Locust Lane: A Novel

Prologue

PATRICK

He hit the dog on Locust. It came out of nowhere, a blur of dark motion. He swerved, but not enough—the bumper’s edge caught the animal’s hindquarters, sending it spinning back into the night. Its yelp harmonized with the shriek of braking tires. And then he’d stopped in the middle of the road, his heart racing, thinking that maybe going out for a drive wasn’t such a good idea after all.

It took him a moment to locate the stricken animal. It had fled back the way it had come, but only made it as far as the nearest lawn, where it was now turning in circles, nipping at its flank, locked in futile pursuit of its pain. It finally lay down and began to lick furiously at the point of impact. The dog was big and black. A Labrador, maybe, or a Labrador and something else. Patrick didn’t know dogs.

He checked the nearby houses to see if lights were flaring as homeowners in robes emerged onto front porches. All was quiet. The dashboard clock read 3:11. It was entirely possible the event had gone unnoticed by the residents of Locust Lane. The setbacks here were deep, the windows tightly sealed. Trees shrouded most of the housefronts. Things that happened on the street were a long way off.

The dog continued to nurse its wound, though its movements suggested a recovery was in progress. Patrick told himself to drive on. He wasn’t at fault. Dogs weren’t allowed to run free in Emerson. Everybody knew that. A six-foot leash was required. There were signs everywhere. And he was not necessarily under the legal limit. The last thing he needed was to wind up walking the sobriety tightrope for some yawning cop. Go home, he thought. Finish the bottle, hit the sack. You know the drill. Dawn will come, followed by another barren day.

But he couldn’t do it. He’d injured a living thing. That made him responsible for it. He had to help. He didn’t need another item in the overladen shopping cart of guilt he was pushing around. He’d made a deal with himself not to abandon decency. He could leave behind everything else, but not that.

He pulled the car to the side of the road. The dog remained curled on the grass, although it was fussing with its flank less avidly. Having committed himself to helping, Patrick now understood that he had no idea what to do. Loading a large, frightened, and potentially bloody creature into his M3 and transporting it to an all-night animal hospital was out of the question. And he certainly wasn’t dragging it back home. Whatever he was going to do would have to be done right here. The best he could come up with was to see if there was a tag on its collar, a number to call.

He got out of the car. The dog watched him, waiting for the human being to define the situation.

Good boy, Patrick said, although he had no evidence that the dog was either of these things.

It emitted a brief whine, more of a radar ping than a call for help. It was taking the measure of this creature who’d brought the pain. Its tail quivered in an unfriendly way. Patrick held out his right hand as a gesture of peace, palm down, fingers dangling, like royalty expecting a kiss. This was more or less the extent of his knowledge of canine communication. He’d never had a dog.

The wounded animal rose shakily, holding its back right paw a few inches off the grass. Standing was a good sign. No spinal damage; presumably no vital organs ruptured. It could limp back home to be cared for by the idiot who let it run free in the middle of the night. Patrick turned back to his car but froze when the dog growled. Low and ominous, like a waste disposal ready for debris. He turned to face it. Previously flat fur on the back of its neck had risen into a staticky bristle. It took a menacing step forward. That injured leg seemed to be getting better by the second.

Okay, Patrick thought. Time to call it a night. He showed the dog his hand again, this time offering his flat palm, a cop stopping traffic. There was no need for drama. Whoever’s name was on that collar could take it from here. Get themselves a six-foot leash and obey the damned law.

He took a backward step. The dog took a mirroring step forward. Patrick wondered if his hand gestures meant something different to the dog than what he’d intended. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. He’d left the car door open. That was good. Safety was just five quick strides away. He was pretty sure he could make it there before a three-legged dog.

But then the animal turned its head, its attention drawn to something in a thick copse of trees that separated the residential behemoth directly in front of Patrick from the even larger house next door. Patrick followed its gaze. At first, all he could see was varying degrees of nothingness. The trees were dense, knotted together by a network of vines. But then something defined itself. A man-sized delineation of the darkness. A human being—tall, broad shouldered—watching from a hundred feet away.

What the fuck?

Is this your dog? Patrick called out.

There was no response.

Hello?

Nothing. This made no sense. Why would the dog’s owner be hiding in the trees? The town’s leash law penalties weren’t that harsh. Unless it wasn’t the dog’s owner. But vagabonds and lurkers weren’t exactly common in Emerson. As far as he knew, the town’s homeless population consisted of a small, ever-shifting squad of men cooling their heels at the Hilton after getting booted by aggrieved wives. He should know, having been one of them last year.

He looked back at the dog just as it made up its mind about whomever it had seen in the shadows and turned back to Patrick. At which point it made up its mind about him as well, and not in a positive way. Its growl deepened. It took another ominous step forward, the kind of murderous stealth on display in cable shows about the Serengeti. That injured leg appeared to have undergone a full recovery.

Time to go. With haste. Resurrecting a move from his wide receiver days, Patrick emphatically stamped his right foot forward, then pivoted and headed in the opposite direction. All he needed to be home free was five strides, a nifty spin into the car, and a slammed door. And he almost made it. His front foot was already in when there was a sharp explosion of pain on his trailing hamstring. The dog had bitten him. Luckily, its jaws didn’t find purchase. Patrick’s momentum allowed him to reach the driver’s seat and pull the door shut behind him. It didn’t latch, however, slamming instead into a cushion of bone and tissue. The dog’s head. There was an ear-shattering yelp, followed by a whimpering retreat. Patrick pulled the door all the way closed as the dog limped off toward that dense copse, where a hidden man had just impassively watched it attack another human being.

Patrick gingerly probed the back of his injured thigh. The trousers were torn but there was no evidence of blood. The adrenaline continued to pump, fueling anger now. What the hell had just happened? Why hadn’t that asshole intervened? Had he given the dog some sort of secret attack command? Patrick turned on his engine and maneuvered until his high beams illuminated the woods. But there was no one there. Just trees and vines. And of course the darkness, patiently waiting for the end of this frantic little interruption of its dominion.

Back at the town house, Patrick stripped off his torn pants and inspected the wound. The skin hadn’t been broken, though he suspected there was a nasty bruise to come. He slathered it with antiseptic cream just to be safe, then applied an ice pack. For the relief of pain, a large tumbler of Suntory and two ibuprofen.

It was now approaching four. He should be in bed. He should have been in bed when the dog was biting him. He should have been in bed when he decided to go for a drive. But a dream had awakened him, driving him clean out of the house. Not a dream, really, but a disembodied voice, clearer and closer than any dream could ever be. Dad, can you come get me? It had not been from when Gabi was a girl, sunny and carefree, needing to be picked up from soccer practice or an afternoon at the mall. Nor was it her latter self, pleading and ravaged and shattered, calling from a borrowed burner or reversing the $24.99-a-minute charge from a jailhouse pay phone. No, this call came from the here and now, from the young woman she would have been. Confident and a little impatient. On the cusp of her adult life. Doing her father a favor by allowing him to do this favor for her.

He wasn’t in bed when she spoke to him, but rather in his old recliner, the only piece of furniture he’d extracted from his vanished life. It took him a minute to find his bearings. He wore the clothes he’d changed into after work, Dockers and a polo shirt. There was a tumbler filled with whisky-tinted ice melt and a bowl of pistachio shells on the table beside him. The Discovery Channel was broadcasting a muted show about bearded men on a boat, fighting the elements.

Sleep banished, he’d driven. He followed a random course through town. He turned left, he turned right. It didn’t matter as long as he kept moving. Adams to Cabot; St. James to Smith, and then on to Rockingham. On Centre through the town’s center, where nothing was open but everything was brightly lit. Past the high school, where a lone car sat in the vast lot, sodium light raining down over it like warm drizzle. Past the Mobil Mini Mart, where a Hopperesque figure sat encased in bulletproof glass. And then onto Locust, where the black dog crossed his path.

He should try to get some sleep in the small patch of night remaining, although that wouldn’t come unassisted. Not with the pain in his leg, the residual adrenaline still coursing through his veins. And so he topped up on the Japanese wonder drug and contemplated that figure in the woods. The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. He couldn’t imagine anyone in this town failing to intervene as their pet got hit, attacked a stranger, then was pancaked by a slamming car door. That animal had probably had more spent on its well-being than three-quarters of the world’s children. And yet, not a peep from the woods. If the man just happened to be there by coincidence, then what was he doing there? It didn’t add up.

He contemplated calling the police to report a prowler, a dog on the loose. But he could see how such a call would go. They’d listen patiently, send a patrol car to Locust, find nothing. Besides, Patrick wasn’t exactly on the best of terms with the local cops. No, this was over and done with. He decided to allot himself two more drinks. That would do the trick, filling in the three looming hours before he’d have to rise and shine; before the wasteland of the morning would finally creep into view.

Midday Wednesday

DANIELLE

She was on duty when they came through the door. Everybody was—lunch was their heaviest time for traffic. People liked to buy jewelry in the middle of the day. Mostly office workers on their lunch break. Couples, single men—you got a good mix. If you wanted to make sales, you either ate early or you ate late or you didn’t eat at all.

But these two weren’t customers. She saw that right away. They weren’t even a couple, at least not the sort of couple who usually rolled into a jewelry shop. A middle-aged Black woman who looked like a high school principal accompanied by a white knucklehead who could have been the wrestling coach. The woman was a little on the heavy side but carried it well, her clothes spotless, not a hair out of place. The man had a body built of free weights and beer; his hair was shaped by electric razors and gel. No, they were definitely not here to buy an engagement ring. There were credentials dangling from their necks she couldn’t read from this distance. Tax people, she guessed. Steve would have seen them on the CCTV in his office. He was probably shredding documents already.

Tomi was closing a deal on what looked a half-carat solitaire, so that left Britt up. The little dummy thought they were customers, so she came at them with that shitshow she called charm. But her smile vanished the moment the woman explained herself. She turned and pointed to Danielle.

Here we go, she thought. Again. Eden had called last night, just after midnight, but Danielle missed it. She’d gone to bed early, turning her ringer off because of a recent spate of Scam Likely calls. So she didn’t see that her daughter had called until she woke this morning. She hadn’t left a message. Danielle tried to call back but there was no answer. Which meant she’d been unable to forestall whatever nonsense was about to be laid at her feet.

Danielle had no issues with the tax people and her daughter had no money, so maybe they were social services. Although they tended not to come in pairs. The snakes who served summonses and warrants tended to work alone as well. And then she saw the gold shields and that feeling of annoyance shifted to something deeper.

It was the woman who spoke.

Danielle Perry?

Her voice was surprisingly kind. In most situations you could say it was soothing. Just not in this one.

What has she done now?

My name is Dorothy Gates. I’m a detective with the state police. This is Detective Procopio from Emerson.

Gates looked around. Another couple had just been buzzed in. The showroom wasn’t that big. It was getting crowded.

Is there somewhere we could talk?

The fear was starting to come harder. Eden had been in trouble, God only knew, but it had never required two detectives and privacy to explain.

Ms. Perry?

There was the storage room, but that was just a walk-in safe with no seating. Which left the manager’s office. Steve wouldn’t be happy having cops in there.

I’m not…

And then, on cue, he appeared, Steve Slater himself, with his chest hair and loafers. His eyes were locked on the cops; his frown was so profound it looked like he was in the early stages of a stroke. He said nothing as he approached, as if already following his lawyer’s advice.

These are Detectives Gates and Procopio, Danielle, good at names, explained. Could we use your office for a minute?

My office, he repeated flatly.

Among the many things in Steve Slater’s office that he wouldn’t want the detectives to see was a gleaming Colt 1911 tucked in a holster he’d affixed to the well of his desk, an instrument of mayhem that may or may not be licensed with the Commonwealth. On the rare occasions he buzzed in suspicious characters, he had a charming habit of stuffing the pistol into the front of his action slacks.

Yes, I would appreciate that, Gates said.

Which put Slater on the spot. A refusal would get the cops wondering.

Certainly, he said, sounding like someone had superglued his molars together.

He unlocked the door with the key at the end of his elastic chain and held it open for them.

Do you know how long this will take? he asked as they passed by.

Gates turned and smiled sweetly, her face just inches away from his.

We’ll take just as long we need.

If honey were corrosive, that was her voice. The security door shut heavily behind them. There were two chairs facing his desk. Gates, immediately and fully in charge, motioned to one of them.

Ms. Perry, I’d like you to take a seat.

That’s when Danielle knew it was the worst kind of bad. She’d been asked to take a seat once before. Her grandmother after the heart attack.

I’d prefer to stay standing, she said, as if remaining on her feet could ward off what was coming.

Please, Gates said, her voice absolute in its kindness.

And so she sat. Gates took the other chair, perching right on its edge, ready to get back to her feet at a moment’s notice. Procopio remained standing, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His eyes had not left Danielle since Britt had pointed her out. They betrayed no emotion. It was as if she was a test he was studying for.

Ms. Perry, Gates said. There’s really no good way to say this. I’m afraid Eden is dead.

Danielle held the woman’s eye for a moment, just to be sure, then looked around for something to focus on beside that unbearable sympathy. Her gaze landed on a photo of Slater and his daughters in front of a muscle car. She looked back at the detective.

I’m so sorry, Gates said.

Danielle wondered why she wasn’t crying and carrying on. She knew it was happening somewhere inside her but it hadn’t arrived yet.

What happened?

Again, this is hard news, but we believe she was murdered.

How?

It appears she suffered a blow to the head.

Where was she?

At a house in Emerson. Do you know…

Wait, were Bill and Betsy…

They were out of town.

You’re sure it’s her?

Her driver’s license was at the scene. We’ve spoken with the homeowners. Danielle, it’s her.

Was she…

We’re looking at that.

Danielle had run out of questions.

When did you last speak with your daughter? Gates asked.

Last night. Around seven.

Did she indicate there was anything wrong? Procopio asked, his voice what she’d expected, practice fields and dive bars and roofing gigs.

No, Danielle answered. Where is she now?

We’re looking after her.

There was a knock on the door. Procopio answered it. His conversation with Slater didn’t last long. And then it was just the three of them again. Danielle remembered something.

She called. I mean, a second time. Last night.

And when was that?

Just after midnight.

What did she say?

I missed it. I was asleep.

Did she leave a message?

Danielle shook her head.

I tried to call back this morning but…

But she was dead.

So what am I supposed to do now?

We’re going to need to ask you some questions, Gates said.

Can it be later? I’m not…

She didn’t know what she wasn’t.

It has to be now and let me tell you why. At this point in time we’re still trying to piece it all together. And every moment that passes makes that a little harder to do.

Can we not do it in here, at least?

Tell you what. Come down to the station with us. I think that would be best all around.

Is she there?

No, she’s being looked after by the Medical Examiner.

Can we go there first?

We can talk about all of that after we get to the station.

In the showroom, whatever everyone was thinking vanished when they saw the look on Danielle’s face. Steve said something and then Britt said something but she couldn’t process their words.

Eden.

Their car was double-parked just outside the door. There was a Watertown cruiser as well. It took off after a nod from Gates. Danielle sat in the back. It wasn’t far to Emerson. Procopio drove. He used his lights and siren a few times to clear people out of the way. They didn’t speak, though Gates turned around every minute or so to check on her. Danielle was finding it hard to hold on to her thoughts. It felt like that moment right before you fell asleep, when your mind was pulling you into dreams. Things were still familiar but also completely different from your normal life. You could imagine Eden being just about any old thing. Under arrest. In the ER. In need of rescue from a fender bender or a disastrous one-night stand or angry people who’d been dumb enough to trust her. Laughing her head off over something nobody else even understood. But not dead. She was always alive when you thought about her. More alive than anybody. Fidgeting and talking and asking. Sipping your beer, taking food off your plate. Never quite getting it but plunging ahead anyway, as if the world was a big, rubberized playground where nothing truly bad could ever happen.

You wouldn’t happen to know the password to her phone?

1526, Danielle answered immediately.

Gates was surprised.

It’s her birthday plus mine, Danielle explained. I bought it for her on the condition I knew the password.

Gates sent a text and then the silence resumed. They arrived in Emerson. Big houses, big cars, quiet streets. As always, Danielle was struck by how safe it all looked.

This must not happen here much, she said. People getting killed.

Things happen all over, Gates said, a trace of weary wonder in her voice.

Emerson Police Headquarters looked more like some high-tech firm on Route 128 than a place where the grubby business of law enforcement took place. There was a van parked outside emblazoned with the name of a local news affiliate. A tiny bottle blonde in skyscraper heels spoke into a camera beside it.

Terrific, Procopio muttered.

They parked in a spot near the back entrance. Inside, there was an open-plan office that was both busy and hushed. People glanced at her as she passed, only to look quickly away. A uniformed man—tall, older, silver-haired—awaited them at the door of a glass-walled conference room. He introduced himself as the chief of police; she couldn’t catch his name through the oceanic buzz now filling her ears. When he shook her hand, he covered it like it was a waffle in an iron.

I am so sorry about your child, he said.

A strange choice of words given the fact her daughter was twenty, but unintentionally accurate. Eden was nothing if not a child. They entered the room. She was once again shown where she needed to sit. Gates and Procopio sat across from her; the chief remained standing. There was a manila envelope on the table. Gates produced a small tape recorder, pressed a button, then placed it on the table between them.

I’m going to be recording our conversation. There’s also a camera.

Danielle nodded. As if she had a say in any of this.

Okay, what I’m going to do is show you two photographs. We’re going to need you to look at them and tell us if they’re your daughter. I have to warn you that this is not an easy thing. But it has to be done.

Yeah, I get it.

Okay. Here we go.

Gates pulled two big photos from the envelope. She looked at them for a moment, as if having second thoughts, then placed them on the table in front of Danielle. They were close-ups of Eden’s face. Her eyes were half-open. The white of the left one was purply red; its lid was swollen like waterlogged bread. You could see the smallest bit of her tongue.

Her eye.

That would be from internal bleeding, Gates said.

Danielle touched the edge of one of the photos, adjusting it so it squared up with the other. She nodded. There was silence.

You’re confirming that the person in these photographs is your daughter, Eden Angela Perry?

Yes.

There was movement behind her. The chief. He put something on the table next to her. A pen. A very nice pen.

We’re just going to need you to initial the back of each photo.

She did as told. Gates collected the two photos and put them back in the envelope.

Can I see her?

Not quite yet.

I’m going to need to do that.

We understand. The detective shifted in her chair. Now, when you spoke to your daughter last night, what did you talk about?

Nothing, really. I was mainly after her to, well you probably know this, she has a court date coming up.

The shoplifting thing.

Which is a crock. Anyway, she needed to touch base with the lawyer.

Gates gestured dismissively. Nobody cared about shoplifting now.

Did she mention if she was seeing anyone last night?

No.

What exactly was she doing at the Bondurants’? On the phone they said something about them being relations.

Distant cousins. Betsy can tell you the exact number. We were connected through my aunt Nancy. We met at her funeral…

Her voice caught for a second on that word.

Take your time.

The Bondurants had taken Eden under their wing. She’s … a handful. She’s not bad. She’s just, sometimes she does dumb stuff because the dumb stuff is easy. She trusts people who should have never been trusted. But she wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I’m sure, Gates said.

She drives you crazy about ten times a day, but she’s also kind of an angel. It’s hard to explain. You have to know her.

Danielle started to cry. She never cried, but there it was. The tears were like hard little stabs to her eyes. A box of tissues materialized—the chief again. Okay, she told herself after twenty or thirty seconds. That’s that. You’ve cried, and it did all the good it usually does. She dabbed at her eyes, turning the snowy-white tissue coal black.

How long had she been there? Gates asked.

Almost three months.

And she seemed happy?

She did.

And what did she do, exactly?

Well, Betsy just needed a companion. Somebody to help her get around. I think mostly she was just lonely for her own kids. I guess you know about their eldest.

Yes. Very sad.

And the others grown and gone. She just wanted someone to fuss over. I was skeptical at first. Eden isn’t exactly a seasoned caregiver. But they really hit it off. Oh, and there was the dog, too. She looked after that. Was it…?

The dog’s fine. What did you know about Eden’s social life?

Not a lot. She didn’t like to tell me things. We were often at odds on that particular subject.

Why was that?

"She’d made some poor choices in the past and so I guess I could be kind of hard on her about the company she