The Unquiet-CP-6 Read Online Free PDF Page B

forehead, just below her hairline. “There are three parallel marks, like someone dug a fork into his skin and dragged it down. He’s short, maybe five-five or so, but stocky. His arms are real big, and there are folds of muscle at the back of his neck. He mostly wears the same clothes: blue jeans and a T-shirt, sometimes with a black suit jacket, other times with an old black leather jacket. He has a paunch, but he’s not fat, not really. His nails are very short, and he keeps himself real clean, except—”
    She stopped. I didn’t disturb her as she tried to figure out the best way of formulating what she wanted to say.
    “He wears some kind of cologne. It’s wicked strong, but when he was speaking to me, it was like I caught a hint of whatever it was masking. It was a bad smell, a kind of animal stench. It made me want to run away from him.”
    “Did he tell you his name?”
    “No. He just said that he had business with my father. I kept telling him my father was dead, but he shook his head and smiled at me. He said he wouldn’t believe any man was dead until he could smell the body.”
    “Have you any idea why this man should have turned up now, so many years after your father’s disappearance?”
    “He didn’t say. It could be that he heard news of the legal declaration of my father’s death.”
    For probate purposes, under Maine law, a person was presumed dead after a continuous absence of five years during which time he had not been heard from and his absence had not been satisfactorily explained. In some cases, the court could order a “reasonably diligent” search, the notification of law enforcement and public welfare officials about the details of the case, and require that a request for information be posted in the newspapers. According to Rebecca Clay, she had complied with all the conditions that the court had set, but no further information about her father had emerged as a result.
    “There was also a piece about my father in an art magazine earlier this year, after I sold a couple of his paintings. I needed the money. My father was a pretty talented artist. He spent a lot of time in the woods, painting and sketching. His work doesn’t go for much by modern standards—the most I ever got for one was a thousand dollars—but I’ve been able to sell some from time to time when money was scarce. My father didn’t exhibit, and he produced only a relatively small body of work. He sold by word of mouth, and his paintings were always sought after by those collectors familiar with him. By the end of his life he was receiving offers to buy work that didn’t even exist yet.”
    “What kind of paintings are we talking about?”
    “Landscapes, mostly. I can probably show you some photographs if you’re interested. I’ve sold them all now, apart from one.”
    I knew some people in Portland’s art scene. I thought I might ask them about Daniel Clay. In the meantime, there was the matter of the man who was bothering his daughter.
    “I’m not just concerned for my own sake,” she said. “My daughter, Jenna, she’s just eleven. I’m afraid to let her out of the house alone now. I’ve tried to explain to her a little of what’s been happening, but I don’t want to frighten her too much either.”
    “What do you want me to do about this man?” I said. It seemed like a strange question to ask, I knew, but it was necessary. Rebecca Clay had to understand what she was getting herself into.
    “I want you to talk to him. I want you to make him go away.”
    “That’s two different things.”
    “What?”
    “Talking to him and making him go away.”
    She looked puzzled. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I’m not following you.”
    “We need to be clear on some things before we begin. I can approach him on your behalf, and we can try to clear all of this up without trouble. It could be that he’ll see reason and go about his business, but from what you’ve told me it sounds like