The Company She Kept by Archer Mayor Page A

painted silo in the distance. A couple of hours earlier, they’d actually driven by where he was born and brought up.
    His brother, Leo, still lived on what was left of the farm, with their ancient but spry mother. Joe hadn’t mentioned it to Lester, savoring the memories in private. He might have realized early on that the farming life was not his, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t loved being a part of it. His rural heritage—truly springing from the soil of this unusual, hardworking little state—had given him not just an identity, but a sense of moral sturdiness that had served him well through the decades.
    â€œI’m starting to wonder what life isn’t hard,” Lester reacted, negotiating the exit ramp and aiming them down the long, broad Newport feeder road. “Not mine,” he added quickly. “But certainly for most of the company we keep.”
    They reached Route 105, swung south and crossed the bridge at the grain elevators into the city itself, turning away from the huge lake. The modern post office was on Coventry Street—its low-slung, bland, and efficient architecture a far cry from some of the more distinguished-looking buildings farther downtown.
    â€œThere she is,” Lester said, taking them into the snowbank-lined parking lot.
    A short, compact woman—her dimensions exaggerated by a bulky down overcoat—stepped away from her car and walked over to Lester’s window as he rolled to a stop.
    â€œHey, guys,” she greeted them.
    â€œCila,” Joe replied, waving at her across Lester. “Good to see you.”
    â€œHow’s the farming life?” Les asked her.
    â€œYou don’t wanna know,” she told them.
    â€œWe get lucky with that PO box?” Joe asked, at once getting to the point and reacting to the wash of cold air that was pouring through the open window.
    â€œYup. Belongs to Nathan Fellows—not one of our brightest citizens, thank God.”
    â€œHow so?” Joe asked.
    â€œâ€™Cause I’d say he fits what we’re looking for,” she answered. “I ran him through Spillman and the fusion center while I was waiting, and he’s up to his neck with everything from gay bashing to white supremacy to National Socialism—meaning Nazis to us lowbrows.”
    â€œHe violent?”
    â€œHe’s had his moments—bar fights, assaults, domestic violence, disturbing the peace. Done time for some of the above. If he’s killed anybody, we don’t know about it. I called one of my Newport PD contacts, and he asked around. Fellows is a known player, but mostly for being an idiot. He’s got the look down.” She pulled a photograph from somewhere inside her Michelin Man coat and handed it over.
    â€œTatts,” she resumed. “Shaved head, piercings, motorcycle tough-guy clothes, complete with chains. Bad dude, one-oh-one.”
    Joe looked at the mug shot in Lester’s hand. Lewis had pretty much nailed it.
    â€œWhere’s he live?” he asked.
    â€œNot far,” she said. “Edge of town. I drove by it. It’s your predictable dump, surrounded by trees, not far from the quarry. He’s got maybe four Vermont planters out front, and the usual assortment of trash, scrap, and mystery piles.”
    Vermont planters were abandoned cars—“parts cars,” in some people’s parlance—but only if you like your parts corroded beyond recognition.
    â€œHe’s gotta be a gun nut,” Lester said.
    â€œHe’s not supposed to be, legally,” Cila replied. “Not according to his conditions of release. But we all know what that’s worth. He could have three grenade launchers and a machine gun in there.”
    Joe knew that to be more than a one-liner. “Okay,” he said. “I don’t really want to do a knock-and-talk—not with so many unknowns.”
    â€œAnd a man’s house is his castle,”