Felix said, "Ray, the clock starts now. Lewis. Start asking the questions."
I looked into that angry and fearful face, and decided first to re-check something.
"You spend time up in Warren?"
"Yeah, so what?"
"You know a guy up there, serving time, name of William Gagnon?"
"Nope."
"Claimed to be an Indian. Sometimes went by the name of William Bear Gagnon. Hear or know of him?"
Ray said, "There are loons up there who claim to be Napoleon. No, I didn't know any friggin' Indian."
I nodded, trying to keep my concentration over the scent of oil and burnt flesh, and over the hammering noise from the television and the radio. "Your brother."
"Yeah?"
'Why did you kill him?"
He shook his head. "I didn't kill nobody."
"Anybody," I said.
"Hunh?"
"I didn't kill anybody," I said. "The way you said it, that's a double negative. The grammar police frown on that."
"The grammar... What the hell is going on?"
"What's going on," I said, "is I'm trying to find out who killed your brother. Story I hear from the cops is that you were over there just before he got killed."
Another violent shake of the head. "A goddamn lie."
"There's witnesses that tell the cops you were there."
Ray looked over at Felix, and then me. "Maybe I was."
"But you didn't kill him."
Felix reached over to the spoon, just started gently stirring the hot olive oil. Ray started speaking faster. "No, shit, no. Okay, I was there, that night. But I didn't kill him. He was already dead when I got there. I was supposed to meet with him about some ship's brasswork he had found last week, I was going to sell it for him. I got there, let myself in. I yelled out for him but nobody was saying anything. Went into his office, saw him dead there. Blood everywhere."
Felix said, "How convenient."
"Shit, it's the truth!"
"And what did you do when you saw your dead brother?" I asked.
“What do you think?" he said. "I got the hell out of there."
"And didn't call the police?"
Ray smirked. "What, you think I'm stupid? Ex-con shows up at a murder scene. How long do you think the investigation will continue before I'm in Wentworth Superior Court, being tried for murder one? The hell with that. I got out and then I heard the news on the television, that I was a suspect. So I did the right thing. Which is how I got my ass here. Which reminds me, how in hell did you know where to find me?"
Felix took the wooden spoon out of the pan and gently tapped Rayon his nose with the dry handle "Tsk, tsk, Ray, you seem to forget who's asking the questions here. Lewis, any more?"
"Yeah, a few more," I said. "So you got there, right after your brother's dead. Any idea who did it?"
"Nope."
"Not one idea of who might have wanted your brother killed?"
"Shit, no, we didn't hang out together, you know? He had his life and I had mine."
"Laundering stolen antiques. Some life."
"Hey," Ray said. "It's a friggin' living."
"The artifacts," I asked.
“What artifacts?"
Felix interrupted. "I think the oil needs to be heated up, from all the bullshit that's getting slung our way."
"What bullshit?" Ray demanded. "He didn't say what kind of artifacts. Jesus!"
"The Viking artifacts," I said. "The ones your brother found."
He acted surprised. "You mean... he did it? Ray actually did it?"
I said, "Yes, he did. And now they're missing. Where are they?"
He shook his head again. "Man, I don't know anything about artifacts, I swear to God."
Felix said, "Lewis?"
"Yes?"
"I think he's lying," Felix said. "I'm sorry to say this, but I think he's lying."
Ray said, "I swear to God, I'm not. Honest!"
Felix sighed loudly, enough so he could be heard over the music and talk radio. "Lewis. I'm going to suggest we move to the next level. You've gotten too many crappy answers from this character."
'What do you suggest?"
Another sigh. "Guys like this, they can handle a lot of pain, a lot of punching and slapping and kicking and even a knife cut or two. But take off their pants and shorts, leave something soft of theirs exposed that they're very fond of, well, I find you can get to the heart of the matter rather quickly. What do you think?"
I looked over at Felix and then to Ray, whose eyes were starting to bulge out, and he started yammering that he was telling the truth, that everything he said was true, that he hadn't killed his brother, that he didn't know where the Viking artifacts were, even if they did exist, and I swear to God, I'm telling the truth, over and over again, and I made to open my mouth, to talk to Felix, when the window overlooking the front yard was suddenly smashed by a heavy object, flying through and thudding to a stop on the floor.
Felix yelled, "Lewis, cover your eyes!"
Which I tried to do, but I wasn't fast enough.
There was a bright flash of light that dazzled my eyes, and an ear-popping
boom!
that ripped through the living room. I fell off the chair and to the Boor, and my ears hurt and suddenly felt like they were stuffed with cotton, and every sound that came my way was thick and muddy. My eyes were filled with after-flash dazzles, and the front door was heaved in, men tumbling in, wearing helmets, body armor, boots, and fatigues, yelling, over and over again, "Police! Hands up! On the floor! Hands up! On the floor!"
I rolled over and went oomph, as a cop knelt on my back, pressing one knee against the back of my neck. I went limp, allowed my arms to be snapped back, and there was a
click-click
as handcuffs were snapped around my wrists. Hands patted me down and a voice yelled, "Any weapons? Are you carrying any weapons?"
"No."
"Any weapons in the house?"
"I don't know," I said. "My pistol is on the floor over there." Other voices, the scent of smoke, the cop still on my back, and a voice again: "Any weapons on you?"
“No.”
Another pat down. "If you're lying, we'll strip you right here."
"I'm not lying."
"Good. I'm getting up. You move and you're fucked."
I closed my eyes, the carpeting rough against my cheek. There was movement in the room, lots of movement, and it was easy enough to see what had happened: Felix and I had discovered Ray Ericson's location about a half hour before the cops had arrived. Oh my. What a foul-up. This was going to be one for the books, depending on what kind of books ever got written about a disaster like this. My God. My stomach was rolling with thick waves of distress and nausea.
A boot nudged me. "You okay?"
"I've been better."
"Yeah, haven't we all. Time to get you up and out. Frank? Give me a hand with this character."
Strong hands grasped both my arms and I winced as pain shot through my shoulders. I got up and looked around. The room was a mess, filled with cops in SWAT gear, most of them now with their helmets off, their short hair matted with sweat. Ray and Felix were gone.
The stool holding up the hot oil had been turned over, and other cops were moving in and out of the other rooms. My legs were shaking, and then I was hustled out of the house by two cops, who weren't in SWAT gear, and who looked to be Maine State Police. The front yard was full of vehicles, including the panel truck we had seen earlier, parked to the side. The water delivery truck that I thought had pulled over for directions. Carrying the SWAT team, no doubt, and there was also no wonder why we hadn't heard anybody approaching. The loud noise inside the house had prevented that. I was taken out of the house and then put in the rear of a gray-colored Maine State Police cruiser.
"Watch your head," one of the cops said, and I almost started laughing at that. How many times I had heard that same phrase from watching one of those cop reality shows on television, sitting on my safe and comfortable couch, in my safe and comfortable house?
The door slammed shut and I tried to get comfy, which was damn near impossible, with the tight handcuffs around my wrists. I looked out at the circus taking shape in front of the house, at the different police cruisers from different police agencies. I thought I recognized Ray sitting in one of the cruisers, and Felix in another.
My fault. All my fault that this had happened. Damn, damn, damn.
The front door to the cruiser opened up and a Maine State Police trooper got in, picked up a clipboard, and turned around to look at me. He seemed tall and muscular and his black hair was streaked with gray.
"Name?"
"Lewis Cole."
"Date of birth?"
I told him.
"Address?"
I told him that, too. "Mailing address?"
"Post office box nine-one-nine, Tyler, New Hampshire."
"Occupation?"
"Columnist for
Shoreline
magazine. Out of Boston."
The trooper scribbled some more and said, "You got anything you want to say about what just happened?"
I said, "I imagine I'm either under arrest, or will be shortly."
"You got that right, pal."
"Then no, I don't have anything to say."
The trooper gave me a dark look. "You're in a world of deep shit, Mr. Lewis Cole of Tyler, New Hampshire. We're going to nail you for trespassing, breaking and entering, criminal threatening, illegal discharge of a firearm near a residence, and maybe suspicion of tax evasion when we're done. So you might want to think that over again."
"Thanks, but I think all I'm going to say is that I want to call my lawyer."
"Gonna be a long wait."
I shifted in the seat, tried to ease the pain in my wrists. "No offense, trooper, but I don't think I'm going anywhere."
"You got that right again, pal."
He stepped out and slammed the door and I leaned my head back against the smooth upholstery, closed my eyes. What a mess. What an absolute mess.
I opened my eyes, took another look outside at all the cops and SWAT team members and cruisers, and there, standing by a York County sheriff's department cruiser, sipping from a cardboard cup of coffee, was Detective Diane Woods of the Tyler Police Department. She looked at me and I looked at her. Her face was impassive as she looked at me. I could not see what was going on behind those eyes of hers. The moment seemed to last a good long while. Then she turned away, to talk to a Maine State Police trooper, and after a bit, I turned away as well.
Chapter Sixteen
Eventually the trooper came back into his cruiser and started up the engine, and said something into the radio, and we went down the driveway. At the bottom of the driveway, I spotted a tow truck backing up to Felix's rental car. We made our way out onto the main road, and we didn't exchange a Single word as we drove. Long minutes drifted by as I watched the landscape flow by, sometimes seeing people out walking or raking their yards and doing normal things. Once or twice somebody looked up and gazed in my direction, and I'm sure they felt a sense of peace and security, knowing that an evil criminal was now on his way to the justice he deserved. I half-listened to the chatter of the police radio and then, up ahead, I saw a two-story brick building, surrounded by a chain-link fence and razor wire on top. A sign outside announced YORK COUNTY HOUSE OF CORRECTIONS, and I was certain that I had just been introduced to my new home for the next day or so.
The trooper drove out to the rear, where a sliding metal garage door came up. We drove in and the door slid shut. The trooper got out, removed his pistol, and placed it in a lockbox bolted to the side of the garage door. Then he came around and opened the cruiser and said, "Swivel around, get your legs out."
"Sure."
He helped me get up and kept a strong grip on my upper arm as we passed through checkpoints and other doors. I stayed quiet and did what I was told, moved where I was directed to, and didn't complain as I was told to strip, and I was searched. My clothes were taken away, and I was presented with a stiff orange jumpsuit and paper slippers for my feet that were barely big enough. The standard fingerprinting and photo taking was completed, and then one of the deputy sheriffs asked me if 1'd like to make a phone call.
"Yes. I would like that very much."
I made the phone call in a cubicle of a room, the phone fastened to the desk, the phone looking like it had been designed by the U.S. Air Force to survive a nuclear blast, way back in the 1950s. When my phone call was complete, I was brought down another series of corridors, another series of checkpoints, and was placed in a cell. The barred door made a terrific clanging noise as it was closed and the lock was set into place.
"Hungry?" the deputy sheriff asked. He seemed to be in his mid-fifties, thick mustache, heavyset. "Thirsty?"