to briefly think of his father, the way he shrank the world so that he was its dictator, and how his mother had no choice but to live under his rule. Matthew had no choice, either. Neither did Richard, for that matter.
The green sign indicating that his exit was two miles away flickered in his headlights. He rolled down his window and breathed the salt-tinged air into his lungs. He’d memorized the directions to the Rusty Scupper, having left his phone back in the room.
He passed through two traffic lights, crossed a short bridge over the inlet, then turned right onto Seagrass Lane, the road that led to the bar. With the window rolled down, he could hear the distant thump of a bass line as he passed the Rusty Scupper’s parking lot. The air now smelled like low tide, marshy and dank, plus Matthew caught the distinctive tang of marijuana drifting in from a group of four figures huddled around a pickup truck.
He drove another two hundred yards and parked in the back lot of a small insurance agency. He’d studied Google Maps and knew that there was a footpath that ran along New Essex River toward the back of the bar. It was easy to find—a small sign marked it as the New Essex River Walk—and Matthew casually walked down the wooden pathway toward the bar. As he walked, a fish broke the surface of the river, and something scuttled through the stunted brush. Once he was near the bar, all he could hear was the familiar sound of the C-Beams doing their cover of “Positively 4th Street.” If the previous show was any indication, they were near the end of their set. Matthew looked at his watch. It was nearly twelve.
He walked into the parking lot, quickly scanning vehicles, looking for Scott’s Dodge Dart. He spotted it parked toward the rear of the two-story brick bar, just underneath the back patio where patrons smoked. It was next to a van that Matthew recognized as belonging to the drummer of the band. His own car was in such a perfect location, parked in the dark shadows, that Matthew couldn’t suppress the buzz that was telling him that tonight was actually going to work. Things were falling into place.
Glancing around to make sure that no one was within sight, Matthew flicked open his jackknife and punched a hole in the rear left tire of Scott’s car. The knife stuck briefly, stale air already escaping in a ragged hiss. Matthew yanked it free, then walked back to the river walk. There was a bench that faced the river, but if he twisted his body he could see back toward the bar, with a view of the Dodge Dart. He waited. Only one person passed him, a middle-aged man smoking a filthy-smelling cigar. Matthew put his chin on his chest and pretended to be asleep, hoping that the cigar smoker wasn’t a do-gooder who might check and see if he was okay. He didn’t.
The live music from the Rusty Scupper had ceased, and Matthew watched as patrons spilled outside and weaved their way back to their cars. Everyone was talking loudly, snatches of inane conversation reaching Matthew on his bench. In between keeping an eye on the bar’s exit, Matthew looked at the river, black under the starless sky. But despite the darkness, he could feel its swiftly moving current, the water pulled by the ebbing tide back toward the ocean. Lights went on in the second-floor windows of the Rusty Scupper, the few remaining customers being shamed into leaving. The parking lot was nearly empty now. A middle-aged couple stood by a truck arguing about who was going to drive home. A set of double doors at the back of the building swung open with a metallic clang, and Matthew recognized the two other members of the C-Beams trucking out their equipment, the drummer beginning to load the same van that Matthew had seen that night at the Owl’s Head. The bass player was helping the drummer with his kit. Where was Scott? Probably surveying the remaining groupies in the bar for his next victim. It was actually good that he wasn’t there. Matthew was hoping that his bandmates would leave first and that he would have to change his tire alone. He knew it was still a long shot that Scott would be by himself in the dark parking lot, but if he was, then Matthew was ready.
Another twenty