The Maine Massacre

19

The blue Dodge was parked at the side of the road leading into Cape Orca. De Gier sat behind the wheel. He was mumbling to himself in a reassuring manner. It was cold in the car and the BMF brandy had worn off. He had a slight headache and a slight thirst.

"It is not really complicated," he said in a sudden loud voice. "It just seems complicated. They have told the truth but not all of the truth. He knows by now, and I should know. Point is that I don't, not quite. No."

He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another, then cleaned the windshield with his free hand. He had a clear view of the bay and the white expanse helped to steady his thoughts. Surely the commissaris had worked out the solution. But only after he had seen the BMF gang and after he had spoken with Jeremy. De Gier was ready to disregard the BMF gang. The householders of Cape Orca's shore had been removed out of greed. Somebody wanted their land and their houses, but only to destroy them. The prime interest had been for the land, and still was. Counting in the island. Jeremy knew his island was wanted, for he had gone to a great deal of trouble to protect himself. The island was a fortress and its owner walked about armed, accompanied by fierce dogs and an all-seeing bird. Jeremy was friendly with the BMF gang, another point to consider. And the gang, although quite prepared to kill, would only kill if violence fitted into their experiments. The fox had turned out to be a curious man, not a greedy man. The behavior of a group is determined by the behavior of its leader. Albert, Tom, and Madelin were individualists but also active members of the gang. De Gier sighed. He was pleased that Madelin could be discarded as a suspect for a number of reasons. What reasons? But he shook his head and forced his mind to return to its original subject. The murders. Madelin was out.

So who was in? Not Jeremy-the man was on the defensive. But there might be a motive in his case. Jeremy fancied himself a hermit, and hermits don't like neighbors who sail around the bay and operate chain saws and make themselves obnoxious in a number of irritating ways. But would Jeremy, the not unfriendly hermit, kill his neighbors? No.

"Right," de Gier said pleasantly. Very good. Not Jeremy. Besides, Jeremy was a victim himself. Janet Wash, not Reggie, had steered the station wagon in such an aggressive manner that Osiris, the hermit's companion at that moment and his most ferocious dog, had attacked the wagon and got himself killed in the process.

De Gier's fist banged the steering wheel. But why, oh why, oh triple why, had Jeremy assisted the lady in escaping from her car wreck and why hadn't he denounced her to the sheriff? If she tried to kill him once she might try to kill him again, and Jeremy, although an original man, a negative original man, didn't seem to be interested in getting killed. And why had Janet said that Reggie drove the car?

Just a minute, not everything at once. He had a headache, he was tired, and he wasn't particularly clever. Easy does it. Nice short connecting lines, lines he could control. What, for instance, was the exact relationship between Janet Wash and Reggie. The man was her servant, her retainer, but there might be more to it. If Janet was the guilty party, not only in the attempted murder of Jeremy but also in the completed murders of her neighbors, she wouldn't have committed her crimes herself. She was, after all, a lady, an elderly lady, some sixty years old. Reggie has better qualifications. An ex-Vietnam warrior, highly trained. Had she paid him? No, surely not. Reggie might be a killer, but not a paid killer. A gentleman. So what then? Was he her lover?

De Gier had met several gigolos, and consulted his memory. Gigolos don't split wood-they wouldn't even grow an azalea garden. They might water the azaleas on a sunny afternoon, but that would be all. Five minutes with the watering can and back to the porch and a Tom Collins, to be sucked through a straw.

The lady and her knight in shining armor. More like it. And a touch of mother-and-son. Sick, undoubtedly, but not sexy sick. A platonic relationship with the knight/son protecting and serving the lady/mother. Taking the blame for the station wagon accident so that the bad men can't harm the exalted female deity.

De Gier's mouth sagged. Was he exaggerating? Maybe he was, so what the hell. He wasn't a psychiatrist, he was only a police detective. He could simplify as long as he didn't slip from the track.

But why had Jeremy protected the lady? Out of his originality? His contrariness? Gamesmanship?

The island's squirrel jumped through de Gier's headache and he winced. Jeremy had said something about the squirrel. It provided sport for the dogs-voluntarily. Jeremy had also claimed that he had gone beyond the squirrel, and Jeremy liked to speak in riddles, or answer in riddles. So said the fox.

His thoughts broke. For god's sake, a zoo, a whole zoo, and he was in the middle of it. A squirrel, dogs, a fox, seals, a raven, a raccoon.

Patiently he tried again. The raccoon was in this too. His own hat, minus tail. A raccoon, a small type of bear. A washbear, the Dutch name. Raccoons wash their food before they eat it. They had discussed raccoons, alias wash-bears, with Jeremy during their first visit to the island.

De Gier sat up and grinned stupidly. BEWARE THE BEAR, BEWARE THE WASH BEAR. Jeremy, the hermit known for exceptional behavior, carting a sign about, and that's what the sign said. Beware the bear, beware the wash, beware Janet Wash.

This discovery blocked all further thinking for a while, and he stared at the bay and the island. But once again he tried. So Jeremy had denounced the lady of the mansion to the authorities, in his own spectacular manner. By carrying a sign. No wonder the commissaris had been in such a good mood afterward, smiling and chatting and burbling in spite of his pain, for he was limping badly these days, his rheumatism aggravated by the cold.

So what puzzles were left? Why would Reggie kill on behalf of his employer? All right, some nuttiness mere. Why would Jeremy help his would-be killer out of her car?

Love, according to the commissaris, causes most violence. De Gier agreed. Tested police knowledge. Lovers and loved ones are first-class suspects. Now Janet wanted the island-he was getting ahead of himself again, but he could sort the next puzzle a little later. Why would Janet want all that land? There could be no other motivation- she didn't want her neighbors' homes because she had them destroyed. Back to Jeremy now.

Jeremy loves Janet. No, past tense: Jeremy loved Janet, and the other way around too. They were of the same age and Janet's husband had been a cripple in a wheelchair. She might have taken a lover. She was still a beautiful woman at sixty so she would have been stunning at forty. Jeremy had been on his island for twenty years. Very good, an illicit affair, a small boat rowed between island and shore. Charming, really. He looked at the bay, an ideal spot for a love affair. And when the general died, his widow proposed to Jeremy or expected to be proposed to, but nothing doing. Jeremy preferred to be a hermit.

So now Janet had a double motive; she wanted revenge and she wanted the island. She told Reggie to kill Jeremy and Jeremy changed his island into a fortress. Perhaps Jeremy enjoyed the situation, like the squirrel enjoys being chased by the dogs. And if that were true the BEWARE THE BEAR sign had been to warn the commissaris and himself, the sergeant. Jeremy didn't want innocents to suffer. Good old Jeremy.

De Gier sighed and scratched around in his curls. The headache was still getting worse, so was his thirst. Very well, on with it. The final puzzle: Why did Janet want all that property? Why did she buy it through the realtor Astrinsky, Boston Better Holdings, and finally Bahama Better Holdings? Where did Mr. Symons fit in?

He had come to a full stop for lack of data. Even computers can't conclude if they haven't been fed properly. But the commissaris had managed to extricate himself from the case's traps and claimed to be ready for a finale. So where had he, Detective Sergeant Rinus de Gier of Amsterdam's homicide squad, gone wrong?

Were there any other open leads?

His hand moved to the car key when he finally remembered.

Jeremy had not told them for sure who he had bought his island from. He had mentioned a name, Reynolds. But he hadn't proved his statement. The name would be on the island's deed and the deed was supposed to be in one of Jeremy's cartons and Jeremy wouldn't look through his cartons. But there would be a copy of the deed in the town clerk's office.

De Gier started the car. He found the Jameson town office, a one-story brick building next to the jailhouse. The clerk turned out to be helpful and talkative.

"Jeremy's Island?"… "Certainly"… "Had an inquiry about the island this morning"… "Old gentleman came in, with an accent, same as yours"… "Dutch accent, is it?" The clerk had Dutch ancestors. He had been to Holland. Lovely country. De Gier became frantic and knew he couldn't show his state of mind. He thought about a variety of subjects while the clerk prattled on. The clerk came to the end of his journey through the Netherlands and began to discuss the shortcomings of his stove. "Might as well paint it red, look at it now, bright red but still no heat. If I painted it it would save a lot of firewood, eh? Hahahaha."

"Hahahaha," de Gier said.

"Now what was it you wanted?"

"The name of the man who owned Jeremy's Island before Jeremy bought it."

"That's right," the clerk said. "Man by the name of Symons. Symons the gambler we used to call him. Brother of Janet Wash. Janet was called Symons before she married the general."

"Ah," de Gier said.

"You know Janet Wash?"

"Yes."

"Nice lady. But not her brother James. He got half the estate, part of the cape, and the island, and he sold it all and split. Left his wife and his son, James the Third. He's bad too. James the First was fine, a Yankee skipper, made his fortune in the China trade in the time of the big clippers."

"What happened to James the Second?" de Gier asked.

The clerk looked sad. "Got himself killed I hear, in the bad country, the country where they do the gambling."

"And what happened to James the Third?"

The clerk held up a finger. "Trouble here. All sorts of trouble, so he left town." He held up a second finger. "Went to Bangor, more trouble." Third finger. "To Portland, same again." Fourth finger. "To Boston, more of the same but he's holding out I hear. Buddy of mine ran into him in the street. Had a drink with him. Young James does a lot of drinking."

"I see," de Gier said. "Thank you, you've been very helpful."

The Dodge took him back to Cape Orca. He was whistling. "Straight, No Chaser." When he had whistled enough, he sang. "Cannonball."

So he had his answers, the same answers as the commissaris had found. The picture was complete, more or less. He still wanted to know why Jeremy had helped Janet out of her car, although he could surmise an answer. Jeremy had said that he had gone beyond the behavior of the squirrel. The squirrel, when cornered, would try to bite the dogs, but the squirrel was an animal, with a limited program imprinted into its small brain. Jeremy considered himself to be an advanced human. And he very likely was too. Jeremy might be prepared to fight Reggie and therefore carried arms, but he wouldn't fight a lady who, once upon a time, had been his mistress. If she wanted to try to kill him, fine, but he wouldn't be violent in return. The fox had described the hermit as a sage. Perhaps he was. And the commissaris had got on very well with Jeremy. The commissaris was a sage too, full of tricks, but tricks of an elevated and superb order. Such as turning the other cheek, without losing out. That was the superb part of the trick: the commissaris never lost out, not so far anyway, and de Gier had spent many years watching his chief move about, sneak about. "But there is sneaking," de Gier said aloud, "and sneaking."

And Symons, young Symons the Third had been able to get out of trouble, time and again, because his Aunt Janet helped him. Like now, for she had made him the manager of her holding companies, and paid him a wage.

There was still Astrinsky, of course, but de Gier refused to think about Astrinsky. The realtor would fit in later. Right now he had a headache and he had thought enough. The car picked up speed as his foot came down. One last look at Cape Orca and he would drive back to the jailhouse and enjoy supper and have an early night. The commissaris would be coming in the morning and they would have a grand counsel. A sign flashed past, a square yellow sign on a white stick. There was one word on the sign: HILL.

"Too fast," de Gier said and touched the brake gently. The car was skidding. He pressed the brake hard and the car turned around, then around again. De Gier sang. The theme of "Straight, No Chaser." He hummed it over and over as the car made several full turns. He saw the tree coming and he felt the car turn over. For a few seconds the Dodge rode on the edge of its roof, then it fell on its side and rested against the tree. De Gier stopped humming. He turned the key and the engine cut off. It was quiet on the road. A bird screamed further down in a ravine. He could hear a brook gurgle under the ice.

"Shit!" de Gier said. He used the English word. It seemed more appropriate than its Dutch translation. He was upside-down, held by the safety belt. He began to move about carefully and managed to unlock the belt. The driver's door was closed, probably forever, but the passenger door still worked.

He walked down the rest of the hill until he saw a light shimmering through the snow-covered evergreens. He found a path leading to a cabin. He knocked on the door.

"Come in."

"Ah, it's you," Reggie said. "Out for a walk?"

"I just busted the sheriff's department's brand-new Dodge," de Gier said.

"You did?"

"I did."

"Well, come in. An open door is the last thing we want at this time of the year. You aren't worried about the car, are you? That car is insured. Who cares about a police car anyway? To them a car is just wheels. If the wheels go they get other wheels. They waste the taxpayer's money, we pay them to waste it, and everybody is happy. Sit down. Drink?"

"Yes," de Gier said. He knew he should have refused. The fox's brandy was still in his blood. He shouldn't have driven the Dodge. He thought of the excuses. The commissaris had played along with the fox, accepted the suspect's brandy to make him talk. De Gier had played along with the commissaris, but he also liked to drink. He could have left the brandy in the enamel mug. He could have pretended to drink, taken little sips, spat some back. But he had drunk it all. Technically he had caused a total loss while under the influence, although he would never be charged. Technically the insurance company wouldn't have to pay, but it would.

Reggie poured bourbon, a big glass. "On the rocks?"

"Please."

"What are you driving around the cape for? It's dark."

"Lost my way. I was trying to get out."

Reggie grinned. He looked the perfect country gentleman, in his tweed jacket and sturdy trousers. The cabin was rough but comfortable. The fire in the big fieldstone fireplace crackled. The cabin's paneling was old, showing the dull shine of pine that has matured for a hundred years, a deep orange, almost reddish, shine. There were good thick rugs on the floor, and the low bed in the rear of the cabin was covered with sheepskins. The only decorations, hanging from hooks on the low, handhewn tamarack beams, were tools and weapons. A rifle, a shotgun, a bow and arrows, a crossbow, several axes with delicately curved handles, a machete in a gray green canvas sheath, a blowpipe.

De Gier pointed at the blowpipe. "A trophy from the jungle?"

"Sure. The mountain people use them in Vietnam. They tried to teach me, but the poison worried me. I did better with the bow and arrows. The crossbow is American. I've used it on the woodchucks a few times, but it can't beat my squirrel rifle. Come here. I'll show you my real trophies."

De Gier got up and looked out a side window. The view was a small yard with a high fence around it. Reggie picked up a flashlight and pressed it against the glass. "See?"

De Gier saw a tableau made out of barn boards, framed neatly by weathered two-by-fours. The tableau grinned at him out of many small dark eyes. Small skulls, white in the light of the torch.

"Count them."

Rows of ten, five down. Five full rows and the sixth row had only four skulls.

"Fifty-four of the little bastards, and room for another forty-six. When I fill it up I'll start a new one."

De Gier felt Reggie breathing next to him. Reggie's breath was short and sharp, the breath of a man in anger, or in heat.

"Took me a few years to catch fifty-four of them, but I'm getting clever at it now. Woodchucks are the worst threat on the estate. They tunnel and dig, interfere with the roots, and eat the shoots. I had to start the azalea gardens twice over. You hear that? Twice. They ate all the little plants. They would sit up and whistle at me. I swear they even waved their filthy little paws. I always shoot them in the chest. Doesn't do to damage the skull. I need the skulls. But I don't have too much time, and they get busy when I'm busy. In the spring when the garden needs my time. But I get them all the same. Now they rest. They're in their holes, fast asleep. If I know where the holes are I can dynamite them out, but I don't want to do that. I need their skulls. Dynamite blows them to bits, and the bits are deep down in the earth. Another drink?"

"Sure," de Gier said. "Please."

Reggie poured the drink and pulled out the drawer of a bureau next to his bed. "Here, this is the map. See?"

He was whispering hoarsely. His finger pointed at certain areas. The map showed Cape Orca and Jeremy's Island. It had been drawn by hand, very carefully, and colored in several shades of green and brown. Its different hieroglyphics indicated trees and plants and grass. Reggie was explaining, still in the same hoarse whisper, "This isn't a garden, this is an estate. Not as big as the estate the Rockefellers donated to Maine further down the coast, but more beautiful. More love has gone into it, more work. My love. Here are the azalea gardens. I know every plant. There are the cedar trees, and here is the white pine reserve. I've cleaned the reserve myself, I do it every year. I rake and rake, and when I don't want to disturb the pine needles I go down on my hands and knees and I crawl around with a plastic pail and I fill the pail with twigs. The reserve needs a golden carpet and the needles are gold when the sun touches them. And it needs clean moss so that the gold shows up better. I rake the moss with a bamboo comb and sometimes with my fingers. The white pine reserve covers an acre. It takes me weeks to go through it. A few weeks, every spring. The others won't do it. They don't care, they're clumsy. Leroux is good, but only when he can mow the lawn and sit on a tractor. Some of the local girls are good at picking the dead leaves off the azaleas. But they don't see details. And they don't care about the woodchucks destroying their work. They think the woodchucks are cute. Cute. The bloody little bastards. They are bastards, you hear? With their big gnawing teeth and their sharp beady eyes. They never miss a shoot or a bud. There are others. The geese eat the rhododendron flowers, pick them off. They rob an eight-foot bush in a few minutes. They'll jump for the high buds, but I shot the geese a long time ago, every single one of them. The geese are big and clumsy. The woodchucks are quick, and their colors blend with the landscape. Another forty-six and then another hundred. I'll kill them all."

The hoarse whisper had become a hiss. "You hear me?"

"Yes," de Gier said.

Reggie's voice became calmer, but his breathing was still disturbed. He had switched off the torch and was warming his back at the fire. "Sit down, be my guest. Yes, the woodchucks. I can't stand them. Janet hates them too. Tell me, where did your accident happen?"

"Not too far from here."

"Did you go off the road?"

"No, a tree stopped me."

"Didn't damage the tree, did you?" The voice dropped down again. Reggie's eyes were bloodshot and vicious. His hands moved nervously, and his lips trembled. De Gier was working out a defense. He didn't feel too sure that he could use strategy. He had drunk too much to react quickly. He would have to be alert to determine the point where Reggie would become violent. De Gier moved under a beam that held an ax resting on two pegs. He should be able to swing the back of the ax against the man's temple, but the cabin was small and cramped. If he missed, Reggie would run him down.

"Hello? You there, Reggie?"

Reggie breathed in deeply and seemed to make an effort to control himself. He walked to the door. "Evening, Madelin. A sociable evening indeed. Come in. Have you visited Janet? She said she was having an early night tonight."

"No, Reggie, I've come for the sergeant. I saw his car. Are you all right, sergeant?"

"Yes, I am fine. The car isn't."

"No. I've just had a look at it. I'm glad you aren't hurt. The sheriff has been trying to raise you on the radio. I heard him on my CB. But you didn't answer."

De Gier put his glass down. "Thank you, Reggie, but I'll have to go now."

"You fool," Madelin said. "That was the last place in the world you should have gone to. Did you drink a lot?"

"Yes."

"Was he drinking with you?"

"Yes."

"He always goes bananas when he drinks unless Janet is around. Did he show you his skulls?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice anything?"

"Yes, he began to speak in a funny whispering way and his breathing became heavy and torturous."

"I know. He did that once when I was in his cabin, but Albert and Tom were with me and he doesn't see us as a threat. He's psychotic. Maybe all professional soldiers are, but Reggie is very psychotic. You know what he specialized in when he was in Vietnam?"

They were in Madelin's car, almost out of the estate. De Gier was glad he didn't have to watch the road. It was snowing heavily and the wind drove the snowflakes into the windscreen. The car was going dead slow. When it skidded, just as they reached the main road, Madelin let go of the wheel. "That's what you should have done, sergeant. But you were going fast I suppose. If you let go of the wheel the car will steady itself again. Did you slam on the brakes?"

"Yes."

"It's hard not to slam the brakes on when you're in a skid, but when you do the car becomes a sleigh and you lose all control."

"Yes," de Gier said. "I am an idiot. What did Reggie do in Vietnam?"

"He told me once, at a cocktail party at Janet's place. He and his buddies, four of them in all, sought out Vietcong camps. They would arm themselves with knives, a small mortar, and light machine guns. Reggie would kill the guard. It was very important to kill the guard. If he couldn't do it they would go back into the jungle again and call the whole thing off. But if Reggie could get his knife into the guard the four men would spread out and lire their machine guns, at a height of about a foot, horizontally. They would strafe and spray until they were out of ammunition. The Vietcong slept a foot off the ground. Next they would lob mortar shells into the camp. And then they would run off and meet in some prearranged place. His buddies got killed and Reggie trained new buddies and went on. He survived and then the war was over. Now it's woodchucks."

"And retired old people on the Cape Orca shore."

"Indeed, sergeant."

"You might have told me."

Madelin laughed. "No. You had to find out. But you stumbled into it, didn't you? You crashed into it."

"I did."

"You don't have some clever excuse? Why don't you tell me that you knew all along and that your accident tonight was a clever rase."

"No, I was just blundering along."

She stopped the car. "I love you, sergeant. You're forty-one years old, you need half glasses to read the small print, and you're not intelligent. Kiss me."

She waited for him to make the move. He did. He was a little slow. His neck hurt.

"Hmmmm," Madelin said. "That was good. Do it

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"I want to feel your teeth."

He sat back. "My teeth?"

"Yes," Madelin said. "You have nice teeth, but they do protrude a little. That's why I was so worried when I saw the wreck of the Dodge and the lights of Reggie's cabin."

"For God's sake," de Gier said and felt his teeth. "You don't mean that I look like a woodchuck, do you? I've never seen a woodchuck. Some sort of rodent?"

She let herself fall over sideways, twisted, and looked up from his lap. "Yes. Some sort of rodent. Big and handsome. With wide shoulders and curly brown hair and a big beautiful mustache. Not so clever but very genuine. I love you, sergeant."