d had four hours’ sleep, felt ancient and stiff. I grabbed the phone and answered before I even looked at who was calling.

Vinny’s gravelly accent was unmistakable.

“You’re gonna wanna get down to the Rusty Rabbit right now, Bill.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Diner at the south end of Main Street,” Vinny said. I could hear plates clattering and people talking in the background of his call. “Something here you should see.”

I was approaching the Rusty Rabbit on legs that felt like rubber, my balance and coordination barely holding out, when I saw a truck parked outside with DRIVER CONSTRUCTION SERVICES written on the side.

From Angelica’s description, I ID’d the boxy-headed and small-eyed Norman Driver almost the second I walked in. He was sitting at the edge of a booth crowded with two huge men in construction uniforms: big, scuffed boots and sun-scorched caps. They weren’t the same guys who had run me and Susan off the road, but they had the same mean, hungry look. They seemed to recognize me, which probably meant Driver had circulated a photograph among his men. Vinny’s wheelchair was pulled up to a table across the aisle, and he was sitting with his elbows splayed over a half-eaten serving of pork ribs. Driver and his guys watched me, their eyes dark with menace, as I took a seat at Vinny’s table.

“I love this place,” Vinny said in greeting, sucking the barbecue sauce off a rib. “Ribs for breakfast. Urgh! You can’t beat it. Great food, great company. Huh, fellas?”

No one at Driver’s table answered. The man who had brought so much fear and rage into my life in the previous twenty-four hours sat sideways in the booth with one elbow on the table, his shoulders hunched and huge, scarred fingers knitted as his gaze bore into me.

“Vinny,” I said carefully. “What the hell is this?”

“What’s it look like? It’s four guys shootin’ the shit.” Vinny shrugged, a rib in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. “Hey, they ain’t your most talkative bunch. They’re excellent listeners, though. I was just telling them what they should order from the menu. They’re new in town, you see.”

“Vinny—”

“Your buddy’s got a hell of a mouth on him,” Driver said to me. A weird, unsettling smile was playing about his lips. “Hasn’t shut up since he wheeled himself in.”

“Yeah, well, at least he’s messing with someone his own size,” I sneered, immediately regretting losing my cool but too furious to reel it in. “I know who you are, Driver. I hope your mother kept your dental records, because the police are gonna need them to identify you if you ever come by my house again, you piece of—”

Driver’s guys shot up in their seats. The boss settled them all with a single wave of his hand, like he was controlling well-trained dogs.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said with a grin that was surely as fake as Driver’s. “Not while you’re wearing the company logo, boys. In fact, try not to commit any crime at all while you’re wearing your work gear. Might get you in the kind of trouble that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Driver’s eyes flashed.

“Big words,” he said to me.

“They’re not just words, pal,” I replied.

Vinny was smiling from ear to ear like a kid watching his favorite pro wrestlers go at it in the ring. Driver’s phone began vibrating where it sat on the table. He didn’t touch it. The squeal of a toddler in a high chair across the diner brought me to my senses. The room was packed, every table occupied with families and couples enjoying a leisurely Sunday breakfast. The bell above the door jangled as another family squeezed their way in. I had to take a few deep breaths to stop my voice from shaking with anger.

“Look,” I said. “We’re not going to do this here. We’re surrounded by innocent people. Vinny, whatever you brought me here to see, I’ve seen it. We’re leaving.”

“Oh come on, I’m just having a laugh,” Vinny said and wheeled himself closer to the table. I winced, expecting the gun that was almost certainly in his lap to fall from under his knee blanket onto the floor in front of everyone. “Just have a coffee. A bagel. Something. Read the paper.” He shoved a newspaper from the corner of the table at me.

“Bill,” Vinny went on, lowering his voice. “I got here first. These bozos came in after me. We can’t leave now. We’ll be submitting.”

“Vinny, this is not a disagreement between dogs about who gets to piss on the best park bench. You’re threatening a gun fight in a crowded café.”

“Listen to you. So dramatic.” He rolled his eyes.

The waitress deposited three huge plates of breakfast in front of Driver and his guys. Driver’s men seemed to relax slightly, as though the appearance of food—rather than the presence of innocent bystanders all around us—meant there wasn’t about to be a massacre here in the diner. No one ate. Driver’s phone started buzzing again, remaining ignored.

“You know, I was just reading in the paper there, about the little drug crisis we’re having in New England,” Vinny said as he picked at his collard greens with his fork, his voice rising again for the benefit of Driver and his men. “Problem used to be that people were smuggling prescription painkillers into the States from China. Now that the cops have stamped that out, people have started making the pills themselves. Can you believe it?”

One of Driver’s guys took up his fork, looking to his boss for permission to eat. Driver was too focused on Vinny and me. The men glanced at each other, undecided as to whether the mere presence of an enemy, even without violence, meant their eggs should get cold.

“Thing about these pills is,” Vinny continued, “they’re usually made in labs. By scientists. But out here, you got a bunch of deficientes throwing ingredients together like toddlers in a play kitchen. So the goods can turn out four, five times stronger than they should be sometimes.”

Driver’s guys had broken ranks and started to eat. The two men passed a saltshaker between them.

“Listen to me, huh.” Vinny smiled when nobody responded to his lecture. “Trying to school everybody on this stuff. I should just shut up and let everybody enjoy their food.”

He looked over at Driver’s table. I followed his gaze. It was then that I noticed that the salt and pepper shakers on Driver’s table didn’t match. The pepper was round, plain glass with a silver top; the salt was crystal, with a square base.

The same kind I had in the dining room of my inn.

I looked around the tables, slowly rising out of my seat. The saltshaker on Driver’s table was the only crystal, square-bottomed shaker in the room.

One of Driver’s guys coughed and grabbed at his throat.