Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard

the breech, huh?”
    “Something like that.”
    Her eyes squinted, her lines colliding. She had once nursed me back to health and protected me from reporters and the eyes of the curious. I could only imagine how different my life would have to be to have her in it.
    “Take care of yourself, Mac,” she said.
    “I will.”
    “On my break I’ll find out what I can. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
    I thanked her. A part of me wanted to stay there with her for a while longer, just to be near her, but what would be the point? We looked at each other, and then finally I turned and left her there in that long, sterile corridor. The only sounds to be heard were my own footfalls. I could feel her watching me as I walked toward the stairs. I could see in my tired mind that face of hers and all that white glare burning around her like the light that awaits at the moment of death.
    ___

    I knew something Frank didn’t. This was clear to me. I knew the identity of the dead girl. With that in mind, I steered my ancient LeMans through Southampton Village, down Hill Street, and onto Halsey Neck Lane, the part of town where the filthy rich lived.
    I didn’t like parts south of the highway and avoided them as much as I could. As beautiful as they were, I didn’t much like those wide, tree lined streets, tunnels running under a canopy of woven branches and green leaves. I knew the arrogance that came with these houses, with great wealth, the power and the inevitable seduction, the germ and the disease it wrought. I never knew someone with money who didn’t expect, in the end, to be treated differently from those of us with little or none. I do better when I ignored this part of town. Amy Curry’s home was a mere mile from mine and a whole world away.
    I knew exactly where the Curry house was. I knew pretty much all the families in this part of town, at least by name and estate. If they had ever known me, if I had ever played with their children, I was forgotten now, and glad for it. One of the reasons why Frank wanted me to work for him was that I knew the East End at least as well as he did, and in some crucial ways better.
    I rode down Halsey Neck Lane, careful to obey the speed limit, and then after a minute there was the Curry house before me, one of the few houses on that wide street not fortified by a hedge, as if it had nothing to hide. It was a turn-of-the-century nautical with a loop gravel driveway out front and a well-kept yard and ancient trees. The house ran nearly the width of the flat lot. There were no cars in the driveway, no sign of anyone. The house was eerily still. Most of the houses out here were like that this time of the year. I looked at it for a while and the still houses around it and then decided to push my luck a little and get out and take a look around. I still wanted to see it coming, whatever it was, to be ahead of Frank on this, and this drove me now like a compulsion.
    I passed the house and pulled over to the shoulder of a neighboring yard and got out of my car and walked back to the open gate at the end of the hedge-lined driveway. I waited, studied the house a moment, then took a step through. It felt like stepping off the branch of a tree into darkness. I hated this work and always have. I didn’t let myself think much about the risk I was taking; there was too much at stake not to take this gamble.
    I stopped in my tracks and stood there, still, with my eyes on the ground, listening. Quiet was everywhere. The only sounds had been my footsteps on the gravel, and now that I had stopped there was nothing at all to hear but my breathing. After a moment I started walking again.
    I followed the lawn around the left side of the house to the backyard. It was brighter there, the shadow of the house being cast on the front yard by the muted morning sun. When I got to the backyard I saw that the garage was on the right side of the house, across the lawn. I stopped again and listened and this time looked around. I could hear the faint hiss of the ocean, a half mile to the south. But that was all. The neighborhood felt abandoned, like winter was an enemy that drove everyone out.
    I looked then up at the house. Up close it had the feel of a great wooden ship that had run solidly aground. I looked at the windows reflecting the November sky. There was nothing, no one, behind the ghostly reflections on the glass. I looked at them for a long time.
    Maybe there I had found my reason not