Chapter 36
Something had been nagging at him, something to do with Scott Theriault, Leonard Levesque, and Spero.
In his sleep, he had almost figured out what it was, or thought he had, but awake, it slipped from him.
He could try to drowse awhile in the hope of recapturing it, but he knew from experience that this would make it harder for him to get up in an hour or so.
Chasing sleep was like chasing memories or motes of dust: the object only drifted farther off.
Sadlier went to the bathroom, showered in lukewarm water because the tank was only starting to heat up, dressed, and headed to the kitchen, where he intended to make a cup of coffee and read for an hour.
He knew he ought to catch the early-morning news, but that was a penance he decided to shirk.
A novel would offer him some escape from reality.
Tim Sadlier didn’t have many luxuries; he couldn’t afford them.
He didn’t have the internet for the same reason.
When he did need it—which was less often than when he wanted to use it, the two being easily conflated by the simple-minded—he had access to Spero’s, or he could log on at the Bingham Union Library.
He could also visit the Starbucks in Waterville for a change of scenery, but that would have required him to travel more than forty miles just to pay for a coffee, and he wasn’t willing to give Starbucks money for what they put in their cups.
Which brought him back to the matter of luxuries, however modest. Sadlier liked to start the day by grinding beans bought at Jimmy’s Shop ’n Save in Bingham, brewing enough coffee for two cups in the Bialetti Moka pot that someone had donated to the Goodwill in Windham, unused and still in its box, with a card inside from Chris and Irene wishing Daniel and Bethany every happiness on their wedding day.
Sadlier’s mother, had she known about it, might have warned that the pot would bring him no luck, and Daniel and Bethany were now either divorced or dead.
But whatever about Daniel and Bethany, the pot had brought Sadlier nothing but pleasure, from the grinding, the measuring, and the tapping, to the smell of the coffee infusing the kitchen, and finally, that first sip.
But on this morning, with its sluggish dawn and the trees in the yard sticky with dark, Tim Sadlier would not have his coffee.
When he entered the kitchen he saw that the coffee jar was overturned and his precious beans scattered across the counter, some of them spilling into the sink for the dripping tap to spoil.
More of the beans lay on the kitchen table, where they had no business being, not if the rest were on the counter.
Sadlier’s first thought was that an animal must have gotten into the house and he’d have to hunt for an engorged rat or a hyped-up raccoon.
He was surprised he hadn’t heard anything during the night because he was a light sleeper and—
Sadlier stared at the bean jar. The jar had a screw-top lid, which stood beside it on the counter, and the glass was unbroken.
Sadlier kept the lid screwed tight to save his beans, and while raccoons were dexterous enough to be able to manipulate a host of objects, no raccoon yet born was strong enough to open that coffee jar.
Also, he couldn’t see how the coon might have gained entry; the doors and windows were all closed, and Sadlier didn’t pick up any hint of a draft.
He looked more closely at the beans on the kitchen table. What had first appeared a random sprinkling now revealed a pattern: letters, words.
SAD-LIER.
HELP.