Three Can Keep a Secret

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Willy killed his engine within sight of the cabin. It was in a clearing, deep in the woods, at the end of a rarely traveled, weed-choked track. There was no vehicle to be seen, but the garden was well tended, the woodpile large and ready for the coming fall and winter. A few articles of clothing hung listlessly on a rope between two trees off to the side, in the afternoon sun. To Willy, it was symbolic of a life stripped down, its momentum as arrested and preserved as if held in solitary confinement.

Defying unwritten protocol, Willy didn’t wait for a reaction from inside the cabin, but immediately exited the car, stood before it to be clearly visible, and held his badge up high.

In response, the rough wooden door opened to reveal a thin, balding man with a long gray beard, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of bibbed overalls. He reminded Willy more of some touristy calendar art than a sample of the local culture.

“Nate Rozanski?” he called out.

The man didn’t move at first, as if frozen by the greeting, before his shoulders slumped and he answered quietly, “I figured you’d show up sooner or later.”

Willy approached. “For twenty-seven years?” he asked.

Rozanski watched him, his face somber and defeated.

Willy stuck his hand out in greeting, a gesture he generally avoided. Rozanski’s grip was soft and powerless-offered halfheartedly.

“I didn’t come to cause you trouble, Nate,” Willy told him. “Not necessarily. But you know why I’m here. I need to hear what happened.”

“I killed my brother,” Rozanski said without preamble.

Willy nodded, having suspected that interpretation. “Can we sit?” he asked, gesturing toward the door.

Nate led the way, taking Willy into a single room with a bed in one corner, a small table in the middle, and a large homebuilt bookcase lining one wall, filled with cans and boxes of food and two small piles of neatly folded clothes. In another corner was a woodstove with a cook top and a couple of pans. There were no decorations on the walls, and only the one window facing the front. There was no plumbing or electricity to be seen. Willy reassessed his image of a self-made prison cell and now saw the place more as a monastic retreat of penance.

He crossed to the table, pulled out the one chair, and waited for Nate to find his own spot to settle, which became the edge of the bed. Given the size of the cabin, that still put him pretty nearby.

“Tell me what happened,” Willy instructed him.

“I told you,” was the murmured reply.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Nate. I drove a long way.”

Nate’s voice was slow and awkward, as if lack of use had atrophied its muscles. “I put him into the saw.”

“Accidentally or on purpose?”

“On purpose.”

Willy coaxed him along. “Did you plan it out, or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing?”

“We fought.”

“What about?”

Nate silently stared at his gnarly, intermeshed hands, dangling between his knees.

“A woman?” Willy prompted.

Rozanski let out a short noise that Willy interpreted as a chopped-off laugh.

“That funny?”

Nate shook his head once, but then said, “Kinda.”

Willy didn’t hesitate. “A man?”

Nate looked up, his impassive face as close to startled as seemed possible, given his range of expressions.

Willy pushed on. “Your brother was gay?”

Rozanski scowled. “I hate that word.”

“You hate them, too?” Willy shot back.

Slowly, Nate covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t know,” he said, barely whispering.

“Didn’t know what?”

“I didn’t understand.”

He seemed blocked, so Willy tried redirecting him. “Take me back, Nate, to before that happened. Tell me about your family.”

“There’s nothing left,” he said.

“Your sister, Eileen, would be sad to hear that.”

That prompted another reaction as Nate dropped his hands-a slight smile. “I guess so.”

“She still loves you,” Willy said. “That’s why she keeps in touch.”

“She’s a good girl.”

“What was it like-you, Eileen, Herb, and your parents?”

Nate’s gaze drifted to the worn wooden floorboards between them when he spoke. “Nuthin’ special. Same as all families.”

“Most family members don’t kill each other.”

That didn’t jar him. “You asked about before.”

“I did. Still, call me crazy, but it sure sounds like there were tensions.”

Nate glanced up. “You’re a wiseass.”

“Never heard that one before,” Willy deadpanned. “Talk to me about the family.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Nate’s face. “We just lived in the same house.”

That sounded familiar to Willy. He could have made the same claim. “Nobody got along?”

“Not particularly.”

“’Cept maybe with Eileen?”

“Right.”

Willy sighed. “You really want me to drag this out of you? I can do that. You already told me you killed Herb. What’s the big deal if you didn’t like Mommy and Daddy, for Christ’s sake? Spit it out, Nate. Get this shit out. How many years you been waiting for this?”

“It’s hard.”

Willy leaned close in. “Hard?” he almost yelled. “Herb had it hard, dipwad. You killed that sorry fucker, Nate. That’s hard. You’re just wallowing in it.”

Nate’s face had reddened, his hands clenched, and his shoulders hunched tight.

Willy poked him in the arm, and Rozanski recoiled. “Come on, Nate. Let’s hear what you got. You been practicing for decades, getting this confession down. Well, it’s showtime. The audience is getting restless. Tell me about the family Rozanski. What the hell happened that all that anger finally blew a gasket?”

Nate was beginning to fidget on the edge of the bed, as if he might leap to his feet and lash out.

That’s when Willy abruptly shifted gears and laid a fraternal hand on his knee. “Nate,” he said softly. “Nate. Look at me.”

The other man blinked a couple of times and stared at him.

“It’s over, man,” Willy counseled him. “All the waiting, all the buildup, all the self-hate. Don’t think about it anymore. Just talk. Listen to the questions and tell me the answers. One at a time, one after another. Okay?”

Nate bobbed his head silently.

“What was your mom like? Dreama?”

“Yeah.”

“She wear the pants in the family? Roll over and play dead? Something in between?”

“She rolled over.”

“Outstanding. That’s good,” Willy praised him. “Was that with your father or all of you?”

“Just Bud.”

“You called your dad by his first name. That’s unusual. What was he like?”

“A son of a bitch.”

“Good. He beat you guys up?”

“Yeah.”

“He do anything to Eileen?”

Nate’s eyes narrowed. “You mean kinky?”

“Sure.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “He just hit her, like the rest of us.”

“What about Herb? More? Less? How did he treat Herb?”

“It changed.”

“From when he was little?”

Rozanski nodded.

“Started gentle and got rough?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Herb was soft.”

“And stayed soft?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t like that, either. Is that correct?”

“He was like a girl.”

“Like Eileen?”

“Yeah.”

“And so what worked for Bud worked for you. Is that the way it was, Nate? Did you let Bud set the example? Maybe to get on his good side? You and Bud against the world?”

Nate murmured, “I guess.”

“Did it work?”

He shook his head.

“’Cause you and Bud were different, weren’t you? He hit Herb for one reason and you hit him for another. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“And then one day, there you are, in the sawmill. Was it the three of you, or just you and your brother?”

“Dad came in right at the end.”

“Dad?” Willy echoed. “He was Dad then, wasn’t he? Or that’s what you wanted him to be. Your dad; your friend; the source of love you thought every family had but yours. Did Herb get all of that, and you got nothing, even with all the beating?”

Nate stayed silent.

“Come on,” Willy urged him. “Tell me you didn’t feel Herb got what you didn’t. Eileen, too, except she was a girl, so that was all right. Weren’t you pissed at Herb, Nate? Till he pushed you over the edge?”

Nate rubbed his forehead until it reddened. “I pushed him,” he mouthed.

“Into the saw blade or over the edge?”

“What’s the difference?”

“How did you push him over the edge?” Willy pressed.

“I accused him.”

“Of being gay…” Willy quickly self-corrected, “Of being a faggot?” he suggested. “A queer? What did you do, Nate?”

Nate surprised him then by looking up, befuddled. “I don’t remember.”

Willy sharpened his voice. “Cut the crap. What does that mean?”

“I mean what started it. We were working the job-what Bud had told us to do-and Herb said something. I don’t know what it was. All these years, I’ve tried to remember. I just blew up. Started yelling. I grabbed him.…” His voice trailed off.

“You threw him into the saw,” Willy suggested.

“Dad walked in right then,” Nate finished. “Herb was screaming. Blood was everywhere. Bud didn’t care about any of it. He just started beating on me.”

Willy frowned. “What about Herb?”

Nate shook his head. “He got himself off the saw, I guess. I didn’t see it. Maybe he didn’t. I was covering my head, trying to get away. Bud had a two-by-four. I finally blacked out.”

Willy kept to what Nate believed to be true. “But Herb was dead?”

Nate stared at him. “Of course he was dead. I killed him.”

“But you didn’t see him.”

“Bud put him in a coffin, for God’s sake.”

“But you didn’t see him,” Willy repeated.

Nate’s voice dropped as he said weakly, “The sheriff came.”

“And he didn’t see him, either.” Willy leaned in to ask, “Did the sheriff see you, with all your cuts and bruises from Bud?”

“No,” Nate admitted. “I was told to stay away.”

“What happened between Bud and the sheriff?”

“I heard they met in the mill. That’s where Bud put the coffin-a box, really. The sheriff drove up, talked with Bud awhile, and he drove off. That was it.”

“What about your mom?” Willy asked. “What was she doing through all this?”

“I don’t know. When I woke up, after the beating, he sent me to get fixed up by her. She did it, but never said a word, and a day later, he threw me out. I never saw her again.”

“Where was Eileen?”

“She came home right after the fight, but I don’t know where she was when the sheriff came. I saw her for a couple of minutes when I was leaving the next day. She didn’t have a clue. Nobody told her nuthin’. She just looked stunned.”

“You keep in touch, though. She told me,” Willy said.

“Yeah, sometimes.” Nate’s tone was wistful. “She had it rough, being alone all of a sudden, with Bud and Dreama ending up the way they did. Her whole world blew up when she wasn’t looking. I’m glad she found Phil.”

“Ranslow?”

“Yeah. He sounds all right for her.”

“When was the last time you and Eileen talked?” Willy asked, remembering what she’d answered.

“I don’t know,” Nate said. “A year, maybe? I’m too embarrassed to say much, so I leave it to her to find me.”

Willy stood up and paced the floor, an impulse that took him all of two steps. “How’d you end up here?”

“I got a job logging, after I left home,” Nate explained. “The Kingdom seemed like a good fit. One of the landowners let me build this place. In exchange, I keep an eye out. There’s nothing to see, though.”

“How long you been here?”

“Over twenty years.”

“How do you keep alive?” Willy pointed at the stocked cans and boxes.

“I trade stuff,” he said. “Animal furs. I still work the woodlot. It doesn’t take much.”

Willy turned to face him directly. “I have to tell you something, Nate.”

His host stayed seated but straightened slightly, triggered by Willy’s tone. “Okay.”

“The recent flooding eroded part of the cemetery where your brother was buried. Herb’s coffin was exposed. There was nobody in it. Just a bunch of rocks.”

Nate blinked. “What?”

“Herb’s coffin doesn’t have anybody in it, Nate,” Willy tried again. “Could be he’s still alive.”

“Herb?” Nate sounded as if he was barely awake.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” Willy said, “but you already sentenced yourself to a twenty-year-plus prison term. Your dad may have lied about Herb dying. That’s why he wouldn’t open the box when the sheriff came. As far as I can tell, nobody ever saw Herb after the accident.”

Nate was slowly absorbing it all. “Why?” he managed to say.

Willy gave a shrug. “Who knows? Bud had poisoned you against your brother, although not in so many words. He couldn’t believe you took it to the point where you threw him into the saw, so now it was up to Bud to take revenge. He covered his own guilt by making you feel like you’d killed Herb.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Nate said wonderingly.

“Humans usually don’t,” Willy answered. “For all I know, maybe the whole parenting thing just fell in on him, and he took this way to clean out the stable except for Eileen, who might’ve struck him differently because she’s a girl.”

He sat back down, still speaking. “Nate, I’m not a shrink. I have no clue what drove him to do what he did, or even what happened to Herb in the long run. For all I know, he died two weeks after. But I think Bud buried a box of rocks in part to put everything behind him, and then let it eat him up until it killed him, right after it had done the same to Dreama. From what I know of human nature, your whole family was fucked up beyond repair and did everything wrong to set things right. But like I said, nobody pays me for counseling.”

Nate didn’t react. He just sat where he was and stared at his guest as if he’d been beamed down into his chair from a flying saucer.

“You say you killed your brother,” Willy forged ahead. “I have zero proof of that-no body, no witnesses, no evidence, no crime scene. You guys had a fight, Herb got injured, your dad beat the snot out of you, and then-probably-he covered up by inventing a story, burying the rocks, and throwing his two sons out the door.”

At that, Nate’s expression seemed to awaken, but Willy cut him off before he could speak. “I know, I know, I can’t prove any of it. But Eileen stayed home, and she never saw Herb again, thinking he was in the box. You and I know he wasn’t, so where was he? Bud chucked you out ’cause of what you did. You say he wasn’t too thrilled with Herb-either because of his sexual orientation or just because your old man was as mean as cat shit-so maybe he threw him out, too.”

Willy abruptly stopped and fixed Nate with a look, making him squirm.

“What?” Nate finally said in a small voice.

“Who was your doctor when you were all living together?”

“We didn’t go to a doctor much.”

“Good for you,” Willy said impatiently. “If you’d been the one who got caught up in a saw blade, who would your father have taken you to? Especially if he’d wanted to avoid a hospital.”

“Dr. Racque, I guess.”

“Racque?” Willy repeated. “You’re kidding. He live north of Townshend, in Windham County?”

Nate shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Thomas Racque? R-a-c-q-u-e?”

Nate scratched his temple. “I guess. It looked French.”

Willy nodded, pleased. He knew old Doc Racque. Long retired but still alive. He’d actually walked away from the profession after one disagreement too many with the medical bureaucracy, choosing to manage his woodlot and tend to his garden. Willy had dealt with him over twenty years ago on a case, also involving a trauma that should have been reported to the authorities. Thomas Racque was ill-inclined to play by the rules.

Willy had taken an instant liking to him.

* * *

“I have nothing saying Herb Rozanski’s dead,” Willy reported. “Much less murdered.”

Joe awkwardly shifted his cell phone against his cheek and ear to hear more clearly. He’d once taken the ergonomics of old-fashioned phones for granted. Never again. “Based on what?” he asked.

Willy did his own readjusting, only in his case, it was Emma’s access to her mother’s bottled breast milk that he was struggling with.

“I interviewed the old family doctor-a retired old coot I know named Racque. Bud took Herb to him after he finished beating Nate half to death. Herb’s arm had taken the brunt of the saw blade, and Racque sewed it back together.”

“There any records of this?” Joe asked. He was driving west through the early darkness from a day at The Woods, where he’d been helping Sam and Lester prepare to interview all residents with any ties to Gorden Marshall.

“That was the whole point,” Willy said contemptuously. “Bud wanted it under the radar and Racque was happy to oblige. Not that Racque thought it was that big a deal. It wasn’t like Bud came to him and said, ‘Hey, one son tried to murder the other; patch him up.’ Racque thought it was an accident, and neither Bud nor Herb said anything different.”

“So why the subterfuge with the box of rocks?” Joe asked.

“I met with Nate Rozanski today, too,” Willy said. “Up in the middle of Lockjaw, Vermont, in the Kingdom. He thought he’d killed Herb, till I told him otherwise. After he gave me Racque’s name, we got to talking more easily, and I asked him the same question. He’s a little dim-been living like a hermit too long, for one thing-but he told me Bud said something along the lines of, ‘You’re dead to me now; both of you are.’ I think Bud got to have his cake and eat it, too. He screwed Nate by making him think he’d killed his brother, on one hand, and I bet he convinced Herb that the fake funeral was to protect the kid’s back, while sending a not-too-subtle message that a queer son was not welcome at home.

“Herb may have been gay, which his old man hated. But if I’m right, Bud got to throw each of them out as embarrassments in one fell swoop, and kept the daughter until she jumped ship on her own. Father-of-the-year material, he was not.”

“So you’re done?” Joe asked reasonably. “’Cause we could do with some help up here.”

Willy demurred. “I think I have a line on Herb. Should be quick, though.”

The favor was implied, and Joe was struck by the way it had been phrased. Willy was not taken to asking for permission. He kept to himself, didn’t reveal case details, and delivered results like some TV cowboy from the ’50s. Joe occasionally fantasized that had it been feasible, Willy would have slung some of his bad guys over a saddle before bringing them in for questioning.

“You all right with this?” Joe asked. “Is there something else bugging you?”

“You want me to do a half-assed job?” Willy challenged him, his attitude surfacing.

“Just make it short,” Joe told him. “You can give me the details later.” He hung up before Willy did the honors.

Willy smiled at the phone before putting it down and readjusting the bottle, watching his daughter’s contented face as she worked her cheek muscles rhythmically.

“Hey, daughter,” he said in a near whisper, his face inches from her downy hair. “I may not be father of the year, either, but you will never not be the love of my life, no matter how screwy I get.”

* * *

Joe reached Burlington at a little after seven, and knew without thinking which of Beverly’s two primary addresses-home or office-to visit first.

Sure enough, after letting himself into the medical examiner’s office via the coded keypad on the employees’ entrance, he wandered through the quiet, tenebrous suite, enjoying the stillness here as he did in his own office in Brattleboro, until he reached her corner enclave, which predictably was filled with light.

He paused at the doorjamb and made a slight brushing noise with his shoe, enough to draw her attention without startling her.

She looked up from her desk, a quizzical expression immediately yielding to happiness.

“Joe,” she said, smiling and rising to circle the desk. “God, what a sight at the end of the day.”

She’d exchanged her standard scrubs for a summer dress with buttons running down the front, the bottom few of which she’d left open, for freedom of movement and style-of which he thought she had plenty.

Abandoning the reserve she wore along with her uniform, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him long and passionately as he ran his hands along her back and below, inventorying what she was wearing underneath the thin fabric.

“Good Lord,” she said finally, pulling away just enough to speak. “I do like what is developing here.”

He laughed, kissed her again, and leaned slightly to one side to swing her door closed, his other hand gathering up the hem of her dress. “You mind?” he asked.

She kissed his earlobe, reached out as his fingertips touched her naked thigh, and snapped the lock shut on the door. “This is a first I’ve been dreaming about for years.”