Read Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel for Free Online Page B

they fought to hold the road.

 
    7
    The Stillwater River, a tributary of the Woonasquatucket, is just a creek, really, and in autumn it shrinks to a trickle. The earthen-and-masonry dam thrown across its course in 1838 is still there, holding back an amoeba-shaped lake of 270 acres. Waterman Lake is clean and the average depth is just nine feet, making it ideal for swimming and boating but unsuitable for disposing of a body.
    The lake is privately owned, and so is the white-pine-and-maple-studded acreage that surrounds it. When I was a kid, most of the structures here were ramshackle summer cottages. In recent years, some of them had been ripped down and replaced by sprawling villas designed by architects who lifted their ideas from Philip Johnson and Frank Lloyd Wright. The biggest belonged to the Maniellas, or what was left of them.
    Just past the dike, the dirt road curved to the right. Drenched pine boughs swished against Secretariat’s side, giving him an overdue scrubbing as we groped our way in the dark. Soon, the road split into five dirt trails that stretched toward the lakeshore like the fingers of an arthritic hand. The Maniellas’ place was appropriately located at the tip of the middle finger, perched on a knoll overlooking the water.
    When I pulled into the crushed-shell drive, the house looked dark and empty. I tugged the hood of my rain slicker over my head, sprinted through the storm, and climbed the stairs to the wide front porch. The doorbell chimed like Big Ben. No one answered. To be thorough, I sloshed around the house and peeked in the windows. Through a pane in the side door to the three-car garage, I could just make out the silhouettes of the year-old Maybach and the 2009 Hummer registered to Sal Maniella. Made me wonder how he’d gotten to Newport if he hadn’t driven either of his cars. The stall reserved for Vanessa’s Lexus was empty. Maybe he’d taken hers.
    My jeans were soaked through with rain now, and the temperature was falling. I dashed for the Bronco, cranked the ignition, turned on the headlights and wipers, and could barely see the house through the windshield. Risking the dike again would be pushing my luck. I turned off the engine, opened my thermos, and sipped coffee for the warmth. It worked. It also triggered a gnawing pain just below my breastbone. I popped the glove box, cracked open a fresh bottle of Maalox, and took two big gulps. Then I let the seat down to catch a nap and wait for the rain to let up.
    I’d just dozed off when Mick Jagger started growling the lyrics to “Bitch,” a ringtone that alerted me to the frequent late-night calls from that special someone.
    “Hello,” I said, and received the usual salutation.
    “You … fucking … bastard!”
    “Good evening, Dorcas.”
    “Who are you out screwing tonight, you prick?”
    “Five of the six Pussycat Dolls. Nicole Scherzinger couldn’t make it.”
    “Always with the fucking jokes.”
    “Okay, you’re on to me. Truth is, Melody Thornton couldn’t make it, either.”
    “My lawyer call you today?”
    “He did.”
    “And?”
    “And I’m still not agreeing to lifetime alimony, Dorcas.”
    “You are such a prick.”
    “I did offer all the child support you could possibly want. He thought that was generous until he remembered we never had any kids.”
    “You think you’re funny? Because you’re not.”
    “I keep telling you, Dorcas, things are going downhill at the paper. Chances are I’m gonna get laid off. Even if I don’t, the Dispatch is likely to close down in a few years, and I have no idea what I’ll do then.”
    “Not my problem, asshole.”
    “Being a reporter is all I know, Dorcas. I’ve never been any good at anything else.”
    “You got that right.”
    “Do I need to point out again that you make twice as much money as I do?”
    “Go to hell!”
    “Sleep tight, Dorcas,” I said, but she’d already hung up.
    *   *   *
    The rapping on the car window startled me. I