Empire Falls

herself was sobbing her frustrated heart out and kicking the door of the Grand Cherokee as hard as she could, the only pleasure left to her that of seeing the dent grow and grow.
    And for how long did Janine Roby—no, Janine Comeau—sob and rage and kick in the door of the Cherokee? Until it latched. Not completely, of course, because it couldn’t, not with her daughter’s burden wedged in so tightly, but at least tight enough that it wouldn’t fly open.
    Janine was still shaking when she got back in behind the wheel. What she needed to do was to catch up with her daughter and make this right, by force if necessary, set all of it right, somehow, some way, she didn’t yet know how, but by the time she pulled out onto Empire Avenue again her daughter had disappeared, and it was too late, she realized, with one last sob, too goddamn late.

CHAPTER 29
    “W HAT DO YOU FIGURE all that’s about?” David wondered when they passed the old shirt factory. They were returning from Bea’s tavern in his pickup, and he slowed as they approached the corner of Empire Avenue. For the first time since the factory closed, at least as far as Miles could recall, the big iron gate was open. Just inside sat a white stretch limo with Massachusetts plates—behind it, Miles caught a glint of red metal. On the steps of the old brick building a group of men in dark suits were listening to a woman Miles immediately recognized as Mrs. Whiting.
    “You don’t suppose the rumors could be true?” Miles said. For weeks now the grill had been alive with talk that a buyer had been found for the textile mill. As usual, Miles had dismissed this as needful speculation. Now, Mrs. Whiting’s presence in the company of these suits would be enough to fuel foolish optimism through a long Maine winter.
    “Be nice if something was going on,” David admitted, turning onto Empire Avenue. “It would also explain why she’s left us alone, if she’s got bigger fish to fry.”
    It was still a bone of contention between them that Miles had not formally notified Mrs. Whiting of their intentions. From the start Miles had allowed that his brother was probably right, but since that morning last month when he’d recognized Charlie Mayne in the newspaper photograph, he’d grown even more reluctant to confront Mrs. Whiting, as if he had been the one who betrayed her all those years ago on Martha’s Vineyard. And even though it was crazy, he couldn’t shake the conviction that Mrs. Whiting would be able to tell just by looking at him that he’d stumbled onto the truth at last. It had always seemed to Miles that she’d searched his face for signs of some particular understanding whenever they met; then, finding none, she would allow things to proceed as usual. Intellectually, he knew his brother was right, that it was better to have everything out in the open, but his intuition counseled a more furtive course.
    Not that it was much of a secret anymore. He and David were now spending every free minute at Callahan’s, Miles working late into the evenings, doing as much as possible himself, not wanting to start out any further in debt than they absolutely needed to be—especially since Bea was on the financial hook for the renovations, which on an hourly basis were threatening to spiral out of control. Today Miles got Buster to cover both the breakfast and lunch shifts while he struggled to repair the ancient gas stove at Callahan’s, which hadn’t been fired up in twenty years. David, who had to prep and serve Mexican Night at the grill this evening, had spent most of the afternoon setting up accounts with distributors and doing whatever tasks could be managed by a man with one good hand. Neither was trying to conceal his involvement in the reopening of Callahan’s kitchen, though the story for public consumption was that they were just lending an old friend a hand.
    One thing was certain. Mrs. Whiting, who knew everything, couldn’t possibly not know this. Though maybe David was right and she was too busy with development office business to sweat the small stuff.
    Somehow Miles didn’t buy it.
    T HEY PARKED BEHIND the Dumpster and entered the grill, as always, through the back door. Every day this week, whether coming or going, Miles had half expected to see the Voss boy pacing the lot, staring down at his feet and looking expectant and wary, hungry and lost. When the news of the boy’s grandmother broke and he disappeared, Horace Weymouth,