Buried Dreams (23 page)

"Nope, just a writer. Looking for some information."

A gentle jab of the knife into my throat. "Information? You're looking for information, out here in my yard? Not even a phone call, a visit?"

"You're not in the book."

"The fuck right I'm not in the book."

I said, "Look, let's calm down, all right? My apologies for trespassing. I'm just trying to find out-"

"No, you calm down. You fuck. You think you can just come here, hunh? Just like that? Come into my turf? Man, I should just cut your throat and dump your body out here. Nobody would miss you, right?"

Well, maybe a few people would miss me, but I was getting tired of this. "William, look, why can't we ---"

Another jab from the knife, harder than before. "No. No more talking on your part. You know what? I think I'm going to cut you, just for the fun of it. What do you think about that?"

I fell forward, right past the woodpile, the knife blade scraping against my cheek. As I fell, I grabbed a length of wood and rolled over, and as Gagnon came to me, I popped him one across the nearest knee. He yelped but kept coming at me, as I moved around to the front of the trailer, where there was more light from the windows, and Gagnon came at me, face mottled with anger, knife out in a classic knife fighting pose --- no TV nonsense of overhanded blows with the knife, the correct way was holding it out and extended, with fingers relaxed, other hand held high to distract you --- and he said, "Man, I was just going to cut you once, but you're going to get it bad."

I stepped backward quickly, my hand reaching underneath my coat, grabbing onto the blessed Italian metal of my Beretta, and I pulled it out, extending it toward him in the approved combat stance, pulling back the hammer so there was no confusion about there being a round in the chamber.

He stopped moving. I took a series of breaths. I said, "Ever hear the joke about coming to a gunfight with a knife?"

"Yeah."

He didn't say anything more. I took another breath and said, "Put the knife away, and I'll put the pistol away, and we can talk."

Gagnon grinned. "Maybe I'll come right at you. Maybe I'll cut you anyway. What are you going to do, shoot me?"

"The thought's entered my mind."

"Yeah, you fuck. And what will you tell the cops then? Huh?"

"I'd say I came over for a friendly talk, and this ex-con with a violent record lost it and came after me. Who do you think they'll believe? An ex-con with a bullet in him, or a writer with no criminal history?"

The grin faded. “What do you mean, ex-con?"

"I mean the time you served up in Warren, that's what I mean."

Now the grin was gone. "You fuck."

"You seem to like that phrase a lot, William," I said. "Don't you know any others?"

His tone became defiant, but I noticed the knife was lowering.

"I know a lot, that's what. I know what it's like to be born poor in potato country, up in Aroostook County. I know what it's like, being bounced around, foster home to foster home, learning to do everything on my own. That's what I know. And I know that when I did things on my own, I screwed up a couple of times. I admit it. And I know how I got my act together, after Warren, and started doing good, trying to help out the shattered remains of my people. And damn you, you're still trespassing."

"That's right," I said. "And if you answer me two questions, I'll leave and that will be that."

"Not a chance."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Okay," I said. "Then how's this. You don't answer my questions, and I talk to a police detective acquaintance of mine in Porter. Detective Joe Stevens. I think he'd love to know about your background, what you've been doing, especially when it concerns sexual relations with a high school student. How do you think that will impact your fund-raising, William? Especially if some of the local papers --- like
The Porter Herald
---- decide to dig into your background and find out just how legitimate a Native American leader you really are? Do you think any plans for a casino or museum on Peavey Island will progress after that?"

He started to say something --- I think it was going to start with "you" and end with an obscenity --- but he said instead, "All right. Two questions. Then get the hell out."

Gagnon made a show of returning his knife to a leather scabbard on his belt, obscured by his gray sweatshirt, and I made a show of lowering the Beretta. "First question. Ray Ericson."

"Who?"

"Ray Ericson. Ran an antique store in Porter. Brother of Jon Ericson, the guy I was interviewing you about. Now considered a suspect in his death. He's disappeared since his brother's body been found. Where is he?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Because you know him, that's why."

"Who?"

"Ray Ericson."

Gagnon shook his head. "Nope. Never heard of him."

"He served time with you, up in Warren. You telling me you never ran into him, never had any dealings with him, didn't know him at all?"

He folded his arms, smiled. "Man, you ever serve time?"

"So far, I've been lucky to miss that particular life experience."

"Then here's an education. You're in a concrete and steel hell with a couple of hundred other guys. All right? And there's county time and there's state time, and state time --- which is Warren --- is a hell of a lot harder and dicier than county time. And when you're doing state time, you're concerned about one thing, and one thing only. Survival. You case out your cellmate, your corridor, your wing. You see who's running the show, who's doing things, and you form alliances, agreements. And once that's done, you coast. You do your time, keep your head down, and keep things cool with other guys in your alliance. Doesn't matter what they are. Drug dealers, Aryans, bikers... whatever... and you're doing that, your whole fucking universe is about twenty or thirty guys. Everybody else don't matter. So sure, maybe this Ray character was doing time the same time I was, but that doesn't mean shit."

"How come I don't believe you?" "How come I don't care?"

I shifted weight from one foot to the other, thought about what he was saying. Hard to prove a negative. Maybe if I was lucky and talked to the guy from the Maine Department of Corrections again, maybe a little more digging could show that Gagnon was lying and that in fact he did know ---

"Hey."

I snapped back. "Hey, yourself."

"Two questions. I took care of the first one. What's the other?"

"Oh. This one's easy. Lift up your left pants leg?"

"Say what?"

''Your left pants leg. Lift it up."

“Why the hell should I do that?"

I said, "Because I'm concerned about your limping, that's why."

Gagnon said, "It's an old scar."

"Then show me and I'll be on my way."

I wondered what I was going to do if he told me to stick it in my ear, but I was pleasantly surprised when he muttered something and bent down, and lifted up the pants leg, exposing his lower leg, all the way up to the knee.

With one hand I kept holding onto the pistol, with the other, I took out my flashlight, clicked it on, and played the beam over Gagnon's lower leg.

And there it was.

An old, purple and pink, round scar.

"Satisfied?" he said.

"Unfortunately, yes," I said.

He dropped the pants leg and I switched off the light and said,

"Sorry."

"Hah. Not as sorry as I was when I got it."

"What happened?"

"A little lesson on being careful when taking your first shower in prison, when someone performs a public display of affection upon you. I punched him in the nose, he fell, and he nailed me with a shank made from a shaved toothbrush handle. Had it concealed in his other hand. Anything else you want to see? My naked and hairy ass, for example?"

"Nope, that'll do," I said.

We stood there for a moment, and then I took a step back and put the Beretta away in the rear waistband. "Guess it's time for me to head on out."

"A good friggin' guess," he said, heading toward the trailer. "You got any more questions, submit them in writing or something. You stay the hell away from my home."

"Good suggestion. And you should stay away from high school girls."

"Hah. I'll think about it. If they're near or over eighteen, they know what they're getting into."

As I started going back up the driveway, and he made his way to the front door, I turned and said, "Oh. One more thing."

"What? Another question?"

"No," I said. "It's just that I'll be calling you in a couple of weeks, that's why."

There was a look of confusion on his face, and it was funny how much that amused me. "Why in hell would you do that?"

"Because I said the other day that I'd do a column about you and your council, that's why."

"You mean... you're still going to do it?"

I shrugged.  "I made a promise to you, William. I intend to keep it."

"Man, you are some friggin' piece of work."

"So I've been told."

He went into the trailer and then I went up the steep driveway, stumbling a bit on a rough patch. I thought about taking out my flashlight and lighting the way, but for some irrational reason, I didn't want Gagnon to see me do that. Even after everything that had just happened, I didn't want him to think I was weak.

Strange, but there it was.

While going home I swung by the Weathervane Restaurant in Kittery, which is directly across the street from the Kittery Trading Post, one of the largest firearms retailers in this part of the seacoast. Yet another example of guns and butter, separated by a few lanes of asphalt. I ordered a take-out meal of a lobster pie- --- the meat of two lobsters with stuffing and drawn butter, a meal guaranteed to make a vegan faint on sight --- and it sat next to me on the long drive south. The drive wasn't long due to its length, but because of what was rattling around in my mind. I had struck out, and even the delicious smells of the dinner sitting next to me couldn't take that away.

For I had staked everything on William Bear Gagnon and his possible relationship with Jon's brother, and the fact he and Jon had exchanged words during their sole meeting. Plus, I could see how it could have happened: Jon finds the artifacts and decides to brag it to Gagnon, pointing out that, see, his ancestors had been here a thousand years ago. And Gagnon, upset that his plans for a casino, a center for his people, would be overshadowed by the story of the Vikings, well, maybe he had lost his temper.

And the artifacts? Somehow, in Ray Ericson's hands. A debt paid from some prison experience. Maybe.

But that was done. Maybe I would dig more into Gagnon's past, see if in fact he had been telling the truth about his lack of connection with Ray Ericson. I could try to scam that nice young fellow from the Maine Department of Corrections. But I still felt that taste of disappointment, at seeing Gagnon roll up his pants leg and expose that old scar. I had been so certain that I would see a fresh wound there, a wound I had caused, and that hadn't happened.

What now, then?

Home and dinner, that's all. Home and dinner.

I pulled into the Lafayette House parking lot, flashed my headlights in appreciation at the Duffy cousin keeping guard on me, and drove the last few yards to my home.

Maybe I had been sleeping in. I don't know. All I do know is that I was woken up by banging on the front door of my house, and the red numerals on the clock radio told me it was 7:30 in the morning. I rolled over and grabbed my Beretta, and then put on a robe as the banging continued. I kept the pistol concealed behind me as I went down the stairs, figuring that whoever was out there had to have been cleared by one of the Duffy cousins before coming down to my house, and that if someone really wanted to cause me harm, he wouldn't be announcing himself so openly.

I unlocked the door and opened it up, and there he was, looking fresh and clean and full of energy, carrying a plastic bag in one strong hand.

'Well, good morning to you, Felix," I said.

"
Ah, bonjour, man enfant
," he said, smiling widely. "
C'est temps pour aller, n'est-ce pas?
"

"Is that French?"

"It sure is," he said.

"I thought you'd be speaking Italian, if anything."

"Well, I'm learning all sorts of new talents. Hey, I'm freezing my tail off here. Are you going to let me in or not?"

I stepped back as he walked in, wearing khaki pants, black turtleneck sweater, and long leather coat. He took the coat off, tossed it on a nearby chair, and I said,  “When did your flight come in?"

"About ten last night. Got home by eleven, decided not to ring you up."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome. And I'd appreciate it if you'd put that pistol away. Loaded firearms in somebody's hand tends to kill my appetite for breakfast."