Paskagankee (22 page)

“You don't need to be a wiseass,” O'Bannon shot back. “Of course they didn't do it to themselves, that's not what I'm saying. I think you have an animal problem. Those two vics were unfortunate enough to wander into the path of an aggressive bear, and they paid the price.”

“What?”
Mike could not believe what he was hearing. “Did you talk to the ME? Did you even look at those two bodies or at least at the bits and pieces we were able to recover?”

O'Bannon's face began to redden as he struggled to control his temper but Mike didn't care. He was fighting a losing battle with
his
temper as well. This was why the investigation had been pulled out from under him? So these two dimwits could whitewash the whole thing? What was the AG thinking, sending these morons up here?

“Of course we looked at the bodies, Chief. And of course we talked to the ME. We talked to neighbors of the Crosker family as well. Know what we discovered? They've had issues with bears in that area of town for quite some time. The bears are getting more and more aggressive. I think a rabid one just happened to run across Harvey Crosker as he was working on his driveway and the animal decided poor ol' Harvey looked too delicious to pass up.”

Mike stood up from behind his desk and walked over to the office door, doing his best not to slam it shut as he attempted to keep the whole building from overhearing the discussion. “Let me get this straight,” he said quietly, his voice shaking with rage. “You believe, after the one day you've spent investigating these cases, that both of those men lying in the morgue in pieces were killed by a rabid bear? What exactly are you basing that theory on? There were no teeth or claw marks on either victim, no evidence of rabies, either, for that matter. And as far as the bear situation is concerned, of course there are bears in the area of the Crosker home. There are bears all around us. You gentlemen may not have noticed, but you're in
Northern fucking Maine!”

His voice had continued to rise as he spoke to the two men, and by the time he finished, he was nearly screaming. Dispatcher Gordie Rheaume was staring into the office, a look of alarm on his aging features. It would have been amusing, had Mike not been so angry. “Have you two geniuses stopped to consider how stupid you're going to look when the next person gets killed, and it's not by a bear?”

By now Detective O'Bannon was furious as well, although it looked to Mike as though Shaw wasn't even paying attention. He stood by the door examining his fingernails. Apparently people losing their temper around his partner was nothing new. O'Bannon stepped directly in front of Mike, his face inches away, and said, “I've had about all of your insults I intend to take. I did a little research on you, Mister Big-Shot Police Chief. I know all about what happened with that hostage situation in Revere. You wanna know what I think?”

Mike was stunned. He stared at the man in disbelief as his brain tried to process what O'Bannon was saying. “I think you couldn't hack it any more in the big city so you ran up here to Redneck-Land and once you got here it was too goddamn boring for you, so you took a simple animal attack and made a big deal out of it. Well it's not a big deal and it never was!”

Mike kept his clenched fists by his side, resisting the urge to take a poke at the investigator. He had to try again. “If it was an animal attack, where were the bite marks? Or did the bear borrow the victims' hands to tear them apart with? Because the only markings that were on them were exactly those—human hands. That's it. Can you please explain to me how a bear used human hands to dismember those people?”

O'Bannon waved his hand as if brushing away a pesky mosquito. “Animal attack is the only explanation that makes sense. I'm certainly not buying into this crazy notion you've fallen in love with that another
person
ripped those guys apart like pulled pork.”

Mike wondered how this “briefing” had gotten so far off track and how these two idiots could even consider themselves investigators. It was clear their only concern was closing the cases for the attorney general and motoring on back to Portland. His plan had been to ask the two men to interview Professor Dye, just to get their take on his story, but Mike realized now that doing so would be a fool's errand, a complete waste of time. Frick and Frack would not be the least bit inclined to listen to more than a sentence or two out of the professor's mouth before they closed their minds to what he was saying and probably filed paperwork to have both Dye and Mike involuntarily committed to boot.

“So that's it then,” Mike said. “You two are fully satisfied with your conclusions and you're going to close your one-day investigation and go home?”

“No, that's not it,” O'Bannon told him. His face was still bright crimson but seemed to be gradually returning to its normal shade. “Detective Shaw and I know how worried you are about this bonfire that crazy farmer is hosting tonight. Although we feel sure,” he glanced at Shaw who was still busy examining his fingernails—the man must have the cleanest cuticles in all of Maine, Mike thought—“that there is nothing to worry about, at least not in terms of people killing one another, we will stick around tonight to help keep an eye on things. Then, when Saturday morning comes and everyone is still alive and well, we will head back home. Think you can live with that, Chief?”

Mike was sorely tempted to tell the men to go screw themselves, that he would secure the bonfire himself and the hell with the two of them, but managed to refrain from doing so. His sense of impending disaster regarding that evening's event had grown markedly stronger as he argued with the two investigators. Even though he detested the men, or at least O'Bannon—it was hard to have an opinion one way or the other on Shaw, since he never seemed to say much of anything—he was thankful for the two additional warm bodies to watch over the festivities at the Sprague Farm.

“That's fine,” he told them and reopened the office door as an indication that they were welcome to leave. Gordie Rheaume looked away quickly; it was obvious he had been straining to hear what was going on. Mike tried to stifle a smile. At the moment Gordie was the only other person inside the station, and Mike knew that within the hour every officer on the Paskagankee Police Department that he could contact would be filled in with as many juicy details as he had been able to pick up through the closed door.

O'Bannon and Shaw stalked out, weaving their way through the stationhouse to the front door, crashing through it and stomping out to their car. Where they were going now and how they were going to pass the time until tonight's bonfire Mike had no idea and didn't much care. It was clear to him that they couldn't investigate their way out of a paper bag, so whether they were working or not didn't make much difference, so long as they stayed out of his hair.

37

THE KATAHDIN DINER, THE only eatery in downtown Paskagankee and, therefore, normally a very crowded place, bustled with its typical barely controlled chaos at 12:45 in the afternoon. Young waitresses rushed back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room carrying trays piled high with food, from the most expensive New York strip steak dinner all the way down to appetizers, desserts and coffee. The place was raucous with the sound of people talking, laughing, and occasionally arguing. Plates rattled, glasses clinked, and silverware banged against dishes. Mike loved all the activity and tried to eat at the Katahdin as often as he could.

At the moment he was taking a quick lunch break with Sharon, who had rolled up in her cruiser five minutes ago as Mike took the first sip of his coffee. The brew was hot, and strong enough to strip paint. Steam rose off the surface of the mug in great waves that reminded Mike of fog rolling in off the Atlantic. He wondered absently how the hell they could possibly get their coffee so hot and whether the owners of the diner had ever been subject to a lawsuit from some unwary customer taking a big gulp and scalding the skin right off the roof of his mouth.

His coffee musings were instantly forgotten, though, as the petite officer walked through the front door. Sharon looked adorable, even dressed, as she was, like any other cop in the town's simple police blues. She removed her hat upon entering the restaurant, and scanned the tables looking for Mike, then threaded her way through the crowd, gracefully sidestepping the perpetually rushing waitresses and stopping to share a word or two with several people Mike didn't recognize.

She slid into the booth next to him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, which surprised Mike. She laughed when she saw his face and said, “I know what you're thinking, but I grew up in this town. Trust me on this: They're already talking about us anyway, so I figured, what the hell; might just as well throw some gasoline on the fire.”

“You're not concerned about what they might be saying about you?”

“No. Are you?”

“Nope. But on the other hand, I didn't grow up here.”

Sharon laughed. The sound was big and boisterous, not what one would expect from such a tiny woman. “I'm a drunk and this is a very small town, remember? Most of these people have seen me at my worst, sprawled across three chairs at the Ridge Runner at closing time, stumbling around trashed out of my mind. The last thing I'm worried about is that people will gossip about me seeing the handsome new stranger in town.”

“Huh,” Mike said with a frown. “Handsome new stranger? I thought you were only seeing me,” and was rewarded with a punch on the arm.

“Do I have to sit here and starve all day or are you going to buy me some lunch?” she asked, and Mike raised a hand to get the attention of the nearest waitress. He loved how Sharon was always surprising him. Just when he thought he was beginning to get a handle on her multifaceted personality, she would do or say something that came straight out of left field.

They placed their order and the waitress winked at Sharon as she walked away. “I went to high school with her,” Sharon explained. “I'm sure she'd be coming on to you herself if I weren't sitting here.” Then she changed gears and asked, “So how did your briefing by the big shots from Portland go?”

Mike shook his head disgustedly. “You don't want to know. It was even worse than I had expected, and I wouldn't have believed that was possible. They're going to try to whitewash the whole thing—O'Bannon's claiming there weren't any murders at all.”

Anger flashed in Sharon's blue eyes and she said, “But that's ridiculous! How are they going to explain away two gruesome killings?”

“Bears,” Mike replied simply.

“What?”

“I know,” he said. “I know. It's frustrating. You're preaching to the choir, sister. But never mind that right now, I wanted to talk to you about our new friend Professor Dye.”

“I like him.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Mike laughed. “You two were chatting away like long-lost soul mates five minutes after you met him. But I want your take on his story.”

“My take? What do you mean?”

“Come on, Shari. I know you were listening to him. Don't you think that whole Abenaqui legend thing is a little . . . I don't know . . . unusual? Strange? Insane?”

She sat for a moment gathering her thoughts. Mike waited patiently. She reached out absently and took a sip from his coffee cup just as the waitress brought their lunch order—cheeseburger and fries for him and a salad and coffee for her. “Here's the thing,” she said, picking a crisp piece of lettuce delicately off her bowl with two fingers and plopping it into her mouth. “I'm Catholic.”

Mike waited for further explanation. When none seemed forthcoming he said, “So?”

“Well, think about it,” she said. “Although Catholicism and Native American religions—if you could even call them that—are radically different in many ways, in their most basic forms they
do
have some things in common. There are grand mystical elements in both that stretch the credulity of non-believers.”

She did it again, Mike thought. Once again she has surprised the hell out of me. “How so?” he asked.

“Well, take for example the Eucharist in the Catholic Church. That's where the parishioner stands in line during mass to receive a small wafer of unleavened bread from the priest or a designated Eucharistic minister. The bread is blessed and has been transformed into the body of Christ.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Mike said. “The bread represents Christ.”

“No,” Sharon answered, shaking her head vigorously, her short black hair flying around her face. Mike loved it when she did that. “That's exactly my point. If you're a Catholic, your faith tells you that the bread doesn't
represent
Christ's body; it actually
is
Christ's body. It's transformed by the priest's blessing during mass.”

“I'm still not following you,” Mike said, feeling like a dunce and once again remembering why he had had so much trouble in school as a kid. “What does any of this have to do with an ancient Native American spirit?”

“Well, where is the difference between a Catholic
knowing
the piece of bread he is taking into his body is a tiny bit of Jesus Christ and a Native American
knowing
that a curse can force a restless spirit to take over a human's body? Does one require any more faith than the other? And more to the point, if one is possible and credible and accepted by millions around the world as truth, why couldn't the other be possible and credible too?”