Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,2

a while then worked at the Portland Press Herald.” Simon turned on the radio. “That reminds me, the game should be on.”

The station was always tricky to dial in this far up the coast, and static filled the air. Amy touched the knob to tune the channel better. “How did you lure him to the Register, promise a drastic pay cut?”

“He left there seven years ago.”

“Where’s he worked since?”

It was a helpful trait for a psychiatric therapist to be curious, as his wife was by nature, pushing every odd bit of information to the bitter end in case it held some unforeseen significance. But in normal conversation he found this habit irritating. Some topics were left unfinished for a reason.

“He hasn’t really worked.”

“What’s he been doing since leaving the Press Herald?”

Simon thought of the claim the man had made during the interview—that he had read more than a hundred books in the past year. Mostly crime fiction, but still. “He’s been reading a lot, two books a week.”

Amy ate another of Davey’s French fries. “Who has time to read that much?”

“Retired people, the sick, the unemployed, people without TVs or kids.”

“Which is he?”

The option was there for him to pick. But one lie would necessarily lead to another, as Amy pursued his story. “Actually, a prisoner.”

She rolled up the top of the Burger World bag. “He was in jail?”

“Still is, up in Warren. His release date’s tomorrow.”

“What did he do?”

Simon didn’t want to say. He didn’t really know anyway, not specifically, at least. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about this.”

She reached over and poked his neck. “Come on, spill it.”

“Okay, he assaulted a woman.”

Amy lifted her arm from his shoulder, the understanding instantaneous. “He raped her?”

Simon drove.

“You hired a rapist?”

The description seemed so all-encompassing, as if a single word could sum up a man’s whole nature rather than just one awful act. Didn’t a person deserve at least a few sentences about his life before being judged?

“I assume he didn’t put that on his résumé,” Amy said.

“He had a record, not a résumé.”

She glanced out of the window, then back at him. “You didn’t tell me you were thinking of hiring a rapist.”

“I didn’t know I was. I just went up there to check out the new incentives the state has for hiring prisoners when they’re released. I ended up doing some interviews.”

“And hiring a rapist.”

“As it turned out.”

“There weren’t any pedophiles or murderers available?”

Simon braked hard at Five Corners, even though normally he would take his chances coasting through on the yellow to avoid waiting through the multiple lights. “I sense you don’t approve.”

“I’m just wondering why you would hire a rapist.”

Rapist—how many times would she say it? “This guy has a name, which is David Rigero, and David scored higher than most of our regular applicants on the employment test. I liked him, too.”

“Liked him how?”

“As someone to talk to. If I were sitting next to him on an airplane, I’d enjoy our conversation.”

“You’re planning trips with him?”

“No,” he answered, even knowing she was being facetious. “But it’s a small office, and I prefer to like the people I hire. He wants to do some stringing for us, too. He has an aptitude for writing.”

The traffic crept by in front of them—a few cars, a gasoline tanker, and a white unmarked truck, the kind often mentioned on crime reports as spotted leaving the scene. Should the people inside these vehicles all be judged by the worst thing they had ever done? Who could survive that scrutiny?

“So,” she said, “whose life did this wonderful conversationalist of yours ruin?”

Simon debated with himself for a moment making up a name. Sally Jenkins popped into his head. It sounded believable. “I didn’t ask.”

“You weren’t curious about his victim?”

“What would a name tell me? I didn’t ask him anything specific about what he’s in for. It didn’t seem appropriate.” Simon waited for a woman carrying two bags of groceries to cross in front of the Toyota, then pulled carefully through Five Corners. It was the most dangerous intersection in Red Paint.

“Maybe she could use a job,” Amy said. For a moment he thought she meant the woman crossing the street. “That is, if she’s gotten over the trauma of being sexually assaulted by your new hire.”

Simon accelerated quickly, and the rattle started up again. Amy whacked the dashboard with the heel of her hand.

“You might trigger the air bag that way.”

She pounded harder with her fist. “At least it would stop the goddamn