The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(55)

Fairview was about four towns away, west and a little north of Middleham. I’d never actually been there but had seen its name on exit signs. I crossed over into Fairview on a minor road that ran along a river past a defunct paper mill. The houses I’d seen so far seemed just a step up from shacks, and I’d spotted several larger buildings that looked like they’d once been boardinghouses for the mill workers. I passed through an old town center, a cluster of commercial buildings in the shadow of a large congregational church with a white steeple. There was a beautiful, red-brick structure that turned out to be the local library, and there was a gas station that advertised itself as “full service.”

I picked up Wagoner Road about half a mile from the town center. One side was a pine forest and the other comprised old farmland, parceled off by stone walls. I drove past forty-two and had to double back, parking across the street from what looked like an abandoned farmhouse, its windows shuttered, and half the roof caved in. What was strange was that there was a new car parked in the overgrown driveway, a white sedan that looked like a Chevrolet. I sat in my car for a moment, feeling conspicuous, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe Donald Seddon still lived there, or maybe it was even Richard Seddon. I hadn’t actually decided how to approach Richard yet if I managed to find him.

As I was sitting there thinking, idly keeping an eye on the old house, a figure emerged from around the back, a tall, dark-haired man wearing jeans and an untucked flannel shirt. I popped the hood, then got out of the car, stepping around to the front, opening the hood all the way, and staring into the engine. The man from the farmhouse got into his white car and pulled down the short driveway. I fully expected him to swing over and see if he could help, but he turned out of his driveway and sped away in the direction I’d come from, toward the center of Fairview. I watched the car retreat and memorized the license plate number.

I thought of following him but decided against it. If that was Richard—and the age had seemed correct—then I’d done what I had set out to do. I’d found him. I shut the hood of my car, then, on a whim, walked briskly down the driveway and around the house. It looked as though there had once been a backyard that separated the property from the encroaching woods, but it was completely choked now with a thick tangle of bushes, all covered with bittersweet vine. On the back side of the house there was a rusty metal bulkhead, plus a backdoor reachable by three wooden steps. I went up them and peered through one of the panes of glass, but a piece of fabric had been hung on the inside of the window, and all I saw was my own reflection. The door was locked.

I checked the bulkhead and it was locked, as well. I looked around for a place where the mail might be delivered but didn’t see anything. That didn’t mean no one lived here. If someone was living here, despite its appearance, then that inhabitant could get their mail from a post office box. I returned down the driveway and to my car, sitting for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. It seemed likely that I’d found Richard Seddon, but I needed to confirm it.

I drove back the way I’d come, passing through the town center again. I pulled into the driveway of the library, parking toward the rear, then took out my cell phone and called my old partner Roberta James, who was still working for the Boston Police Department.

“Henry,” she said.

“Hey, James. How are you?”

There was a slight pause, and I could hear her muffled voice saying something to someone else. “I’m good.”

“Is this an okay time?” I said.

“It is, definitely. I’ve been meaning to call you, because your name came up in that murder-suicide in Bingham.”

“Oh, you saw that?”

“Uh-huh. I also saw that you found the bodies.”

“I did.”

“Jesus, what a mess. They’ve closed the case, haven’t they?”

“That’s what I heard, but I haven’t confirmed it. It was pretty obvious what had happened.” I had decided not to tell James about my suspicions, not that I wouldn’t at some point, but it just didn’t make sense to get her involved unless I had to.

“So you’re not calling me with some wild story about what really happened,” she said, reading me, and I could picture the half smile on her face. It turned out I missed Roberta James a lot more than I missed being a Boston police detective.

“I’m saving that for later,” I said. “But I do have a favor to ask.”

“Okay.”

“I have a license number and I have an address, and I’m hoping you can confirm the name attached to both of them.”

“These are public records, Kimball. Don’t you have—”

“I’m in my car and I’m being lazy. Sorry. Should I not have called?”

“No. Just give them to me, and I’ll call you right back.”

While I waited for Roberta to call back, I stepped outside of my car and took a short walk back through the small town. The houses were prettier here than along the river. A landscape company van was parked in front of a gabled Victorian, and one of the employees was taking a break, leaning up against the truck, smoking a cigarette. I could smell the tobacco on the air even from across the street, and I had one of my periodic pangs when I missed cigarettes. I think it was the crisp fall weather, the clean-tasting air, that made me want to blow some smoke into it.