The Killing Kind

The old man answered the door wearing a nightgown and bedroom slippers. Inside, I could hear the sound of the television in the kitchen, so I knew I hadn't woken him.

“You find out something?” he asked as he motioned me into the hallway and closed the door behind me.

“No,” I replied, “but I hope to pretty soon.”

I followed him into the kitchen and took the same seat I had occupied the day before, while Peltier hit the mute button on the remote. He was watching Night of the Hunter, Robert Mitchum oozing evil as the psychotic preacher with the tattooed knuckles.

“Mr. Peltier,” I began, “why did you and Jack Mercier cease to be business partners?”

He didn't look away, but his eyes blinked closed for slightly longer than usual. When they opened again, he seemed tired. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, was it for business or personal reasons?”

“When you're in partnership with your friend, then all business is personal,” he replied. This time, he did look away when he said it.

“That's not answering the question.”

I waited for a further reply. The silence of the kitchen was broken-only by the sound of his breathing. On the screen to my left, two children drifted down the river on a small boat, lost in darkness.

“Have you ever been betrayed by a friend, Mr. Parker?” he asked at last.

Now it was my turn to flinch. “Once or twice,” I answered quietly.

“Which was it-once, or twice?”

“Twice.”

“What happened to them?”

“The first one died.”

“And the second?”

I heard my heart beating in the few seconds it took me to reply. It sounded impossibly loud.

“I killed him.”

“Either he betrayed you badly, or you're a harsh judge of men.”

“I was pretty tense, once upon a time.”

“And now?”

“I take deep breaths and count to ten.”

He smiled. “Does it work?”

“I don't know. I've never made it as far as ten.”

“I guess it don't, then.”

“I guess not. Do you want to tell me what happened between you and Jack Mercier?”

He shook his head. “No, I don't want to tell you, but I get the feeling you have your own ideas about what might have happened.”

I did, but I was as reluctant to say them out loud as Peltier was to tell me. Even thinking them in the company of this man who had lost his only child so recently seemed like an unforgivable discourtesy.

“It was personal, wasn't it?” I asked him softly.

“Yes, it was very personal.”

I watched him carefully in the lamplight, took in his eyes, the shape of his face, his hair, even his ears and his Grecian nose. There was nothing of him in Grace, nothing that I could recall. But there was something of Jack Mercier in her. I was almost certain of it. It had struck me most forcefully after I stood in his library and looked at the photographs on the wall, the images of the young Jack triumphant. Yes, I could see Grace in him, and I could recall Jack in her. Yet I wasn't certain, and even if it was true, to say it aloud would hurt the old man. He seemed to sense what I was thinking, and my response to it, because what he said next answered everything.

“She was my daughter, Mr. Parker,” he said, and his eyes were two deep wells of hurt and pride and remembered betrayal. “My daughter in every way that mattered. I raised her, bathed her, held her when she cried, collected her from school, watched her grow, supported her in all that she did, and kissed her good night every time she stayed with me. He had almost nothing to do with her, not in life. But now, I need him to do something for her and for me, maybe even for himself.”

“Did she know?”

“You mean, did I tell her? No, I didn't. But you suspected, and so did she.”

“Did she have contact with Jack Mercier?”

“He paid for her graduate research because I couldn't afford to. It was done through an educational trust he established, but I think it confirmed what Grace had always believed. Since the funding began, Grace had met him on a few occasions, usually at events organized by the trust. He also let her look at some books he had out at the house, something to do with her thesis. But the issue of her parentage was never discussed. We'd agreed on that: Jack, my late wife, and I.”

“You stayed together?”

“I loved her,” he said simply. “Even after what she'd done, I still loved her. Things were never the same because of it, but yes, we stayed together and I wept for her when she died.”

“Was Mercier married at the time of…” I allowed the sentence to peter out.

“The time of the affair?” he finished. “No, he met his wife a few years later, and they were married a year or so after that again.”

“Do you think she knew about Grace?”

He sighed. “I don't know, but I guess he must have told her. He's that kind of man. Hell, it was him who confessed to me, not my wife. Jack just had to relieve himself of the burden. He has all the weaknesses that come with a conscience, but none of the strengths.” It was the first hint of bitterness he had revealed.

“I have another question, Mr. Peltier. Why did Grace choose to research the Aroostook Baptists?”

“Because she was related to two of them,” he replied. He said it matter-of-factly, as if it had never occurred to him that it might be relevant.

“You didn't mention it before,” I said, keeping my voice even.

“I guess it didn't seem important.” His voice faltered and he sighed. “Or maybe I thought that if I told you that, I'd have to tell you about Jack Mercier and…” He waved a hand dispiritedly. “The Aroostook Baptists were what brought Jack Mercier and me together,” he began. “We weren't friends then. We met at a lecture on the history of Eagle Lake, first and last we ever attended. We went out of curiosity more than concern. My cousin was a woman called Elizabeth Jessop. Jack Mercier's second cousin was Lyall Kellog. Do any of those names mean anything to you, Mr. Parker?”

I thought back to the newspaper report the previous day and the picture of the assembled families taken before they departed for northern Aroostook.

“Elizabeth Jessop and Lyall Kellog were members of the Aroostook Baptists,” I replied.

“That's right. In a way, Grace had links with both of them through Jack and me. That's why she was so interested in their disappearance.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I should have been open with you from the start.”

I rose and put my hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“No,” I replied. “I'm sorry that I had to ask.”

I released my hold on him and moved toward the door, but his hand reached out to stop me.

“You think that her death has something to do with the bodies in the north?” Seated before me, he seemed very small and frail. I felt a strange kind of empathy with him; we were two men who had been cursed to outlive our daughters.

“I don't know, Mr. Peltier.”

“But you'll keep looking? You'll keep looking for the truth?”

“I'll keep looking,” I assured him.

I could hear again the soft rattle of his breathing as I opened the door and stepped out into the night. When I looked back he was still seated, his head down, his shoulders shaking gently with the force of his tears.