Paskagankee (24 page)

They deserved the truth, if for no other reason than the fact that now, at the exact moment in time when Ken Dye most needed someone to believe in him and his admittedly unlikely story, he had found two people who did. Oh, they were skeptical, of course they were—especially the chief, Mike McMahon—and why wouldn't they be? Ken had no solid proof to offer in support of his hypothesis, but the fact that the evidence in the two murders pointed to nothing the police could quantify in terms of traditional crime-solving, surely helped his case.

In any event, Ken knew he owed a debt of gratitude to the man and woman sharing the car with him tonight; a debt he could never repay. He tried to clear his head and told himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Becoming dewy-eyed and sentimental would be a mistake, one that would likely end up getting more people killed.
Focus,
he told himself,
and just do your best to bring this thing to a successful conclusion.

The vehicle crept along the rutted path leading through the woods. Outside the windows the fog seemed alive, writhing and dancing, thick as soup in one area and then, tantalizingly, nearly nonexistent in the next. The forecast called for temperatures continuing to moderate through the night and into tomorrow, so the likelihood of the fog lessening was slim. In fact, conditions would probably worsen.

The tension inside the Explorer was palpable. Silence reigned as each member of the little group concentrated on his or her own thoughts and, Ken assumed, fears. At last the vehicle slid through a small opening in the forest and burst into the massive, open field. The heavy fog refracted the truck's headlights unpredictably, making it even more difficult to see out here than it had been while they were driving along the path through the forest, where the trees looming on both sides of the trail had focused the light more or less straight ahead along the trail.

From the back seat, Ken could vaguely discern the shadowy, boxy shapes of vehicles ahead and to their right. Mike turned the SUV in that direction and crept along the edge of the trees. Rows of parked cars came into focus, and the chief nosed into the first available spot.

The three climbed out of the vehicle and fell in behind a cluster of teens who seemed to know where they were going. Mike clearly had no clue which direction would lead them to the big bonfire, and Sharon, although she had attended the event many times as a youth, admitted she really didn't remember enough about those visits to be able to point them in the right direction with any degree of confidence.

Ken hoped the kids in front of them were headed toward the bonfire and not out into the woods to do whatever it was teens around here did in the woods. He assumed the presence of two uniformed Paskagankee Police officers a few feet behind them would be motivation enough to move in the direction of the huge mountain of timber—at least until they could ditch the cops—and apparently it was. After slogging along for a few minutes he began to see the unfocused yellow haze of the gigantic pile of burning brush and trees.

The sound of voices grew louder and soon the group broke through enough of the fog to take in the impressive sight of the twenty foot high pile, brightly ablaze with dancing flames. The fire had clearly been lit only a few minutes ago, as the entire pile of debris had not even caught yet. Sharon had said Sprague traditionally threw the first match into his bonfire at seven p.m. sharp, and it was just a few minutes past seven now.

Ken gaped in open amazement at the number of people milling around the bonfire, here in the chill of a late-November northern Maine evening. He had no idea what the population of Paskagankee was—One thousand? Three thousand? Five thousand?—but whatever the number, it seemed clear that a large percentage of those people had decided to brave the pervading dampness of the thick fog as well as the hazardous driving conditions to come here and enjoy the community celebration.

Townspeople gathered in various sized groups, some holding large paper cups, presumably containing generous helpings of the hard cider Warren Sprague had promised Mike McMahon, all chatting and gossiping amiably, occasionally breaking out in raucous laughter. The recent murders of Harvey Crosker and the unlucky stranger passing through town during the height of the storm dominated the conversation, but if anyone felt concerned about his or her safety this evening, they weren't saying so, at least not loudly enough for Ken Dye to hear it.

Professor Dye and the two police officers stopped at the bonfire, now rapidly gaining in intensity, to warm their hands. Chief McMahon handed Ken and Sharon portable radios with explicit instructions for both of them to check in at least every fifteen minutes. The original plan had been for Ken to patrol with Mike, but he was able to talk the chief out of forcing them to stay together, pointing out that the professor was the one probably the least at risk, since he knew best what they were up against.

The fire grew bright and hot as the interior of the gigantic pile of brush and debris began to smolder and finally catch. The intense heat pushed the small group back a couple of paces as Chief McMahon gave them his final instructions. “Make your outer perimeter the farthest group of people that you can observe. I don't want you exposing yourself when you're alone, especially considering the restricted the visibility. And DON'T forget to check in every fifteen minutes.”

“How many officers do you have in the area?” Ken asked the chief.

“We have one stationed at each end of the access road, if you can call it that, as well as two officers walking around in plain clothes. I'll be in touch with them on a separate radio. Also, the two State Police investigators volunteered to help out tonight before leaving for Portland in the morning, so they're here somewhere, too.”

Ken couldn't help but notice the disdain in the chief's voice as he referenced his State Police counterparts. He tried to mask it, but it was definitely there.

The chief rubbed his hands together and then slid them into a pair of fur-lined leather gloves. “Are we all set?”

Both Ken and Sharon nodded, and Mike said, “Let's get started, then,” and walked away from the fire. The thick, swirling fog enveloped his receding form almost immediately, and he was gone.

40

SHARON DUPONT HAD VISITED this place many times as a youngster, both to attend the annual pre-Thanksgiving bonfire and also with friends after discovering the area featured everything a young teen could wish for in a private location to drink and party. It was secluded, never patrolled by the cops and rarely by the farmer who owned it, especially after dark, and was mysterious and a little scary to boot. In short, for a kid looking for a place to drink or get high, it was perfect.

Sharon couldn't remember exactly how old she had been when she fell under the spell of booze and drugs, but she knew it had happened pretty quickly after the death of her mother, when her father reached the conclusion that hanging out at the Ridge Runner enveloped in his own alcoholic haze was preferable to spending time at home with his young daughter—a child who resembled her mother so closely it was almost spooky.

In other words, she guessed, it would have been sometime shortly after her twelfth birthday. She immediately took to drinking and smoking, both as a way to lessen the pain of losing her mother to death and her father to disinterest and as a way to become a valued member of a group, any group would do, as long as she was allowed to belong. The core of young drinkers and drug users in Paskagankee was a tight-knit bunch, and Sharon knew now, years later, with the benefit of age and a little life experience, that it allowed her in some small way to be part of a family, an opportunity she had lost at home the day her mother died.

Additionally, Sharon came to recognize that she had been cursed with an addictive personality, and the exposure to alcohol and drugs, especially at the very age when a young teenage girl is particularly vulnerable in trying to develop an identity, had virtually assured she would become addicted. And addicted she had been. By the time she entered high school, Sharon was drinking almost as much as her father—virtually every day, sometimes even before or during school.

An extremely intelligent child, as a youngster Sharon had earned outstanding grades, but following the death of her mother, her schoolwork suffered, her grades plummeted, and her dad barely noticed. She stumbled through high school, literally on many occasions, until the winter of her senior year, when, as punishment for passing out drunk in a snow bank in the middle of the school day, she had been forced to report to Paskagankee Police Chief Wally Court for a month-long public service assignment.

Those thirty days changed the course of Sharon Dupont's life forever. She was still an alcoholic and knew she always would be, but working in the police station under the watchful eye of Chief Court gave the teen something sorely lacking in her life since the death of her mother—steady, consistent discipline and the faith of another human being in her value as a worthwhile individual.

The work she performed over that life-changing month was nothing particularly exciting or challenging. In fact, as Sharon looked back on it now, it had been pretty damned boring most of the time—basic filing, sweeping floors, washing windows in the station—but her time spent with the police chief of Paskagankee gave Sharon a peek into a world she had never before seen. It was a world of responsibility and trust; a world where people did the right thing just because it was the right thing. Chief Court displayed a plaque prominently in his office, and it had intrigued Sharon enough that she still thought about it even now. It was a simple wooden square, and on it was stamped the words, “CHARACTER IS HOW YOU ACT WHEN NO ONE IS LOOKING.”

Thinking back on it, Sharon believed that in all probability she owed her life to Chief Court and the personal interest he had taken in her when she could just as easily have ended up another pathetic, used-up alkie falling off a bar stool every night at the Ridge Runner and eventually dying of liver disease or getting raped and killed by some slime ball in the Runner's parking lot.

Walking on Warren Sprague's field, the same one she had stumbled around upon drunk and stoned as a teenager, was a jarring experience for Sharon. When she left town to attend the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, she had been one hundred percent certain she would never return, certainly not for more than a few days at a time. So to find herself here, of all places, on the strange and frightening mission she was engaged in with Mike McMahon and Professor Dye, seemed even more surreal than it otherwise would have.

Her radio crackled to life as Mike checked in with her. “How's it going?” he asked.

“It's cold and wet out here, so it's lots of fun,” she said brightly, “but no sign of anything unusual unless you consider the fact that people coming out on a night like tonight to stand around in this weather and gab with the very folks they spend the rest of the year gossiping about is a little strange in itself.”

Mike chuckled. “Don't let your guard down,” he told her. “Our friend the professor is convinced something's going to happen tonight, with all these potential victims gathered in one place.”

“Don't worry about me. I couldn't possibly be any more guarded.”

“Good,” Mike answered. “I want you back in one piece.”

They signed off. Sharon assumed Mike would now contact Professor Dye who, for all she knew, might be standing right next to her. The fog was so thick they could be ten feet apart and never know it unless they tripped over each other.

Sharon was glad to hear Mike chuckle when he talked to her. He was extremely professional at work, maybe the best boss she had ever had, but the more she got to know him the clearer it became that he was haunted relentlessly by the events of that steamy summer night a year and a half ago on the streets of Revere, Massachusetts. Knowing the little girl's death was accidental and being able to forgive himself for being the one who pulled the trigger on the shot that took her life were two separate and unrelated issues for Mike. He had not yet reached the point in his life where he could let himself off the hook; maybe he never would.

A sharp snapping noise off her left side broke Sharon forcefully out of her reverie. She tensed, angry with herself. She had just promised Mike she would stay alert and had then almost immediately fallen into a daydream.
For crying out loud,
concentrate on what you're doing.

The officer stopped dead in her tracks and peered into the heavy mist covering the area like a thick wet blanket. The noise had sounded exactly like a large twig breaking; the sound a hiking boot might make stepping on a brittle branch. It was no use, though, Sharon couldn't see anything. She had slowly been moving clockwise around the huge bonfire, remaining oriented in the fuzzy darkness by moving just far enough away from the fire that it remained a vague yellow-orange glow far off her right side.

It struck Sharon as extremely unlikely that any townspeople would have wandered this far from the bonfire with the thick fog making it so difficult to stay oriented. If you lost sight of the glow you could wander for hours in the shroud of misty darkness with absolutely no sense of direction. Yelling for help was no guarantee of assistance, either, since the fog refracted sound as well as light. You might scream loud enough to be heard by someone a few hundred feet away and still not be found until morning.

The silence was nerve-wracking. From somewhere far off to her right, Sharon could hear the low hum of the people congregated around the fire. It was nothing more than an indistinct murmuring of indecipherable words and conversation. To the left, though, it seemed that whoever or whatever had snapped the branch was standing still just as she was doing, aware that his (its) presence had been discovered and not wanting to compound the mistake.