Fallen Sparrow Read online

  “He was apologizing for what he was about to do,” she said, “and she was saying they could ask for forgiveness.”

  “From who?”

  “Not sure,” Peyton said. “He said, ‘I hope she can forgive me.’”

  “No one knows who he’s talking about?” he said.

  “I know the family, and Marie plays cards with my mother every week …”

  “So it could be you?”

  “I guess,” Peyton said. “But I doubt it.”

  Hewitt took his phone from his pocket and checked for messages.

  “None of it makes sense,” Peyton said. “Marie knew Fred had guns in the house, yet when he stepped onto the porch with one and pointed it at her, she asked what he was doing. I think she expected this fight to blow over.”

  “Sounds like this wasn’t their first fight.”

  “True, which makes me think Marie accepted her husband’s physical abuse, but never thought he was capable of murder.”

  “But if that’s right,” Hewitt said, “why call the cops? She must have known it was different this time.”

  Peyton couldn’t think of how it would be different. But if his theory was correct—and it very well could be—it meant Marie was scared.

  Of what?

  And why?

  “I think the asshole knew this common occurrence was going public,” Hewitt said, “so he killed them both.”

  “Too drastic,” she said. “It’s got to be something else. When I asked why he hit her, Fred said, ‘Because I wanted her to leave. Now it’s too late.’”

  “Too late for what?” Hewitt asked.

  She shrugged. “Killing her doesn’t make sense. I keep replaying it in my mind. It just doesn’t fit. Why say he’s sorry right before shooting her? That’s like saying he didn’t want to kill her but had to. That doesn’t jive with a domestic dispute that turns into a murder. It’s as if the two were unrelated.”

  “Seems to me like the violence escalated and he killed her,” Hewitt said. “Simple as that.”

  She looked away. She and Sherry had played in the woods surrounding the farm one winter day and returned for Marie’s homemade hot chocolate. That afternoon Fred St. Pierre had come to seven-year-old Sherry’s room and scolded his daughter in front of Peyton. Sherry had forgotten to water the living room plants, and Fred pointed a thick finger at her, his face red, and told her, “How dare you, eh? You appreciate nothing.” Then he called Peyton’s mother and said it was time for her to go home. Sherry had stood at the front door with tears in her eyes that day as she waved goodbye. Peyton, for her part, had never forgotten the humiliation on Sherry’s face.

  “Look into the passports and nine hundred dollars,” he said. “We’ve got more than a grand in cash, two passports, a lab on the border with a murder victim inside, and now a murder-suicide.”

  “There isn’t a lot coming together on Simon Pink. But one former employer mentioned a chemistry background.”

  “That might play well with your crank-cook theory.”

  “It might. I’m going to chase that down. He seemed to have been conservative and outspoken.”

  “A conservative crank cook?” he said.

  “Takes all kinds. Any word from the fire marshal?”

  “Gasoline and matches.”

  “That’ll do it,” she said. “So arson led to the explosion?”

  “That’s now the working theory. Could have torched the cabin for the insurance money.”

  “They built that cabin themselves. And these were simple farm people, Mike. Marie was on local boards, something of a community leader.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Can we have someone look at their financials?”

  “I already put Mitchell Cosgrove on it.”

  Cosgrove had been a CPA before becoming an agent.

  “To be clear,” Hewitt said, “I don’t want you going off on your own if ICE or HSI shows up and trumps you.”

  When she’d begun her career, there had been a total of ten thousand Border Patrol agents and the US Border Patrol had its own investigative arm, the Anti-Smuggling Unit (ASU). Now, within the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), there were subsidiaries—among them Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and their Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) unit. ICE had been created in 2003 and absorbed all of the investigative duties of what had been US Immigration Investigations, US Customs Investigations, and US Border Patrol’s Anti-Smuggling units, making ICE the investigations arm of the Department of Homeland Security. And within ICE, which now totaled twenty thousand agents, there was an international offshoot, Homeland Security Investigations (HSI), featuring 6,700 special agents working 200 US cities and 47 countries, using undercover and plainclothes agents to focus on human and goods trafficking into and out of the US. Peyton mostly approved of the increased awareness, but she hated getting caught up in the alphabet soup.

  “Think ICE and HSI will be here?”

  “That cabin is near the border,” he said. “If someone’s smuggling meth into Canada, HSI might very well want to be involved. You may be asked to desist.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  He looked at her, his brows rising.

  “Are you saying I’m stubborn, Mike?”

  “Meeting adjourned,” he said.

  Nine

  Peyton was home, working on dinner at the kitchen counter Wednesday at 5:45 p.m. If she’d been stationed in a California sector, her salary might have meant a two-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor with a view of a brick wall; in Aroostook County, though, her government salary made renting a thing of the past. Even as a single mother, she could buy a home for her son.

  And now she was in her favorite room: The kitchen had finalized her decision to purchase the home, though it had taken a few updates to fully fulfill her vision. The cupboards were now framed in glass, the appliances were stainless steel, and a large granite island dominated the space.

  Tommy, wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt with David Ortiz’s number 34 on the back, was at the island, math sheet before him, and, based on the independence with which he worked this night, making progress.

  Had she overreacted about his academic growth? Had the meeting with Nancy Lawrence been premature? She’d notice a slight decline last year, but maybe that was to be expected. Maybe the work was just getting harder. Maybe Tommy didn’t need additional academic support, after all.

  Or maybe she was trying to reassure herself that her kid was just like every other kid.

  The ten-year-old looked up. “I can feel you looking at me, Mom.”

  “Just getting dinner ready.” She knew she couldn’t hover, had to allow him to do it on his own, and turned back to her dinner prep-

  arations.

  “Is Mr. Dye coming for dinner?”

  “I already told you he was,” she said.

  “Why can’t Dad ever come for dinner?”

  “He can come for dinner anytime, sweetie.”

  “Tonight?”

  She turned from the counter to find her son staring at her. And she was reminded instantly that for someone who made a living in part by knowing when others were lying, she herself wasn’t very good at doing it. Jeff McComb, her ex-husband, a local realtor, wasn’t welcome in her house. She knew it. Jeff knew it. And, apparently, their son had picked up on it, too.

  “Dad says you don’t like him.”

  She set her knife down—her grip on the handle having grown tighter at the mention of her ex-husband—and walked to her son.

  “Tommy, your dad and I like each other just fine. And we have one very important common interest: you.” She kissed his cheek.

  “Can Dad come for dinner tonight?”

  “Mr. Dye has already made plans to come tonight.”

  “How come I never get
to decide if he should come over?” He started doodling, unwilling to meet her eyes.

  “Because he’s my friend,” she said. “I can invite him here, Tommy.”

  “But you get to decide if my friends are allowed over.”

  “Yes, Tommy. I’m the parent.”

  “You always say that.”

  “I always say it because it doesn’t change. Someday you’ll be the parent, and you can decide.”

  He frowned. “You always say that, too.”

  She leaned to kiss his forehead, but he pulled back.

  “He’s not going to be my dad,” Tommy said.

  “That’s true. And no one wants him to be. You already have a dad.”

  “Can Dad come for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” she said.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Sure. I’ll call and invite him.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said.

  And damned if he didn’t point to her phone and wait for her to do it.

  Thirty minutes later, the TV hanging beneath the cupboard played the CBS Evening News. She stood at the granite counter and cubed steak on a wooden chopping block.

  “Where’s Tommy?” Pete Dye said.

  He’d replaced her son—who’d retreated to his bedroom as soon as Pete arrived—at the island and now sat drinking Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat beer from a frosted glass she took from the freezer.

  “Upstairs,” Peyton said. “I met with Nancy Lawrence this mor-

  ning.”

  “And how did that go?”

  She turned from the chopping block to face him. “You ask that like you know the answer,” she said.

  “I don’t know the answer, but I do know Nancy. I can’t imagine she did well with your direct approach.”

  She smiled. “I’m not that direct.”

  “You’re not exactly passive.”

  “I don’t think she gives a shit about my son. And I have a major problem with that.”

  “I think she likes summers off,” he said.

  She moved to the stove, picked up a wooden spoon, and pushed the steak cubes into a frying pan. The news reported that the president was planning a “short vacation to northern Maine.” The room smelled of soy sauce and onions. The steak, when browned, would find a home in her stir-fry.

  “Meaning she’s not in it for the kids?” she said.

  “She’s not the only teacher I know who got into it for summers off, Peyton.”

  “I don’t care why she got into it. I care about my son. I don’t want him pigeonholed, but I want him helped.” She pushed the meat around with a wooden spoon.

  “Having him tested?”

  “Yes. The teachers are going to meet when the results are back.”

  “Push it,” he said. “The test costs a lot—the district usually pays—and Michael Thompson, the consultant, is very good. Some teachers don’t like him because he sees that kids get what they need.”

  “And I’ll advocate for my son,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens when parents don’t. The cracks are huge, and too many kids fall through.”

  “I’ll stay on top of it,” she said. “Will the other kids know if Tommy gets services?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might,” she said. “I think he’s having a hard time right now.”

  Pete looked at her, waiting. Condensation ran down the beer glass and pooled on the table. He wiped it with his bare hand. She brought him a paper towel.

  “I think he’s being picked on,” she said.

  “He told you so?”

  “No. I was at school and saw something.”

  “Boys are different, Peyton. They push each other, punch each other in the arm. That stuff.”

  “That’s not what I saw. He was being humiliated. I saw it on his face. He slumped away when the others laughed.”

  “What can we do about it?”

  “We?”

  “I want to help,” he said.

  She put down the spoon, crossed the room, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thanks,” he said when they broke, “but it’s no big deal. It’s what I do. It would be like you helping me …” He looked for the words.

  She started to laugh. “What, bust a drug smuggler?”

  “The analogy doesn’t exactly work, but …”

  “Sure,” she said. “You’re a good guy, Pete Dye.” She smiled at the rhyme.

  “I keep telling people that,” he said.

  “Where were you ten years ago?”

  “Watching you marry Jeff. I was at your wedding, remember?”

  “How could I forget? At least you never said I told you so.”

  “Is Tommy avoiding me?” Pete said.

  She moved back to the stove, picked up the wooden spoon, and moved the hissing steak tips around the frying pan.

  “Probably,” she said. “It’s complicated.”

  He nodded. He wore khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, and brown loafers. She liked his five-o’clock shadow.

  “When we went for ice cream after his last soccer game,” he said, “you went to the counter to order, and Tommy and I stayed in the booth. I asked about his dad. He said he never sees him. I could tell he was upset.”

  “The fact of the matter is that you taking him to the batting cages last week was the first fatherly thing anyone has done for him in six months,” she said. “I moved here, in part, so he could see Jeff, but now Jeff’s dating a woman with two kids.”

  “And Tommy’s the odd man out?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Makes me tear up just saying it.”

  “I’ll take him out again,” he said and stood. Didn’t move closer, simply rose to his feet, as if paying the situation the attention it deserved.

  “Jeff has to do it,” she said.

  Pete moved to the window and stood looking out, his back to her. “When I was a kid, my old man walked out. You remember that?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “I was the man of the house at age ten.”

  “I know.”

  “So you also remember what a punk I was for a while there.”

  “Not too long.”

  “But for a while,” he said. “Got into fights at school. Did everything but get arrested.”

  “You were always a nice person, just confused.”

  “I know what it’s like to feel alone when you’re a kid. I’d like to help Tommy.”

  “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has said to me since I moved back. But I think Tommy needs space for a while.”

  He was looking at her now. “When you want me to try to engage him, let me know.”

  “You can get him for dinner,” she said and smiled.

  She could hear Pete’s footsteps overhead and Tommy’s padded movements, courtesy of his white athletic socks. She set the stir-fry on the dining room table, still thinking of Tommy’s testing and of what a formal learning-disability diagnosis might mean for him.

  Would it help him?

  Or would it leave him forever labeled?

  She knew where Pete Dye stood, and she trusted him. But she also remembered kids leaving her classes in elementary and middle school to attend the “resource room,” the dumping ground for the “dumb kids.” She remembered, too, their faces as they paused at the door, the shame in their eyes. She didn’t want that for Tommy, didn’t want him singled out.

  “He said he wasn’t hungry,” Pete said, when he and Tommy entered the room, “but I convinced him to eat.”

  The smile on Pete’s face was forced. Tommy was staring at the hardwood floor.

  “My dad’s coming for dinner tomorrow night,” Tommy said.

  Pete Dye looked at Peyton, who frowned.

 
“That’s great,” Pete said. “You and your dad will have a good time.”

  “I know we will,” Tommy said. “We always do. He’s just really busy or he’d be over here a lot.”

  “I know that, too,” Pete said.

  The meal was awkward, the conversation stilted and disjointed.

  How’s soccer, Tommy?

  Fine.

  Boy, the stir-fry is great, Peyton.

  How’s soccer, Tommy?

  Didn’t you just ask me that?

  Pete Dye said he had to go as soon as the dishes were cleared from the table. And she couldn’t blame him.

  She walked him to his truck. He opened the door and turned to kiss her goodnight. She smiled, but he offered only a cursory peck on the mouth and abruptly pulled away.

  “I wish he didn’t think I was trying to replace Jeff,” he said. “I have no intention of doing that.” His broad shoulders blotted out the light from inside his pickup.

  “The sad thing is,” she said, trying to shrug off the sting of the stifled kiss, “a replacement for his absent father is exactly what he needs.”

  “He’s coming for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

  He shook his head, but his eyes left hers. The official start of summer was still a week or so away, but the evening air was warm, and the sun was still above the horizon.

  He started to get into his rusting Toyota pickup but turned back.

  “Peyton, where does everything with Tommy and Jeff leave you and me?”

  “You and me?” She looked up at him, head tilted. She’d spent years cognizant of her facial expressions amidst tough conversations and tried to hide her emotions here. “It won’t have any impact on what’s between you and me,” she said.

  “Is that realistic?”

  “Why do you ask?” she said.

  “I guess I’m trying to figure out what exactly is ‘between you and me,’” he said. “What we have, where we’re headed.”

  “You sound unhappy.”

  “Just confused. We’ve been dating for months.”

  “This is about sex,” she said. “I told you I need to take things slowly.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Bullshit.”