I moved closer and she whispered, “Just a quick kiss, all right? I don’t want my son seeing a man’s hands up my shirt.”
A soft kiss to her lips. She squeezed my hand again and whispered, “Next week he’s off visiting his uncle and aunt in Vermont. Come back for dinner then.”
I kissed her again. “I’m getting hungry already.”
I took a detour home, driving up Phelan’s Hill, the highest peak in town. On top is a fire tower, manned in the summertime. Two other cars were up there, so I parked on the far side of the dirt lot. Young love hates to be disturbed.
From the windshield I could make out the sparse lights of Pinette. I settled back into the seat of the truck. Off to the right, by the fire tower, was a collection of barbecue stands and wooden picnic tables. Two years ago, there had been nothing here except a gravel parking lot, and some townspeople asked the selectmen to purchase the picnic tables and barbecue stands to turn the fire tower into a picnic area. The board had refused. But a month or so later, an anonymous donor had given the necessary funds to the town, and the picnic area was built.
Below the hill, in town, was a new Little League field. Outstanding mortgages for three or four elderly residents had been discreetly paid. There was a well-stocked food bank at the Congregational church. All taken care of anonymously.
And in a couple of years, a certain young mother would find in her mailbox a hefty check made out to her son, from something called the Northern Maine Woods Scholarship Organization. In the cover letter, it would state that these scholarships were reserved for the sons and daughters of lumber workers killed in the woods, kids who had expressed a desire to study computers.
The thought made me smile. Maybe it should be called an association instead of an organization. That sounded better. From one of the cars I heard soft cries, and the honk of a horn as an arm or leg pressed against the steering wheel. Another smile.
Not a bad place to be. I had adjusted to exile in Pinette and liked being anonymous, especially anonymous with a fat bank account. That account helped with a lot of things, including odd guilt pangs from old times.
But now I had an e-mail buddy on the other end of the telephone wire. That would have to be taken care of, and soon. I started the truck and headed back home.
The next day I received a reply from my anonymous correspondent:
TO: Sopwith 12
FROM: Anon666
Here’s the deal. Fifty thousand dollars cash and we don’t turn you in. If you don’t reply, the evidence we have will be made public. You have 24 hours to respond.
I looked at the screen, thinking of the complexity of computer systems and the men and women who have sweated to wire the world. The people who had placed me in this little town had made a number of promises; chief among them was the assurance that I would never be charged with anything, ever again.
But someone out there knew something. How?
I moved my fingers to the keyboard and sighed. I sent my reply.
TO: Anon666
FROM: Sopwith 12
Before anybody gets paid anything, I want to know what evidence you’re talking about.
Then I switched off the computer and went through the house, gathering my collection of pistols, rifles, and shotguns. In my backyard I set up targets and shot away all afternoon until my ears rang, even through ear protection, and the forefinger on my right hand developed a blister.
I ate grilled-cheese-and-tuna sandwiches over the kitchen sink and spent the evening in front of the fire, cleaning my guns. Usually the scent of gun oil and the precision of the cleaning process calm me down and bring everything into soft focus, but not tonight.
The next day I chopped more wood, set up a new bird feeder at the edge of the woods, and changed the wiper blades on my truck. But all day I kept glancing up at the office window on the second floor of the house, as if I half-expected to see a mailman there, waving at me.
After washing my hands for the fourth time, I trudged upstairs and flipped on the computer, smiling wryly. Surfing the Net was usually my reward for a hard day of work, something to look forward to. My not-so-friendly correspondent had changed that.
The icon popped up. Just for once, couldn’t the programmers at Mycroft make that mailman a mailwoman? Just for a change? I double-clicked.
My mailbox contained two pieces of mail. I called up the first, from Anon666. This one had a name, evidence, and it indicated that four files were attached to it. These were graphic files, with easy-to-understand instructions on how to view them, which I followed. The images scanned themselves into place on my computer screen. Each was a picture of young boys or girls, or both, involved in activities that would make the picture takers instantly eligible for ten to fifteen years in jail. I closed the files and trashed them, and then went out and washed my hands again. When I came back, I opened up the second message:
TO: Sopwith 12
FROM: Anon666
Now that you have viewed the evidence, here’s the deal. Fifty thousand dollars or we let the information out that you’re a collector and trader. You have 24 hours to respond.
I was smiling as I typed my reply:
TO: Anon666
FROM: Sopwith 12
Sorry, stupid. I have many faults, but activity involving children isn’t one of them. Peddle your wares elsewhere, and while you’re at it, piss off.
I whistled as I went downstairs. The idiot on the other end had undoubtedly screwed up the address. Sopwith 21 or Sopwith 11 would be getting blackmail notes next. If so, he would get what he deserved.
I decided to call Miriam.
The postmistress and first selectwoman of Pinette lay in bed with me, one foot idly tracing my leg. Her head was on my shoulder and the room smelled musky and warm, and she was gently interrogating me.
“We’ve known each other for a while, now, haven’t we,” she murmured.
“Uh-huh,” I said, staring up at the dark ceiling, my eyelids fluttering open and shut.
“And all I know about you is that you’re retired, you made some good investments at a younger age, and you’re living off that.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
I winced as she turned her foot and started scraping my leg with an untrimmed toenail. “I want to know more.”
“What?” I said in mock anger. “And take the mystery and romance out of our relationship?”
She paused for a moment, then giggled and said, “I’m beginning to feel like one of those threatened women in dopey made-for-TV movies. You know, lonely woman falls in love with dashing stranger, and by the fourth commercial she’s being found in pieces in shallow graves in New Jersey.”
“Do you feel threatened?”
“Hmmm,” she said, burrowing into my shoulder. “Not yet. But I would like to know more about you.”
I stifled a sigh. Conversations like this inevitably end up losers. “Okay. Tonight and for one night only. Ask three questions and you get three answers. All right?”
“Really?”
“Yep, and to show you how fair I am, I won’t count that as a question. Go ahead.”
I could feel her body tense as she thought, and then she said, “Where are you from?”
“Valparaiso, Indiana.” True.
“Where did you work before you came to Maine?”
“A company called Seylon Systems. It’s now defunct.” Which was true, if the fact that its other founding members were now dead or in jail equaled defunction.
“And what did you do there, for Seylon Systems?”
“I solved problems.” Okay, that one was a stretch, but true enough.
“What kind of problems?”