Jandreau

Bobby Jandreau still lived in Bangor, a little over an hour north of Augusta, in a house at the top of Palm Street, just off Stillwater Avenue.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

“You know anything about Jandreau, the state trooper who died there?”

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

You called Foster Jandreau, because he was a cop, but a cop that you could trust, because he was family.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

Jandreau was watching me carefully, gauging my reactions to his living space.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

I got the sense that Jandreau was trying his best to keep things together, but there was only so much that a man in a wheelchair could do about a stain on the carpet, not unless he was going to tip himself out of his chair to deal with it.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

A thin finger, the nail the color of rust, extended itself and pointed to Jandreau.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

I made my way to the door, opened it, and let Angel and Louis see that I was okay, but Bobby Jandreau chose that moment to wheel himself, one-handed, into the hallway.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

And there, for want of anything better to do, they let Bobby Jandreau begin to tell his tale.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

Jandreau looked as though he might have been about to dispute the use of the word “thieves,” but the Collector turned his mocking gaze in the direction of his finger, and Jandreau remained silent.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010

Jandreau had eventually been pulled to safety, but his legs were ruined.

The Whisperers John Connolly 2010