The White Road-CP-4 by John Connolly Read Free Book Online Page A

lied to them about their daughter. Yet I couldn’t find it in myself to blame Bear.
    “I have some friends that might be able to give you some work,” I said. “I hear they’re looking for someone to help out down at the Pine Point Co-op. I can put in a word for you.”
    He looked at me. “You’d do that?”
    “Can I tell the Blythes that their daughter isn’t in Mexico?”
    He swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish she was in Mexico. I wish I had seen her. Will you tell them that?” He was like a big child, incapable of understanding the great hurt that he had caused them.
    I didn’t answer. Instead, I patted him once on the shoulder in thanks. “I’ll call you at your sister’s, Bear, tell you about that job. You need money for a cab?”
    “Nah, I’ll just walk into town. Ain’t far.”
    He gave the dog an extra-vigorous rub, then started toward the road. The dog followed him, probing at his hands, until Bear reached the sidewalk, then it lay down on the ground again and watched him depart.
    Inside the house, Ruth Blythe had not moved from her position on the sofa. She looked up at me and I glimpsed the tiny light in her eyes that I was about to extinguish. I shook my head, then left the room as she rose and walked to the kitchen.

    I was sitting on the hood of Sundquist’s Plymouth when he emerged. The knot on his tie was slightly askew and there was a red mark on his cheek where Ruth Blythe’s open hand had connected. He paused at the edge of the lawn and watched me nervously.
    “What are you going to do?” he asked.
    “Now? Nothing. I’m not going to lay a finger on you.”
    He visibly relaxed.
    “But you’re finished as a private investigator. I’ll make sure of that. Those people deserve better.”
    Sundquist almost laughed.
    “What, they deserve you? You know, Parker, a lot of people around here don’t like you. They don’t think you’re such a big shot. You should have stayed in New York, because you don’t belong in Maine.”
    He walked around the car and opened the door.
    “I’m tired of this fucking life anyway. Tell you the truth, I’ll be happy to be out of it. I’m moving to Florida. You can stay here and freeze for all I care.”
    I stepped away from the car.
    “Florida?”
    “Yeah, Florida.”
    I nodded and headed for my Mustang. The first drops of rain began to fall from the clouds, speckling the mass of twisted wire and metal that lay on the curb. The oil seeped slowly into the road as Sundquist’s key turned uselessly in the ignition.
    “Well,” I said, “you sure won’t be driving there.”
    I passed Bear on the road and gave him a ride to Congress Street. He strode off in the direction of the Old Port, crowds of tourists parting before him like earth before the plow. I thought of what my grandfather had said about Bear, and the way the dog had followed him to the verge of the lawn, sniffing hopefully at his hand. There was a gentleness to him, even a kindness, but his weakness and stupidity left him open to manipulation and perversion. Bear was a man in the balance, and there was no way of knowing how the scales would tip, not then. I made the call to Pine Point the next morning, and Bear began working shortly after. I never saw him again, and I wonder now if my intervention cost him his life. And yet I sense, somehow, that deep down inside him, in the great gentleness that even he did not fully recognize, Bear would not have had it any other way.
    When I look out on the Scarborough marsh from the windows of my house and see the channels cutting through the grass, interlinking with one another, each subject to the same floods, the same cycles of the moon, yet each finding its own route to the sea, I understand something about the nature of this world, about the way in which seemingly disparate lives are inextricably intertwined. At night, in the light of the full moon, the channels shine silver and white, thin roads feeding into the great glittering