The purpose of the exile, I suppose.
Just before lunch, I went into the rear storage area and pulled down a bound copy of the Granite Times from 1978, looking for a particular story. I figured that if my mysterious caller was telling the truth — a stretch, I admit — I might find something in the back issues to match what he was claiming. Both Rita and Monty said they had no idea what the caller was talking about, but after my bad experience in Manchester, I was determined to look into it myself. I had spent weeks scanning past years’ issues, every Tuesday edition of the newspaper, until I realized my stupidity and began glancing through the Wednesday issues as well.
It would have been easier to check microfilm but the nearest large library was in Purmort, about an hour away.
So before the appointed noon hour, I spent awhile back in 1978, back when a peanut farmer was President and the biggest news around Boston Falls was whether or not the leather mill would close.
The peanut farmer now builds furniture and makes life miserable for his successors, and the debate over the leather mill continues. When my stomach grumbles increased, I wrapped up 1978 and went out to have lunch.
Lunch on this particular Tuesday was with the police chief, detective, patrol officer, and juvenile officer for the town of Boston Falls, and involved takeout submarine sandwiches from Dot’s Place, about three doors up from our bureau office. We met in the police department’s tiny basement office in the town hall, on the other side of the town common. The entire police force, in the person of Connie Simpson, looked up at me as I came in bearing lunch. Her skin looked freshly tanned and I could tell that her dark blond hair had also recently been trimmed.
“Mmm,” she said. She wiggled her nose. “Smells like fat and grease and meat. How yummy.”
I sat down across from her as she cleared her desk. Connie wore the dark blue uniform of the Boston Falls police department, and in my humble opinion, she wears it pretty well. I passed over her sandwich — steak, cheese, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and whatever else was handy — and opened up my own, just steak and cheese. In some areas I remain a puritan, including food preparation.
When we got into the cleanup phase and were piling up the greasy napkins, I said, “Two questions, Chief.”
“Go right ahead.” Connie’s a few years older than me, though she refuses to get specific.
“Ever hear of a place called Shay’s Meadow, near the Graham River?”
She wiped her delicate lips with a white paper napkin. “Sure. Go up Timberswamp Road, take the second right after the bridge. Dirt road leads out to a gravel pit. Just beyond that is Shay’s Meadow.”
“And the owner is...?”
“The town of Boston Falls,” she said. “Conservation land, donated to the town back in the nineteen forties, if I remember correctly. Which is why that particular lot can be a real pain in the ass.”
“Why’s that?”
She leaned back in her chair and tossed the napkin into a trash can, while I tried not to stare too hard at how she filled out her uniform shirt. “It’s a popular place for kids to raise hell. Make a bonfire, drink beer, shoot off fireworks. Every couple of weeks I get a call to go up there and roust them out.”
“Anything in particular happen out there?”
She grinned and took a sip of her Diet Coke. “What kind of particular?”
“Homicide,” I said. “Some time ago, in that location.”
Connie put the can down on her clean desk. “Let me guess. It’s Tuesday. Must have been your mystery caller.”
“Well,” I said a bit defensively, “you could take it seriously, Chief. A confessed mass murderer and all that. You could put a tap on that phone line, or get phone company records, find out where the call is coming from. Would be a pretty good chit for your record, right?”
Though Connie was still smiling at me, the look had gotten distinctively chilly. “Jack, do you know how many unsolved murders the entire state of New Hampshire — from Canada to the Massachusetts border — currently has?”
“I have no idea, though I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Twelve. For the entire state. Going back more than a decade. And I’ll clue you in to something yet again. None of those unsolved crimes took place in and around Boston Falls. The only homicide we’ve had here took place about thirty years ago, involved a high-school boy who broke into an old man’s house. Period. Plus, don’t you think the attorney general’s office might be aware of a crime involving more than twenty deaths?”
The day was becoming a bust and I decided to wrap this part up. “Okay, all I know is that I keep on getting phone calls from some guy, saying he’s killed twenty-four people. But today he told me that it took place on Shay’s Meadow. That’s why I’m asking.”
Connie shook her head. “Poor Jack, still looking for that big story to spring you out of here, right?”
I ignored her and said, “All right, time for my second question.”
She laughed. “Hold on, you’ve asked me more than just two. What’s going on here?”
“Only the first question counted. The others were just follow-ups. And here’s the second question. How about dinner this Saturday night, over in Compton? Then we can catch the fireworks show up on Lake Montcalm.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Jack. You know the answer. No can do.”
“Why not? We get along, we’re about the same age, we have jobs that bring us into contact every day. We certainly won’t lack for interesting conversation.”
The head shake again, slower. “Sorry, Jack. Lunch is fine. Lunch is wonderful. But that’s it for now.”
“Still worried about the gossipers ruining your reputation?”
“If I had one to ruin, I’d worry about it. Sorry, let’s just leave it. All right?”
Oh well. Shot down in flames yet again. I said, “Okay, but just one more question before I leave.”
“Go ahead.”
“Nice tan. Where did you go?”
“Oh, I spent a few days with my sister. She rented a condo near Hampton Beach.”
“Never heard of it,” I said. “Anywhere near Tyler Beach?”
“Beats me, all those beaches look the same to me,” Connie said. “Now it’s time for my question. When are you going to tell me what you did that got you exiled out here?”
I got up from her desk. “You’ll find out the night we have dinner together.”
“Then I guess we’re both in for a long wait,” she said, her smile no longer so frosty.
“I guess so.”
About twenty minutes later I was in knee-high grass, insects whirling about me, as I strode down near the Graham River. The police chief’s directions were perfect and I had parked my car near the gravel pit, which had some old charred wood and piles of empty beer cans in the center. Shay’s Meadow was a large field, bordered on three sides by lines of maples and birches. It sloped down gradually to the river, which was one of the cleanest in the state. Until it went through Boston Falls and its leather mill, of course.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Maybe a pile of bones. Maybe a series of graveyards. Maybe a signed confession in a bottle sitting on top of a rock. You never know. But all I saw was a beautiful New Hampshire field and in the distance, the eastern peaks of the White Mountains.
I was admiring the view so much that I didn’t look where I was going, so of course I tripped over something and fell flat on my face.
I got up, cursing some at the cuts and scrapes on my hands. Grass is delicate and beautiful, except when it’s long and when you fall into it. Then it can be as sharp as razor blades.
I looked at what had tripped me up, and found an old concrete post, sticking out of the ground about two feet. In the center of the post was a square section where I poked at a chunk of rotten wood. Interesting. I got up and walked some more, and damn if I didn’t trip again and fall down. I stayed there for a moment, to see if anyone was around laughing at me, but all I heard were birds and the low whirr of insects, so I got up. Post number two looked exactly like post number one. I got back down on my hands and knees and went exploring.