The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(35)

There was one car, an impatient maroon Jeep, between us, and when the Jeep peeled away down Pope Road I hung back but didn’t worry too much about being spotted. If Pam looked in her rearview mirror she’d see a truck and a man in a bright red baseball cap. Unless we were stopped at a light I doubted she’d recognize my face.

We were headed west, and Pam exited from Colonial Road onto a side street called Barnum. She was driving slowly, and I hung back as much as I could, not happy with how rural and empty the street was. We wound past fields and old farmhouses, then Pam took a sharp left that brought her onto a narrow, rutted lane. There was a street sign, but it was shrouded by an oak tree that still had its leaves. I took my foot off the gas, letting Pam get out of sight, then drove slowly through the heavily wooded neighborhood, peering down dark driveways to look for either silver BMWs or blue Toyotas. I didn’t even know what town I was in, but it seemed solidly middle-class. The houses were either split-level ranches or modest Colonials.

I came to a fork and cursed at myself for not following closer. One way seemed to continue through the housing development, and the other way, at least as far as I could see, cut between farmed fields on either side. I turned left, staying in the wooded area, still peering down driveways. I was a quarter of a mile down the road when I saw the for sale sign, emblazoned with the logo for Blackburn Properties. I glided past the sign, turning my head and spotting Pam’s car at the end of the long gravel drive, her rear brake lights on as though she’d just stopped. She was parking next to a silver BMW. I kept going and about three hundred yards down the street found a small parking lot abutting some conservation land. I pulled in and parked.

I knew I needed to head back toward the house and try to confirm that Richard and Pam were there for nonwork reasons. It was obvious, to me, that they were, but Joan needed “a hundred percent confirmation,” her words when I’d checked in with her the day before. She’d also mentioned that if I got spotted spying on them it wouldn’t be the end of the world, that she would certainly let Richard know she’d hired me to find out the truth. I made a plan. I hadn’t gotten a great look at the house as I passed it, but it seemed like one of those single-story deck houses that had sprouted up in the 1970s, meaning there would be first-floor windows that looked into every room. I took out my compact digital camera with the telephoto lens from the glove compartment, even though Joan had told me that pictures weren’t necessary. If I had a chance to get a good shot, I’d take it. I also grabbed a different hat, a wool one, plus a pair of wire-rimmed glasses without prescriptive glass. It would change my look from a distance, at least.

With the camera in a fanny pack I walked back along the road. My stomach was queasy and my body ached. I didn’t relish the thought of spying on a woman whom I’d been in bed with less than twelve hours ago. Part of me kind of hoped that they’d gone to their hideaway just to have a breakup conversation, although I doubted it. The weather was cool, and I pulled the hat down far over my ears. There was a low, gray sky, and a high wind that moved the top of the pine trees. When I reached the for sale sign I took out my camera and snapped a picture of it, before heading down the gravel driveway. If for whatever reason Richard came out to confront me, I could tell him I was interested in the house. If Pam came out that particular story probably wouldn’t hold up. When I was about halfway down the driveway, already studying the blank windows, and trying to imagine where the bedroom might be, I heard two sharp pops that sounded as though they came from the house. I froze for a moment, knowing somehow they were gunshots while still trying to imagine they might be something else. When I heard the third popping sound I was on the move, my feet crunching on the gravel. I passed the two cars and went to the front door. It was painted a dark brown like the rest of the house and there were two strips of beveled glass inlaid on either side. I peered through but could see nothing but a short, carpeted stairway and large ornate vase at its base. There was a doorbell and I debated ringing it, but if someone inside had a gun I’d be in trouble. I owned both a license and a .38 revolver, both of which were locked up in a file cabinet at my office in Cambridge.

I touched my cell phone through the front pocket of my jeans and wondered if I should just call 911. Was I absolutely positive I had heard gunshots coming from inside the house? Could I have heard a hunter in the nearby conservation land? No, it had been gunshots. And they had definitely sounded as though they’d happened in the house. I called 911 and reported the address and what I’d heard, and my name. When they asked me where I was in relation to the house, I hung up.

Phone back in my pocket, I tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked and I swung the door inward. There was the acrid tang of a discharged gun hovering just over the smell of a clean and disinfected house. It was silent.

I walked up the five carpeted steps, which brought me to a hallway with a kitchen on my left, and a living room to the right. I saw Pam’s body first. She was seated on a beige couch, her head tipped all the way back, blood pooling in her lap, and running down one side of her neck. I was looking at her from over the back of another beige couch, its twin, that was facing toward her. I stepped into the room, still moving quietly, but as I came up behind the other couch I could make out the body of Richard. He’d been sitting across from Pam, but now he was on his side while his feet were still planted on the floor. In his right hand was a gun I recognized as a Smith & Wesson M&P, and on his right temple was a scorched bullet wound. Where his head lay was soaked in bright red blood and there were white flecks of brain and skull across the sofa’s armrest.