Paskagankee (21 page)

“So you've said. But let me ask you something,” Professor Dye interrupted.

“Go ahead.”

“And this is directed to you, also,” he said, speaking to Sharon. “Since you grew up in the area, maybe you know the answer to this question. Can either of you tell me the literal translation of the word ‘Paskagankee'?”

Sharon shook her head. Mike said, “Well, it's obviously a Native American word, but beyond that, I don't have a clue.”

Professor Dye said, “The name of your town—'Paskagankee'—is actually a derivative of two Abenaqui words: ‘
Paskigan
,' which translates from the tribal language as ‘gun,' and ‘
Ki
,' meaning ‘land' or ‘place.' So, put the two words together and you have ‘Paskigan-Ki,' which, translated precisely, means ‘gun-place,' or ‘land of the guns.'

“Of course, the men who incorporated this town hundreds of years ago rearranged the spelling to suit the conventions of the English language, ultimately settling on ‘Paskagankee,' as it is known today, but the town's name is actually—and quite literally—taken from the bloody tragedy that occurred on the precise location of its original settlement, more than three hundred years ago.”

“That's quite the history lesson,” Mike said.

Professor Dye smiled. “Once a teacher, always a teacher, I suppose. But the point is this is not just some tale told by kids sitting around a campfire under a full moon. These events were real and they actually happened. You called me because what I'm saying resonated with you, and it's the only thing that ultimately makes sense when you consider the entirety of the evidence, am I right?”

Mike looked at Sharon and shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so. But let's say I stretch credulity to the limit and buy into your theory—“

“It's not a theory,” Professor Dye insisted. “It's reality.”

“Okay,” Mike agreed. “Suppose for the sake of argument I buy into the reality, as you call it, of a Native American spirit seeking vengeance for the horrible death she and her baby suffered three hundred years ago. How is it physically possible? Even if she takes over a human body, that body still has finite physical limitations. How is it possible, biomechanically speaking, that she could instruct a human being to tear a victim apart limb from limb? That's simply beyond the capability of the human body, whether inhabited by an evil spirit or not!”

“I disagree,” the professor said. “The problem you are having is that you are viewing the situation from within parameters you would consider ‘normal.' Let me ask you another question: Have you ever heard the stories of men or women being involved in horrific accidents and somehow receiving a rush of adrenaline so intense they are able to perform superhuman acts of strength for a few seconds? You know, an infant gets trapped under an automobile and the mother lifts the car off the baby all by herself, that sort of thing?”

Mike and Sharon both nodded their heads. “Sure, I've heard of those things happening,” Mike said.

Sharon added, “I've even seen interviews on the news with people who have done exactly that. They're never able to explain how they managed it afterward.”

“Under the proper circumstances,” Professor Dye said, “these sorts of things are possible for people to accomplish, do you agree?”

Again, Mike and Sharon nodded.

“Then why is it so difficult to believe that a human could perform feats of strength that would otherwise be considered impossible in
this
situation? If you accept the premise that it is within the realm of possibility for a spirit to inhabit a human body, then it becomes not just possible, but in fact likely, that the spirit could compel that human host to do things which would otherwise be physically impossible.”

Mike hesitated. “But…”

The professor continued, “You are limiting yourself with your refusal to accept the notion that the Native American girl's spirit could be lingering in this dimension, trapped here until she is able to extract some sort of retribution for the terrible loss she suffered.

“Don't feel badly about that,” he said with a smile. “I don't blame you. It flies in the face of everything you've ever learned in our American culture about life on earth and about the possibility of an afterlife. But you called me here because deep down inside, you know that what is happening in Paskagankee is fundamentally different than anything you've ever seen or experienced in your years as a law enforcement professional.”

“You got that right,” Mike muttered.

“There is another consideration, too,” Dye said. “Whoever this victim is who's body has been invaded—“

“The host,” Mike interrupted.

“Exactly. The host. Whoever is serving as the spirit's host is completely unaware of it. He—or she—is either in a coma-like state or perhaps even dead by now. Once possession occurs, it is not necessary for the host to remain alive for the spirit to exert control. Therefore, if the spirit compels the host to accomplish something too physically taxing, ligaments could tear, muscles could pull, bones could even break, and that would not stop the body from performing the task the spirit commands.”

The room became silent as the two police officers contemplated the consequences of the professor's words. Although the house had been warm and toasty throughout dinner and dessert, it felt cold and even alien now to Mike McMahon. As difficult as it was for him to accept the professor's words, at the moment his scenario was the only one that seemed to fit the evidence. Two apparently random murders committed miles apart, both bodies traumatized in the most gruesome manner imaginable: dismembered, possibly while the victim was still alive—at least in the beginning—with no evidence the feat was accomplished using any tools besides human hands.

Ken Dye sipped his Chivas serenely while Mike and Sharon worked through his argument. It was obvious to Mike the man was no stranger to dealing with disbelief. Finally Mike spoke up. “You said this nightmare will continue and even worsen until the anguished spirit of this Abenaqui girl is neutralized. How do you propose we do that and why is it that you even know
how
to do it?”

The professor rubbed his hands together and appeared pleased by the question, almost as if Mike was a student finally beginning to grasp the essence of a particularly vexing problem. “Well,” he said. “First of all, I'm not certain I
do
know exactly how to rid Paskagankee of the spirit. I believe I have gained enough experience from my years of research into the Abenaqui to accomplish it, but I must stress this is unexplored territory for me as well as for you, and I am operating on theoretical concepts only.”

“In English, please,” Mike said. “I'm confused enough as it is.”

Professor Dye smiled and said, “I'm sorry. It's just that for so many years not one single person has shown the slightest bit of interest into my research, so now that you two are trapped here discussing it with me, it's all bubbling out. To put it as simply as I can, the Abenaqui have a centuries-old theory about what it will take to permit the spirit of the young mother to be put to rest once and for all. I believe their theory is correct, that their methodology will work, and that in fact it is the
only
way to stop what has begun happening here.”

“Okay, now I'm with you; we're moving from theories and concepts to the actual process of stopping a killer,” Mike said. “Let's say you're right about what's going on here in Paskagankee. What do we have to do?”

“It's not ‘we,' I'm afraid,” Professor Dye said, “it's ‘me.' Unfortunately, it is incumbent upon me to put a stop to the carnage, hopefully before anyone else is killed.”

“Okay, you then,” Mike said. “My question remains the same. What do
you
have to do?”

The college professor shifted uneasily in his chair. The man who had been so forthcoming, so eager to discuss his work and his controversial theories, now looked exactly like a suspect caught in a lie. “I . . . uh . . . I really don't think I can explain it so you would understand,” he said haltingly. “It involves techniques I picked up over years of living with the Abenaqui people.”

Mike gazed at the man with the flat cop stare employed by law enforcement professionals everywhere and said, “I'm not buying that, professor. Stop beating around the bush. What is it you have to do, exactly, to stop the murders in Paskagankee?”

Ken Dye's face brightened and he pushed Mike's concerns away literally with a wave of his hand. “I'm not trying to be evasive, Chief, believe me. It's just that I simply can't explain it to you in a manner which would seem logical. Please, I'm asking you to trust me—I have a very strong sense that I know how to end this. You will be with me when we confront this spirit, of that I'm quite certain, and it will become clear what must be done at the appropriate time.”

Mike sat unmoving at the table, staring at Professor Dye, his fingers drumming the scarred wooden surface steadily. He considered grilling the professor further, but Sharon finally interrupted. “It's getting late and I know I'm tired. Please tell me you'll stay here with Chief McMahon and me tonight, Professor Dye.”

And that was the end of the questioning. For the time being.

36

EIGHT A.M. FOUND MIKE and Sharon back at the Paskagankee Police Station, Sharon for her regular patrol shift and Mike for a meeting with Mutt and Jeff from the State Police Task Force. As much as he would have preferred riding in a cruiser with Shari, the two men investigating the brutal crimes on behalf of the attorney general had agreed to give him a briefing on their progress and he had no intention of missing it. Paskagankee was his town now, and Mike was determined to be as involved in the murder investigations as possible, even if it meant having to listen to the two smug assholes who had pulled the rug out from under his feet and taken over his investigation.

He thought back to last night and what Professor Dye had said, sitting around Sharon Dupont's kitchen table. The man's tale was a wild one, there was no doubt about that, but Dye had told it calmly and rationally. He exhibited no signs of delusion and as much as Mike wanted to dismiss him as some sort of wild-eyed crackpot, he found himself giving more and more credence to Dye's bizarre theory.

What choice did he have, really? There was no alternative that Mike could conjure up that came close to fitting the meager evidence they had collected, and he was willing to bet that the two idiots the attorney general sent up here didn't have anything more to hang their hats on, either.

He wondered, though, exactly how the professor intended to rid the town of the ancient Native American spirit if, in fact, his theory was correct. Was it really possible the solution was so complicated he couldn't explain it to them? How the hell did the man expect to gain Mike's cooperation if he wouldn't share his plan?

He sighed. Maybe Professor Dye had just been too tired after his long day to get into it with them last night. Mike made a mental note to press Dye hard on the issue before Warren Sprague's damn bonfire tonight. That foolish and risky testament to Yankee stubbornness was still on schedule to kick off at seven o'clock in the evening, and the thought of the potential danger it represented gave Mike an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The bonfire may be tradition, bit it was happening at the absolute wrong time, and he was powerless to stop it.

After Sharon invited the professor to sleep at her house last night, the exhausted man had gratefully agreed. He seemed to have no desire to go back out in the pitch-dark, freezing cold night and drive to the Maple Leaf Motel in the wee hours of the morning. Mike couldn't blame him, he wouldn't have wanted to either.

Mike had been more than a little concerned about what Professor Dye would think of the chief of police sleeping with one of his officers, but if the professor felt any sense of disapproval, he kept it to himself. He had insisted on sleeping on Sharon's living room couch, flatly refusing her offer of the bedroom, and the night had passed quickly, not surprising given the sheer exhaustion felt by everyone in the house.

Detectives O'Bannon and Shaw (The man's name
was
in fact Shaw, not Shore; Mike had faxed the attorney general's office for some background information on his two guest investigators and that info had, of course, included the second detective's name) strolled into the police station at about quarter to nine, proceeding directly to Mike's office and entering, this time without even a courtesy knock.

O'Bannon stopped in front of Mike's desk and said, without preamble, “I'm not convinced there has even been a murder here in Paskagankee, never mind two.” He was dressed, as yesterday, in a dark blue suit with maroon rep tie, exactly the same thing his mostly silent partner had chosen to wear. Mike wanted to ask if they coordinated their outfits every morning or if the blue suit thing was what homicide task force investigators in the State of Maine were expected to wear.

He swallowed his question, though, and almost his tongue, when O'Bannon's statement registered. “You're not sure those two men were murdered? So—what then—they tore themselves apart for kicks because, what the hell, they had nothing better to do in this boring little town, with Mr. Crosker tossing his own head up in a tree as sort of a
piece de resistance?
‘Look ma, no head'?”