Sam sat still for some time, thinking, the photograph in his lap.
There is a method in all this, he thought. The list is not accidental, not coincidental. And Frank was killed first. In fact, the killer hand-delivered Frank’s list directly to him, let him open it, then murdered him. Sam couldn’t help but think that something Frank had done, or something that had been done to him, was crucial in figuring out what was going on.
And what the picture told Sam was that Frank’s life, unlike most lives these days, had been spent entirely in one place. Here in Kennewick, Maine. At the Windward Resort. And that made Sam think that the answer to what was happening might be found here, at this decaying hotel, where Frank had spent his life. He thought of the ghosts that only the foreign cleaners could see, and he thought of all the people who had stayed here over the long years. It would be thousands for sure. Would it be hundreds of thousands?
Sam returned the photograph to the bulletin board, pushing the tack back through the already existing hole along its uppermost edge.
He wondered about Frank’s older sister, and if she was still alive.
6
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 4:35 P.M.
It had been several months since Tod Fischer had received a phone call from the woman he knew only as Linda. He imagined that Linda probably got a phone call from someone, maybe a Fred, only the first name and a voice over the phone. And Fred told Linda to call him. Information was passed along a chain of people who didn’t know one another, all talking on unregistered cell phones.
The funny thing about Linda was that she always sounded so happy to hear his voice, as though they were old friends, or maybe just amiable coworkers, which he guessed they were in a way.
“Hi,” she said. “It’s Linda.” She never used his name, maybe because she didn’t know it. He was a phone number and a voice.
“It’s been a while,” Fischer said.
“I know, right?” said Linda. Fischer, who was watching his youngest boy play Pee Wee football on a misty field two towns from where they lived, said nothing, and eventually she added, “Do you have a pencil handy?”
She always asked that, and Fischer always said, “I do,” even though what he had was a very good memory.
“Okay, then. Jessica Albers Winslow. I’ll spell it out for you just in case.” As she spelled out the name Fischer pictured the letters being written on a chalkboard. Once the name was there, he knew he’d never forget it. “Her date of birth is December 3, 1975, and her current address is 17 Tamarack Meadow Way, in Thornton, New York. Just outside of Albany.”
“Okay. Got it,” Fischer said. Because he was standing about fifteen yards back from the football field it had become impossible to tell which of the miniature black-and-red football players was Jerome, his son. He could tell, however, that his son’s team, the Trojans, had just given up a touchdown.
“She’s an FBI agent out of the Albany field office.” There was a slight question mark in Linda’s voice that Fischer ignored.
“Okay,” he said.
“But the thing is, she’s currently not in New York. The client believes that she is in Maine but does not know exactly where in Maine. She was tailed, but she was lost somewhere along Route 1 north of Thomaston and Rockland. She’s driving a white Toyota Camry, the 2012 model, and her license number is—”
“Hold up, Linda, give me a moment,” Fischer said. Yes, he had a very good memory, but wasn’t sure he’d correctly memorize a license, along with all this other information. He trotted over to Suzie Maris, a mom who never missed one of her son’s games, and a woman who carried a purse the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. He was pretty sure she’d have a pen and a piece of paper somewhere in that purse.
She did, and he returned to where he’d been standing and took down the number.
“Ready for the good part?” Linda said.
“I’m always ready,” he said.
“Fifteen thousand wired direct into your account upon acceptance of the job. Thirty-five thousand upon completion. Not too shabby.”
“Not too shabby,” he said. “Any special instructions?”
“Yes, actually. One word. Painless.” She said it with a little lilt in her voice, as though she were telling him her cat’s name.
“Okay, got it,” he said. It wasn’t a concern. “Painless” was his specialty.
“Do you accept, or do you want some time to think about it?”
“What’s the timeline?”