Page 92 of The Children of Eve

“Does that mean something to you?”

Skowhegan was about eleven miles from Anson, home to Ammon and Jerusha Nadeau.

“It might.”

“Then I want you to listen carefully. Like Noah Harrow, I can square what I’ve told you with my conscience. Right now, there’s no proof that Wyatt Riggins has committed any crime, and if it turns out he has, the law can deal with him, not you. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear.”

“And that goes for those two thugs who travel with you—in fact, double for them.”

“I’ll be sure to let the thugs know.”

“Don’t screw me on this,” said Saunders. “You can’t afford to lose friends.”

“Wow, are we friends now?”

“No, that was just a general observation. I’m going to give you Noah’s cell phone number, with his consent. I’ve advised him that Riggins may have managed to get himself into a serious quagmire, but I spared him the part about the missing children. If you think Noah can be of assistance, you’re free to contact him, day or night. If you need me, I’m also available, but Riggins isn’t my patient so there are limits to my assistance. Still, I can try.”

Saunders and I parted on reasonably good terms. As she said, I couldn’t afford to lose friends, or even acquaintances. On enemies, I was running an unhealthy surfeit. What Saunders had told me supported the view that Wyatt Riggins had found sanctuary at or near the childhood home of Zetta Nadeau.

But once again, why had Riggins stayed in Maine if he knew that Blas Urrea’s people might be looking for him and could track him to the state? Perhaps he liked Zetta as much as she did him. As Moxie had suggested, Riggins might even have been concerned that Urrea would find out about her. Anson was roughly ninety minutes from Falmouth—fewer, if you put your foot down, which struck some balance between accessibility and remoteness, however imperfect. Then again, if Wyatt Riggins was sharing living space with Ammon and Jerusha Nadeau, he had my sympathies. He might even have been tempted to take his chances with the Mexicans.

I shut down my computer and armed myself with pepper spray, a telescopic baton, and, as a last resort, my gun. I hoped Wyatt Riggins wouldn’t make me use any of them. I wanted to help, if only to do theright thing where the children were concerned. More than that, I still wanted to protect Zetta. I debated asking Angel and Louis to come along for the ride, but decided against it. I believed I had a better chance of making Riggins see reason if he didn’t feel threatened.

In retrospect, that was a mistake.

CHAPTERLXVII

From the road, the home of Zetta Nadeau’s parents didn’t look appreciably better or worse than any of its neighbors. It was a half Cape Cod with an off-center door and covered porch to the left, the whitewash needing freshening up and exposed wood showing through the blue trim. There was no junk in the yard and the tan Subaru Outback parked in front of the garage had four wheels, all its glass, and might have started without too much trouble on a warm day.

But viewed up close, the property struggled to hide signs of deeper neglect. The wood beneath the trim was rotten, and the paintwork left as it was out of fear of what stripping it back might reveal. The windows hadn’t been cleaned since before winter, if then, and the screens served as a storehouse for leaves, cobwebs, and the corpses of insects. The lawn was pockmarked with bare patches, and keeping it short disguised the fact that the greenery was as much weed as grass, while the Subaru was filthy, inside and out.

My cell phone rang. It was Carrie Saunders again. I picked up as I approached the Nadeaus’ front door.

“Carrie,” I said.

“Emmett Lucas is dead.”

“How?”

“He was murdered down in Loudoun County, Virginia, and he wasn’tthe only one. There are four victims, all possibly—probably—linked, at least according to the reports. I have someone at the local VA trying to find out more.”

“Who were the others?”

“A local couple, the Swishers, and a man named Donnie Ray Dolfe who was embedded in the DMV narcotics trade.” The DMV referred to the District of Columbia, Maryland, and Virginia region. “Look, unlikely as it may seem, this could be unconnected to your investigation, but if it is connected—”

“I can use it to pressure Riggins,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Right now, he’s going to be scared, especially if he’s aware of what happened to Emmett Lucas. Convince him to contact Noah or me if he’s reluctant to talk to the police. We’ll do what we can to protect him. Parker, don’t hurt him.”

“I’ll try not to,” I said.

Famous last words.

I SMELLED OLD GARBAGEand dank kitchen grease as I rang the doorbell. The lid on one of the cans by the porch had been knocked off, possibly by an animal. I peered inside and saw an empty bottle of Fifty Stone single malt and fresh bags from Macy’s. Fifty Stone retailed for $50 before tax. I might have been wrong, but I’d always taken the Nadeaus for Caliber Premium Canadian folk: $14, give or take, for 1.75 liters of 80-proof prime hooch, the kind that left you with a hangover you could bequeath to your descendants without any noticeable diminution of its effects. If the Nadeaus were buying craft whiskeys from small Maine distillers, they were celebrating on someone else’s dime. I checked the Macy’s bags and emerged with a receipt for men’s and women’s clothing totaling just under $350.

“What are you doing there?”

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