Paskagankee (19 page)

“I guess that's a blessing,” Sharon mumbled under her breath. She sat sideways, facing away from Mike and the doctor. He guessed she was embarrassed about being so affected by the gruesome scenario, but he felt exactly the same way.

“Did you find any evidence to suggest the body was cut or chopped up? Saw marks, slashes, anything?”

“Absolutely not,” Affeldt said reluctantly. “I stand by my earlier statement regarding Victim Number One: the damage was done by hand—by human hand.”

Mike shook his head. “That doesn't make sense, doctor. No one is strong enough to pull a body apart like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

“You think I don't know that?” the doctor replied. “I know that better than anyone, but you asked for the results of my autopsy, and that's what I found.”

“Okay, doctor, thank you,” Mike said and stood to leave. He grabbed Sharon's elbow as she rose next to him. She appeared pale and more than a little shaky.

“There is one more thing,” the medical examiner said. Mike and Sharon turned. “I found a trace of saliva on the remains of the victim that did not belong to him. Actually, it was quite a bit more than a trace.”

“What does that mean?” Mike asked.

“It appears to me that you should be searching for a person who has lost control of his bodily functions, at least to the extent that he was drooling excessively.”

“So there will be DNA evidence.”

“Absolutely. Catch the perpetrator, and you should have little difficulty tying him to the crimes.”

“Is there any evidence to suggest this was done by a group of people, perhaps some sort of cult?”

“None,” the doctor answered. “It is my opinion, as impossible as this sounds, that this havoc is being wreaked by one single, solitary person. And before you say it again, yes, I do realize that's impossible, but my job is to tell you what the evidence suggests.”

“I understand,” Mike said. “And thank you for your time. I'm sorry you had to do this twice.”

“Yes, well, keep those two idiots away from me if you don't mind,” he shot back. “They didn't want to hear a word I said about a single perpetrator.”

The two Paskagankee Police officers walked out of the office, closing the door behind them with a solid
thunk
as Dr. Affeldt put his head down and resumed his paperwork.

They returned to the cruiser in silence. As Mike slid behind the wheel, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“That was hard to listen to,” Sharon admitted, “but I'm okay. Please don't think poorly of me because of my reaction in there, it's just that I—”

Mike held up his hands. “First of all, I couldn't think poorly of you because of that. Anyone with a shred of humanity would feel sick hearing the things Affeldt was saying, especially after seeing the guy's handiwork scattered all over the forest floor. I would be worried about you if you sat there and listened to all that and
didn't
have any reaction. Believe me” he said, “I felt pretty sick in there myself.”

She looked at him gratefully and said, “Thank you for saying so. What now?”

“I think I need to talk to the guy I replaced, Chief Court. Maybe he can give us some insight into this mess.”

30

SNOW BEGAN FALLING IN large, dry flakes as Mike pulled the cruiser into the parking lot behind the police station. The flakes drifted lazily to the ground, slowly covering the layer of ice which had still not begun to melt with anything more than the vaguest hint of sincerity and making Mike fear that the driving conditions would deteriorate rapidly once again.

“Maybe the Two Stooges will drive into a tree somewhere and we won't have to deal with them for a while,” he said when Sharon noted the absence of the State Police detectives' unmarked Caprice from the lot.

She answered, “That might not necessarily be a good thing. Could you imagine the shitstorm that would rain down on us if one of those two was the next to get dismembered?”

“That's a good point, but I can dream, can't I?”

They stepped out of the cruiser and slipped and slid into the station, alternately holding each other up and waving their arms for balance. The heavy winds and driving rain that marked the storm prior to this afternoon had moved on, but this snowfall could turn out to be just as dangerous. It was impossible to differentiate between the icy spots and the areas that were more or less safe to walk on.

The station house was quiet, with most of the officers on duty out in the forest performing the search mandated by Detective O'Bannon. The two threaded their way around workstations to Mike's office at the rear of the building. He closed the door and took a seat behind his desk, looking up the contact number for the recently retired Chief Wally Court.

Mike dialed and then stared at the telephone receiver in disbelief as a recorded message told him, “The number you are calling has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

He activated the speaker so Sharon could hear the recording. “Did you hear anything about Chief Court planning to leave town after his retirement?”

She shook her head. “Not a word, but as you might imagine, being a female officer and the new kid on the block to boot, I would probably have been the last person to find out from Chief Court or anyone else in this little Boys' Club.”

“That's strange, though,” Mike said. “He moves away two weeks after retiring and doesn't leave a forwarding number, or post a note in the station, or send an email, or as far as we know say anything to anyone? It doesn't make sense,” he said, almost muttering to himself. “Let's try his cell number, although with the spotty coverage around here, we probably wouldn't be able to contact him even if he was sitting in the next room.”

Mike dialed Court's cell number and was surprised when the call went through, although it was routed straight to voice mail. A recording in the gruff voice of the ex-Paskagankee police chief advised him to leave a message. Mike thought it was probably an exercise in futility, since who knew how often the man checked his cell-phone voice mail but left a quick one anyway. “Hello Chief, this is Mike McMahon. As you have probably heard, we have suffered a couple of horrible murders in the last few days, and I was hoping to take a few minutes at your convenience to pick your brain. Please return my call as soon as possible.” He shook his head in frustration. “Where the hell could the guy be? I hope . . .”

“What?”

“I hope the hell he hasn't become a victim.”

31

PROFESSOR KENNETH DYE WAS not the least bit surprised when the telephone rang and his caller ID displayed the number for the Paskagankee Police Department. He had known ever since the two officers walked out his front door a couple of days ago that they would contact him again. He expected it to take a little longer than it did, but perhaps the situation up there was worsening faster than even he had envisioned.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Professor Dye, this is Mike McMahon of the Paskagankee Police. Officer Dupont and I visited you a couple of days ago.”

“Of course,” Dye answered. “How are you, Chief McMahon?”

“Well, if even a little bit of what you told us is true, then you probably already know the answer to that question. Honestly, we're not doing well, professor. We suffered another murder last night and still have no solid leads.”

A chill washed through Dye. He knew what was coming, and even though he had been expecting it, he dreaded hearing the actual words. He took a deep breath and in as steady a voice as he could manage, said, “I'm very sorry to hear that, Chief McMahon.”

“Thank you,” came the reply, and then silence, as if the police chief was deciding how to continue. “Professor . . .”

“You want my help but can't figure out how to ask, is that about right?”

“Listen, sir,” the chief said. “I live in a world where evidence of criminal activity is that which I can see and feel and touch. The idea of some three-hundred-year-old spirit butchering people, wreaking havoc in my town, is something I'm having more than a little trouble swallowing. I don't mean it as a condemnation of you and the research you have spent your life conducting; I guess I'm just a natural skeptic.”

“I understand, better than you know,” the professor answered, thinking of the years of marginalization he had suffered from his supposed friends and colleagues, the educational elites who were supposed to be so open minded to new ideas and who had shunned him for his theories. “But if you're not convinced that what I told you is true, why are you calling me?”

“Well, that's the thing,” came the answer. “There have been some developments in the cases that are . . . well . . .”

Again the professor took pity on the police chief. “They are inconsistent with the realities of life as you understand them?”

“Exactly,” McMahon replied. “They are impossible.”

The professor smiled despite the cold finger of fear worming its way through his intestines. “So what is it I can do for you?” he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“I'd like you to come to Paskagankee.”

32

GETTING TIME OFF FROM his university job would not be a problem. Ken Dye simply emailed the department head with his request for a leave of absence due to a personal emergency and that was that. He wasn't particularly concerned about who the university would find to teach his classes. He knew the school didn't care about his work, and most of his students probably didn't give a damn either; it's not like anyone was majoring in the stuff he taught. Most people treated it like a bad joke.

He threw some clean clothes into a bag which he then tossed into the back seat of his car. Ken figured he would be in Paskagankee for less than a week, probably a lot less if his theory about what was happening up there was correct. He turned his thermostat down to fifty—no point wasting energy, but he didn't want his pipes to freeze, either—and then sat down at the kitchen table with a pen and a couple of sheets of plain lined paper.

An hour later, Professor Dye carefully folded the letter he had written, slid it into an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the table. He felt wrung out, exhausted, like he was getting over a bad case of the flu, after putting his words down on paper. He shrugged into his heaviest winter coat, then locked up the little house and walked carefully to his car through the ice and the now rapidly mounting snow for the trip to Paskagankee.

He felt like a man going to the gallows.

33

MIKE STOOD IN THE middle of an enormous windswept field engaged in a heated conversation with Warren Sprague, local farmer and longtime town council member who annually held a popular bonfire on his property the Friday night before Thanksgiving. The field easily encompassed five wide-open acres surrounded on all sides by the ubiquitous and massive Maine north woods. The ground, lacking any barrier to the gusty winds, had been scoured almost completely clear.

“You don't seem to appreciate the seriousness of this situation, Mr. Sprague,” Mike said. “There have been two murders committed in the last three days and I've seen nothing that leads me to believe the perpetrator intends to stop.” He lifted his cap and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. A massive pile of dead trees, branches and brush loomed over the men as they argued, ready and waiting to be set ablaze tomorrow night.

A single rutted dirt track led from the road, through the forest and to the field, located a half-mile behind Sprague's big centuries-old farmhouse. The woods were thick and tangled in that stretch, at times threatening to consume the Explorer whole as Mike had bounced along the narrow access road to meet with the farmer. He couldn't imagine trying to keep the townspeople safe in this field tomorrow night, but as the event was being held on private property, he had no authority to shut it down, which is why he was standing out here in the chill wind trying to convince this stubborn New Englander to postpone the gathering of his own accord.

The local volunteer fire department had issued a permit weeks ago authorizing the bonfire, and Mike had been told by the chief of that department in no uncertain terms that revoking the permit was out of the question. “If I pull the permit,” the man said with a scowl, “where the hell am I going to drink tomorrow night?” Mike's only hope was to convince Sprague to reschedule the event.

The Paskagankee bonfire was traditionally one of the biggest social events of the year in the isolated village, a chance for people to come together and visit with neighbors before the onset of the long winter, and Mike's debating skills were getting him nowhere against the taciturn Sprague. “I've been doing this for over thirty years,” the man told Mike, “through good times and bad, and I'm not about to stop because some nut is running around with a knife.”

The police department had of course issued a warning to the citizens of Paskagankee, but most of the more ghastly details regarding the condition of the victims' bodies had been withheld. Mike wanted to avoid panicking the public while still convincing townspeople of the gravity of the situation, but now began to question his decision to withhold information. If everyone in Paskagankee was as cavalier in their attitude as Sprague, he would have his hands full trying to avoid a potential bloodbath tomorrow night.