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“The basics. His team was involved in a civilian shootout.” She put her hands up in surrender. “On paper, it’s all very neat. They were on a routine patrol, and they were engaged by a couple of men. They pursued. The men fled to a small dwelling. They exchanged fire with the dwelling and its inhabitants. A family of eight was unfortunately killed.”
“But you know there’s more to it than that,” I said.
“Of course,” Susan said. She leaned against the counter beside me and folded her arms. The morning light through the lace curtains over the window threw pretty patterns on the back of her neck. “It’s too tidy. Dorrich, Master, Breecher, and Nick—they all gave the exact same version of events, down to the minutes between rounds of shots, the angles of fire, the positions of victims. Nobody remembers a traumatic event that clearly and correctly; especially not a whole group of people.”
“So you’re wondering why they did it,” I said. “Why they killed that family. Because it was clearly deliberate. Calculated.”
“Firstly, I’m wondering who did the calculating,” Susan said. “Because if it was Nick—”
“It wasn’t,” I said.
Susan nodded. Her eyes searched mine, and I could tell she was looking for deception. Because she knew I would protect my friend, whether he was guilty of something this atrocious or not. I would lessen whatever harm might come to him, even if it meant shouldering the burden of what he had done. WhenSusan was satisfied that I wasn’t lying, she turned and opened a bag of bread that I’d set on the counter and started feeding slices into the toaster.
“What’s the situation now?” Susan asked.
“Dorrich killed himself. He told Breecher that someone knows what they did. Master’s missing. Breecher and Nick are trying to find him.”
“So where are we going?” she asked.
“We? Who’s ‘we’? Just because you know what happened, that doesn’t mean you have to get involved any further.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said.
“I’m going to find out what happened to Dorrich,” I said. “Did he kill himself because someone told him they were going to expose him? Or did someone kill him, try to make it look like a suicide? The only reason anyone is saying suicide is because Dorrich’s sister found him dead in the bathtub with a bullet in his head. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Let’s get this all served up then and hit the road,” Susan said. I knew there was no point arguing with her. If there was one thing I’d learned about Susan since we’d been together, it was that once she had set a course, turning her off it required all the patience, will, and endurance of tugboats turning a great ship. I stood marveling at her, at her decision to get herself “infected” on my account, her willingness to open the door to darkness when she’d come to the inn in the first place to find peace and refuge. I supposed that was the nature of this house. It bred trouble, attracted trouble, gave it sanctuary. But so far, no darkness that had come knocking at the inn had outmatched us, and that gave me hope. Susan slapped my arm to knock me out of my reverie.
“Those eggs are getting cold,” she said.
“I love you,” I said.
“Just get moving,” she said, rolling her eyes.
It wasn’t until I opened the garage door that I remembered I’d lent Shauna my car. I told Susan as we stood looking at the row of cars, the older woman’s pale-blue truck parked between Angelica’s little VW Bug and Effie’s black Mustang.
“When do you pick yours up from the shop?” I asked her.
“Monday.”
“Let’s ask Effie if we can take the ’Stang,” I said. “I’ve been dreaming about opening this girl up, seeing what she can do.” I stroked the hood. “Eff spends every spare second working on it. I bet there’s a jet engine under the hood.”
“We can’t,” Susan sighed. “I borrowed it a month ago and spilled a smoothie in it. She’s never loaning it out again.”
“Susan.”
“Sorry, babe.”
“I’d say we could borrow Angelica’s car but I don’t have a spare four hours to hear about its cultural origins.”
We headed toward Shauna’s truck, our decision made.
“Should we unload those suitcases?” Susan asked. I rattled the suitcase nearest to me, but it was strapped in tight against the rear of the cab.
“Let’s leave them,” I said. “They’re just old clothes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
VINNY WAS SITTING on the porch in his wheelchair, using the blanket on his lap to shield his hands from view as he worked the piece of yarn clumsily with the bone needle. The physiology quack in Gloucester had spent a good ten minutes last session trying to talk the ancient gangster into knitting or crocheting as PT for his hands. Vinny, the onetime fish-gutter, boxer, standover man, and lifelong thug, now had hands that were basically bone and skin, the cartilage ratshit, no nice little nitrogen bubbles or pockets of fat to protect his bones from grinding against each other.
