Paskagankee (6 page)

The petite, young female officer placed her hand on Ida Mae's elbow and guided her back into the small living room to the couch. She sat her down and held her hand, doing her best to console her. The other officer, the man who seemed to be in charge, closed the door and stood uncomfortably as Ida Mae wrapped an afghan tightly around her shoulders. The little house seemed to have gotten much, much colder.

6

THE AUDITORIUM ON THE University of Maine campus was big, old, drafty and, at the moment, nearly empty. Professor Kenneth Dye looked out at the smattering of college students seated in a more or less random pattern throughout the room and wondered if even one single person was paying the slightest bit of attention to his lecture. Judging by the bleary looks on most of their faces, he guessed not.

It was 8:30 on a stormy, icy morning, which meant it was roughly four hours too early for most of these kids to be awake. The few that did seem chipper and bright-eyed, large Styrofoam cups of coffee fueling their engines, seemed much more interested in text-messaging, game-playing, and whatever the hell else kids could do on their cell phones these days than in paying much attention to Professor Kenneth A. Dye.

The professor paused in his lecture, looking up from his notes, not even really needing them. He had been giving the same stock presentation for more years than he cared to remember. The only reason he was still teaching at this institution of higher education located in the middle of nowhere was that he needed a reliable source of income so he could afford the purchase price on his next bottle of Tennessee Sippin' Whiskey. In fact, now that he really thought about it, Professor Dye decided he probably looked more bleary-eyed than most of the kids slumped in their seats in the unnecessarily large auditorium.

Lecturing in the monotone he had perfected over the past two decades about material he had been teaching for nearly that long, Ken Dye reflected on the incident that had become the turning point in not just his career but his life.

At one time, he had been an up-and-comer, an aggressive young teacher and researcher rocking the academic world with controversial theories based on extensive research in his chosen field of Native American studies. Dye didn't just peruse historical accounts of life in North America prior to the European invasion of the 1600's and 1700's, he traveled extensively in the field, interviewing Native American tribal elders all over the United States and even going so far as to live with a number of different tribes in different regions of the country for several illuminating years.

After completing his research and reaching some controversial conclusions regarding the mysticism inherent in virtually all Native American cultures, Kenneth Dye made the fateful decision which would change his life forever and not for the better. He wrote a book detailing his findings and almost overnight was reduced to a laughingstock, both in his beloved academic community as well as the real world outside the ivied walls of academia.

Dye came to consider publication of the textbook the biggest mistake of his life.
Publish or perish indeed
, he thought wryly.
More like publish,
then
perish
. Following the book's release, other professors gradually stopped coming by his office to discuss campus politics, invitations to academic affairs dried up, and colleagues began crossing to the other side of the quad when he approached so they wouldn't have to be seen with him. Ken Dye became a pariah; the guy no one wanted to get too close to, lest his disease of insignificance rub off on them as well.

He had never married—who had time for romance when there was so much research to be done?—and after the release of his book, the professor became such a celebrated kook that the only women interested in dating him were either a little unhinged themselves or curious to discover whether he was really as loony as he was portrayed in the media.

Eventually, Professor Dye retreated into his solitary prison of semi-academia, lecturing bored kids who needed an easy elective with which to pad their schedules without expending too much effort. Administrators at the University of Maine at Orono were only too happy to let him keep his job—in the beginning—because he brought a measure of welcome attention to the out-of-the-way school.

After becoming the subject of near-universal academic scorn, though, the administration felt it even more prudent to retain the man, if only to keep an eye on him. Out on his own in the world he could potentially do real damage to the school's academic reputation. Better to keep him under wraps.

Outside, the storm pounded the centuries-old building with high winds. Rain pelted the campus, freezing solidly on every surface within minutes. Professor Dye tried to convince himself that the low turnout for today's lecture was due in large part to the treacherous weather—
college students will take advantage of any excuse to ditch a class
—but he knew from long experience that even if the conditions were seventy degrees and sunny, there wouldn't be many more bodies in the lecture hall than were here right now.

Dye shot a glance at the portable alarm clock he had placed on the podium. It was important to track how many more minutes he had to suffer through before he could get home and dive back into his bottle of Jack. Eight-fifty-five. Ten more minutes and the day's first class would be in the books. Only three more tedious, boring, mind-numbing lectures to go. He wished he had poured some whiskey into his water bottle before leaving for work this morning. A powerful thirst was starting to build, and it was barely past breakfast.

7

“SO, WHAT IN GOD'S name happened to that poor animal yesterday?” Officer Sharon Dupont trained her deep blue eyes on Mike, her forehead crinkled, her pretty mouth drawn into a frown. McMahon wondered if she had any idea how alluring she was and decided she probably didn't. Mike's theory was that most women seemed to think they were more attractive than they actually were, but every once in a while he ran into a real stunner made even more desirable by the fact she was completely unaware of her effect on men. He was starting to believe Sharon Dupont fell into that category.

He sipped his coffee in the passenger seat of the white and blue Paskagankee Police Ford Explorer and considered how to answer her question. They had switched to the four-wheel drive SUV for patrolling the streets today based on the severity of the weather and the fact that it was not forecasted to improve for at least three days. Local schools had already canceled classes for tomorrow and citizens were being urged to stay off the roads, but Mike knew plenty of people would ignore that advice and venture out anyway.

Steam curled out of the Styrofoam cup and Mike breathed in the rich aroma of the coffee. “Bert Jenkins from Animal Control was at Ida Mae Harper's house last night to examine the remains of that poor dog, what few were left, anyway. He says the animal was literally torn apart by something inexplicably strong and unrelentingly brutal.”

“What, you mean like a bear? If one of those guys gets hungry enough or is disturbed during hibernation, it could get mighty testy, and we're approaching the right time of year for something like that. Maybe the dog stumbled across a really big black bear and ended up getting mauled before it could escape.”

Mike shook his head. “I don't think so. Bert said there was no evidence of animal bite marks on the remains. He said it appeared more like someone or something had pulled the dog apart like you might pull a drumstick off a roast chicken.”

Sharon grimaced. She looked like she had bitten into a lemon. Her pinched expression was so comical he almost laughed. “That's a pleasant thought,” she said. “At least now I don't have to worry about what to have for lunch. I won't be able to eat for days.”

She was silent for a few seconds. “What about kids? I know it's a horrible thing to contemplate, but is it possible a group of sadistic teenagers may have tortured and killed the dog?”

Mike shifted in his seat. “You mean like some kind of sick cult initiation ritual or something?”

“Stranger things have been known to happen, right?”

“I guess so,” he answered. “But this strikes me as a pretty close-knit community. People really seem to look out for one another living in isolation as complete as this. Don't you think we would have heard rumblings if there was a cult thing going on in Paskagankee? You've lived in this town practically your whole life, have you heard about anything like that going on?”

Sharon thought for a moment and then shook her head. “No,” she admitted, “but I was never really in the loop anyway, even when I was growing up here, so it's entirely likely the kids could be into things that I wouldn't even have heard about.”

“I guess we can't rule anything out, then,” Mike said, “but considering the weather conditions, it just doesn't make sense to me that a bunch of teenagers would pick yesterday afternoon to go on a rampage. I don't know. I can't say why, exactly, but I have a bad feeling in my gut that's telling me it's not anything that simple.”

“A bad feeling in your gut? Maybe it's just indigestion from that steak bomb you devoured in about five bites yesterday. I told you that you'd regret having that thing.”

Mike laughed and then the police radio squawked and crackled and the voice of dispatcher Gordie Rheaume filled the vehicle, ending the conversation. “Unit Three, come in.”

Mike lifted the mic from the rack on the dashboard. “This is Unit Three, go ahead Gordie.”

“Chief, we got a call from a lady on Mountain Home Road by the name of Sally Crosker. She says her husband was out early this morning chipping ice off their driveway and now he's disappeared.”

“Jeez, Gordie, maybe he went out for a cup of coffee.”

“If he did, he forgot to take all of his blood with him because his wife says there's about a gallon of it splashed all over their driveway.”

The dispatcher gave them the street address, and Mike answered, “We're on our way.” Sharon flicked a switch to activate the flashing blue lights atop the police SUV and carefully eased the four-wheel drive cruiser into the empty road. All thoughts of Ida Mae Harper's dog were forgotten, at least for the time being.

***

OFFICER DUPONT EASED THE vehicle to a stop, parking at an angle across the end of the driveway at 32 Mountain Home Road. Mike could see even before exiting the SUV that some kind of violent confrontation had indeed taken place out here by the road. The two police officers opened their doors and walked up one side of the long drive, taking their time, examining the scene.

Before they had gotten halfway to the house, the front door opened and a woman dressed in jeans and flannel hunting jacket rushed out to meet them.

Mike turned his attention to her as she approached. Her face was heavily lined, either from advancing age or hard living. Her long brown hair was graying and tied up in a pony tail which trailed behind her in a streaming arc as she hurried to meet them. Mike tried to guess her age and decided she could be anywhere from early forties to mid-sixties—it was hard to tell.

“Thank you so much for coming, I know how treacherous the conditions are out here,” she said, holding her hand out to Mike. “I'm Sally Crosker. I wouldn't have bothered you if I didn't think something was really wrong.” Her voice broke at the end of her greeting. Her grip was firm but her hand was shaking.

“No problem,” Mike answered. “This is why we're here, Mrs. Crosker. I'm Chief Mike McMahon and this is Officer Sharon Dupont. What happened out here? It looks like two dogs were fighting.”

“I know,” she said, staring at the blood-splattered ground and then looking away with a shudder. “I'm afraid something awful has happened to my Harvey. He's not well, you know; he shouldn't have been out here in this weather at all, but he wouldn't allow me to try to clear the driveway. He said this is man's work and he was bound and determined to do it.” Sally Crosker looked at Sharon Dupont with a trembling smile, as if assuming she would understand.

Mike watched as the woman, who he was beginning to think was closer in age to sixty than forty-five, shivered in the slanting rain. “Mrs. Crosker, would it be all right if we talked inside? You really aren't dressed for this weather and getting sick won't help your situation.”

She smiled gratefully. “Yes, please do come inside; I'm sorry for not offering. I'm just so worried about Harvey. Come with me.”

The icy rain continued to fall, and although it couldn't have been more than eighty feet from the bloody ground to the front door, it took nearly a full minute to navigate the low-grade slope of the hill and reach the shelter of the house. Mike thought it was a miracle the woman hadn't taken a header on her way out to greet them.

Inside, the home was warm and inviting, the furnishings old but clean and well-maintained. Mike and Sharon stood just inside the door, dripping water onto someone's living room floor for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Sally Crosker shrugged off her too-light jacket and turned to the officers. “Please, come in and sit down,” she insisted, motioning them into the room. “Don't worry about the water; I can clean that up later. What do we have to do to find Harvey?”

Mike and Sharon sat side by side on the small couch in the Crosker living room. He was conscious of their legs touching and wondered if she noticed it too. “How long was your husband gone before you called for assistance, Mrs. Crosker?”