The Maine Massacre

10

De Gier didn't hear the sirens when he pushed the microphone back into its clip, but he heard them when he got the Dodge out of the Astrinsky driveway. The long, plaintive howl of the cruiser was activated by the yap of its barker, boring into the sergeant's eardrums with impatient, self-centered, aggressive barks. De Gier smiled. He liked the yapping. He thought he might try to buy one of the machines causing the weird sounds. A good gift for Grijpstra's next birthday. They could screw the gadget into the Volkswagen patrol car and split the peace of Amsterdam with it, say in the early hours of a Sunday. He waved when the cruiser's array of blue flashing lights came into view. The cruiser slowed and its passenger door swung open. De Gier jumped in and fell against the back of the seat as the sheriff accelerated. De Gier leaned over and watched the speedometer. It moved his way until it rested on eighty. Eighty, de Gier thought, and we are on a sheet of ice.

"There are snow tires on the cruiser," the sheriff said. "Studded. They'll hold. Should have chains really, but it's hard to have a chase when you're hampered by chains."

"But there is no chase. You said there was a man in the road, didn't you? And an overturned vehicle. They'll be waiting for us."

The sheriff's eyes shone. "Sure. But a little speed doesn't hurt, and die cruiser belongs to the state. We are the law, sergeant. We can move. Nobody else can these days. Why do you think we became police officers?"

De Gier held on as the cruiser skidded through a corner, slowed, and sped off again.

"Almost there now. Got the call from a man who lives in a trailer. Out-of-the-way part of the county. Nobody lives there except him. Old guy on welfare in a secondhand trailer. Looks like a cracker box that's been hit by a bulldozer, but it'll be invisible now, snowed over. Old guy doesn't like to use his shovel too much."

"What do you think happened?"

"Drunken driver, what else? Turned his car over, crawled out of it, sat down to think, and fell asleep. Old guy must have seen him and phoned us. Easy little job. All we have to do is wake up the man in the road, get him into the cruiser, and put him in jail for the night. A tow truck can take care of the wreck. Nothing to it, but I thought you could do with a bit of a change after your love affair. How did it go?"

"Yes."

"Did she say anything?"

"Perhaps. She may have been making conversation. But it could be that her father doesn't own the Cape Orca shore property. He may have been acting as a middleman and the real owner doesn't want his name to be known and hasn't had the deeds registered. The title is in Astrinsky's name, but only for the record."

"Hey," the sheriff said. "That's fine. Good. So she did say something."

De Gier was listening.

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"Would you turn the wailer off? I'd like to hear the barker on its own."

The sheriff pushed a button. De Gier opened his window. With the wail gone the barker was very clear. De Gier grinned.

"You like that, sergeant?" The sheriff was grinning too.

"I have another sound for you. Hold on. I'm going to turn into that side lane there. It runs parallel to this road and joins it again further on."

The cruiser veered off the road and shot into the woods. A deep vibration filled the car from the rear. The sound was like a big drum being rapped by a vertical hand.

De Gier listened. His spine turned into a glowing rod and the glow eased into his entire body. The grin slid off his mouth.

"How's that?"

De Gier nodded. "Yes. What is it?"

"The radio's antennae, brushing past overhanging branches. Hold on, we're getting back into the road. Bump coming."

The bump came. De Gier was thrown out of his seat and his head hit the roof, but its insulation and his thick hair eased the contact. He bounced back.

"There!"

The cruiser stopped. A wrecked car lay on its roof, immobile in stupid helplessness. Another car was parked behind the wreck. The sheriff switched his siren and barker off, but the blue waving lights on the cruiser's roof kept on touching the trees, the shining road, and the two still cars.

"Open your window. I'll turn the radio on so that we can be reached even if we're out of the cruiser. Two cars, eh? The old guy should have put that in his message. There could be several of them, and there are only two of us. Take the shotgun, sergeant, and hang around. Don't let yourself be rushed into anything."

The shotgun jumped free and the sheriff broke it and pushed shells into its cavity. "Here you are. If you have to use the gun put one shell into the trees and the second into somebody's legs. Be easy with it. I've taken the safety off and the trigger is light."

De Gier took the shotgun and slid out of his seat. The sheriff ran to the overturned car, bent down, and played his flashlight into its interior. There was nobody inside. De Gier waited, holding the shotgun, his forefinger stretched parallel to its barrel. The flashlight lit up the interior of the second car.

"Out! Out, you guys! Out I say!"

Four men came out, rubbing their eyes, blinded by the strong flashlight, stumbling. De Gier recognized the last man. Leroux, all three hundred and fifty pounds of him. He seemed fairly sober. The others were reeling, holding on to each other like frightened monkeys.

"Who was driving the wreck?"

Only one man responded. "Don't know, sheriff."

"So what are you doing in the other car? I had a call that there was somebody lying in the road, somebody wounded maybe. Did he crawl into the bushes? Where is he?"

"Don't know, sheriff."

The sheriff's voice pleaded. "Tell me where he is or we'll have to search the woods. Maybe he's unconscious. He can freeze to death if he is. Was he hurt?"

"No, sheriff. Nobody was hurt. There were only four of us, in two cars, out visiting, on our way back. There's nobody in the woods."

"Okay, thanks. So move! Move, you hear! Get that car going and get out of here. I don't want any parked vehicles on the side of a dark road. The wreck'U have to go too."

Three men hesitated, but Leroux stepped forward. He took another, smaller step, and his heavy, bearded head came down and peered into the sheriff's eyes.

"We won't go. If we do you'll be after us for drunken driving. We lose whatever we do. We'll stay here and sleep it off."

"You won't. Get into that car, Leroux!" The sheriff's voice was a cold whisper.

"None of us can handle the car. We've been drinking."

"Your problem. You managed to get here. Now you get out of here again."

"No," Leroux said. "And you have a problem too, sheriff. I'm going to punch you in the face and walk over you when you're down. I'll keep on walking until you forget what happened here. You've got your rider again, but I don't want to fight him this time. I'll fight you, sheriff."

"He'll pull a gun on you, Leroux." The young man who had spoken before was standing next to Leroux, his hand on the giant's sleeve. Leroux pushed the man and the man stumbled and fell. His broad-rimmed leather hat rolled in the road.

The sheriff grinned. "I won't pull a gun on you, Leroux, but you'll be in real trouble afterward. Assault on an officer. The judge won't like that at all."

Leroux's bull neck came down and his long arms dangled. He took another small step. The sheriff straightened up.

"SHERIFF," boomed the cruiser's radio, "YOU THERE, SHERIFF?" The words thundered into the woods and echoed back.

"Excuse me."

The sheriff walked backward to the cruiser and de Gier's shotgun came up an inch and dropped down again. The sheriff reached into the cruiser's open window and came back clutching the microphone. "I'm here, Bert, ten three."

"Got the eggs, sheriff. Five dozen in a wicker basket, but I'm on the other side of the county and the roads are snowing in up here. Can I bring them in tomorrow?"

"No. Bring them in now."

"Jim! Please. The snow's so heavy I can't see a foot even when the wipers are on double speed. Let me bring them in tomorrow."

"No, Bert, right now. We need them for breakfast. Ten four, Bert."

He threw the microphone back into the cruiser and walked forward. De Gier's shotgun moved a little again, but it was still pointed at the road.

"Last chance, Leroux. I'm staying here. Think before you come."

Leroux growled. De Gier thought of interfering. A good punch from Leroux's double-size fist might snap the sheriff's head off. He would have interfered in an Amsterdam alley. Amsterdam suspects can be talked to, manipulated by gentle words, by a friendly touch. Even the leatherjacket ghouls can be talked to, the ghouls who lurk in alley comers, waiting for the weak. But ghouls don't want to fight. Perhaps this was a different situation. Leroux wasn't an evil force, but an individual, a workingman, a citizen intent on fighting the state that was trying to control his freedom, his rights. The sergeant studied Leroux's bulk; the leg muscles swelling under the tight jeans, the two-foot chest exposed by an open jacket, the man's vast shoulders. Perhaps he should be allowed to have his fight.

"Okay," the sheriff said softly.

Leroux lurched forward and swung. The sheriff ducked, jumped aside, and kicked his opponent's leg just above the top of his boot. The man turned and staggered, but the sheriff was in front of him again, kicking the other leg. The giant's reflexes were slow, and he ducked too late when the long, rubber-covered flashlight hit him on the side of the neck. The contact of flashlight and neck was marked by a thud. The three other men came close. De Gier's shotgun moved, but they weren't planning to join the fight. They wanted to pull their friend away. There was no need. Leroux's knees bent and he fell slowly. The sheriff let him fall.

"Right," the sheriff said and yanked an arm free and bent it back. The other arm followed. The polished metal of handcuffs shone blue in the cruiser's revolving lights and there was the small, ominous click of the handcuffs' lock.

Leroux tried to roll over but was stopped by de Gier's boot. De Gier stepped over the man.

"I don't believe it."

"What?"

"Help me up."

De Gier put out a hand. There was too much weight and the sheriff got behind his victim and pushed.

"I should have broken you into pieces, you little bastard," Leroux said, still in the same surprised voice.

"But you didn't. You guys, you all drunk?"

"Yes, sheriff."

"Got any money?"

"Some."

"Enough for a taxi? Which one of you lives nearest?"

The young man in the leather hat answered. "Me, sheriff. I'm from Jameson."

"Can you put your buddies up for the night?"

"Yes."

"Okay, all' of you get into the back of the cruiser. Sergeant, you drive that car across the road. Leave it in the clearing in front of the trailer. Never mind if it gets stuck in the snow. I want it off the road."

De Gier took the shotgun, released the chamber's spring latch, and made the shells jump into his hand.

"Right, you guys, who owns the wreck?"

Another man stepped forward. "Me, sheriff."

"Got forty bucks?"

"Got a check, sheriff."

"Write it out. I'll radio for a tow truck. Make the check payable to the sheriff's department and we'll pay the truck. Check better be good."

"It's good."

The man wrote the check, and the sheriff pocketed it. The sergeant came back.

"Let's go."

They drove back at a reasonable speed.

"You did well, Jim."

"Got him nicely, didn't I? But it wasn't a fair fight. Too much beer in the man. And I was all there, I didn't have to watch the others. Good thing you came along. I couldn't have taken them all, and Bernie would have taken too long to get here and Bob is home and Bert has his eggs to worry about. He was thirty miles out anyway. So tell me what else happened at Madelin's."

De Gier took the raccoon tail from his coat pocket and showed it. He told the story that went with the tail.

"Shit," the sheriff said. "So that's why the tail wasn't hanging in your face. I was wondering what had happened to it. But that's homicide, sergeant. You might have called me. You saw him get away you say?"

"Yes, on snowshoes. The rifle was strapped to his back. He was taking his time. He knew nobody would go after him."

"Good shot," the sheriff said. "If he missed on purpose. Could have been the fox. He shot a man through the hair once, from a fair distance. The bullet went straight through and didn't even nip the man's head. We couldn't prove it was the fox, but it was the fox all right. Maybe it was the fox now. You remember the time?"

"Eight-forty."

"We can check his alibi. And Albert's alibi, and Tom's. It couldn't have been Madelin, could it? She's a good shot too."

"No. I saw her while the gunman was getting away in the woods."

The cruiser stopped in front of Robert's Market. The sheriff got out, opened the rear door, and let the three men out. Leroux groaned.

"Cuffs too tight again, Leroux?"

"Yes."

"They'll be off in a minute. I'll be holding you for the night. You had your warning. You're in trouble now."

The cruiser shot off, a little too quickly, and the rear wheels spun in the road.

"Well," the sheriff said softly. "This thing is getting out of hand, sergeant. They're making fun of us. First the trick with the door. Then you get shot at. But you are me-you are part of my outfit now. I'll have to get busy or I'll never get anything done again. You're still with me?"

"I am."

"You don't have to be. You don't live here. You live a long way off. There's no reason why you should get yourself killed here."

"It's all right," de Gier said. "I am enjoying it, I think."

"You should so far. She was a good lay, was she?"

"Yes."

"I haven't had the pleasure, but I believe you. Maybe I'll have it later, but I'll have to get in her way. You sure got yourself in her way."

They reached the jailhouse and Bernie came out and took the prisoner. The sheriff made coffee while de Gier cleaned and polished the shotgun with a piece of cloth he had found in the cruiser.

Bernie came back from the jail and held his mug under the coffee machine.

"We're sure busy these days, Jim."

"We sure are, Bernie."

"I've been thinking today. You want to hear, Jim?"

"Yes."

"About Cape Orca, Jim. Five people died, right, and one ran away, right?"

"Sure, Bernie."

"I know who killed one of them. The fox did. Old Paul Ranee drank himself to death and he was singing and carrying on when he croaked, and the fox was with him. I know that for sure. Liquor was poison for old Paul and the fox fed it to him, by the half gallon. Right, that's one murder and there's nothing we can do about it. Captain Schwartz ran away because the fox paid a friendly call. That isn't homicide, but it's something else that ain't right. Terrorism or something. Young Albert made me rip my cruiser to pieces. That's terrorism again. Right?"

"Let's say you're right, Bernie. Then what?"

"So maybe we should do something, Jim. We're the law, we got power. Let's make sure we cripple them before they do something else, like take a shot at us."

The sheriff held up his mug. "I'll have coffee too, Bernie, and maybe the sergeant would like some. Somebody shot the tail off his hat tonight."

Bernie dropped his mug. It broke.

"I want to hear about that, Jim."

"It was the sergeant's hat, Bernie."

"Sergeant?"

De Gier looked up from his cleaning. "As Jim says, Bernie, I stood on Madelin Astrinsky's driveway, halfway between the Dodge and the front door, and whop. The tail is in the cruiser. The hat is on the hook over there."

"You see who did it?"

"Something in the woods. A silhouette, black, maybe six feet high, on snowshoes. It went away."

Bernie stared at the shards near his feet. He looked up again. "That's right, you're a cop too. You tell us what you saw, not what you think you saw. But I'll tell you what you saw, you saw the BMF gang. They knew you were on your way to Madelin's because you said so on the radio. The fox and young Albert and Tom were listening in Robert's Market. The CB radio is under the counter. Or maybe you were set up from the start. Madelin is bad too. One of the boys, or all of them, got in a car and raced over to Madelin's while you were talking to us under the elm trees. The fox has snowshoes in his jeep. We've got to cripple them, Jim. They'll have us next. I don't know about you, but I'm not going to have myself shot at."

Bemie's voice had become shrill.

"Coffee, Bernie."

"Yeah, coffee." He took the sheriff's mug and got two more from the shelf.

"Here you are, Jim. Here you are, sergeant. When did it happen, sergeant?"

"Eight-forty."

"Okay, can I go around and check alibis, Jim?"

"Sure, Bernie."

"And can I run them in?"

"On what charges?"

Bernie sat down. "Theft. I've had complaints about the fox and Albert stealing lumber off people's land. Vague complaints, but I can shake the complainers and get good complaints. Theft is a crime, and mat's all we have on them now. All the other stuff is nothing. You won't find that boat either, Jim. I had the Coast Guard on the phone just now. Your friend is on leave, and he'll be away for a while. I can't get the game wardens to cooperate either because they're mad at me about old Bill Thompson's dog and the ten sixty-fours."

"I'll find the boat, Bernie, or the sergeant will. Madelin has a little Cessna, in excellent repair. How about phoning your girlfriend and asking her to fly you over the bay tomorrow, sergeant? The number is in the book. I'll look it up for you."

The sergeant phoned. The call didn't take long. He put the phone down. "Sure, Jim. I suggested that the commissaris come too. He might like a chance to get away from his sister. She says tomorrow morning ten o'clock is fine. It'll be a clear day."

Bernie had been moving the shards of his mug with his foot. "I'll check the alibis tomorrow morning, Jim. What are you going to do? Maybe we should get them from all sides at once."

The sheriff got up. "I'm going to my room to think. Sometimes I come up with something if I think long enough. There's Carl Davidson's death, the guy who froze in the woods. Some time ago I ran into an Indian who was telling me about Carl. They used to go out hiking together. I could go and find that Indian tomorrow. He'll be in the reserve. Sergeant?"

De Gier woke up. He had drifted away. The horse of death had floated through his dream, brushing the snow with its hoofs. It had been ridden by Madelin, in her long purple skirt. "Yes," he said. "Yes, Jim."

"Go to bed, sergeant. You've had a long day. I'll wake you for breakfast. We'll have eggs. I'll make an omelet. How about asking your chief to come out for breakfast?" He looked at his watch. "It's close to midnight. You think I can still phone him?"

De Gier was on his way to the door. "Yes. I am sure he would like to come out."

"Okay. We'll have a good long breakfast and go through the case with him. I can use some advice it seems."

Bernie's round red head turned away from the sink where he was washing the mugs. "You got terrorists in Amsterdam, sergeant?"

"Yes."

"What do you do with them?"

"We bring them in, if we have arrestable charges against them."

"I say you should shoot them, by accident like. Lots of people get shot in the woods, especially now, in the hunting season. Old Jones got shot through the head two years ago. That was the season too. If you shoot them first they can't shoot you afterward, can they?"

"We don't have woods in Amsterdam, Bernie."

"Europe is soft," Bernie said. "That's why we had to come out twice to help you people."

"Calm down, Bernie," the sheriff said quietly. "Calm down. We've got to get proof and we're going to get proof. And when we have it we'll arrest them and give them to the judge."

"Maybe you're soft too, Jim," Bernie said and turned back to the sink.