Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3) (15 page)

And
discovered Pete Kendall lying in a heap, unmoving, his glazed eyes staring
sightlessly into the black Paskagankee night.

10

Blood had pooled on the ground
around Pete’s head. It was beginning to congeal at the edges, but much of the
puddle remained wet and gruesome-looking in the weak beam of Mike’s flashlight.

He
knelt and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

Pete
Kendall was gone.

Mike shone
the light on the face of his watch. Nine forty-five. It was less than forty
minutes ago that they had received the call from an obviously alive Pete
Kendall. He had been upset at finding Bronson Choate’s body but nothing in the
tone of his voice had indicated he felt he was in any personal danger. Whatever
happened to him after the phone call had occurred within a very small window of
opportunity, and the now-dead cop had never seen it coming.

“Goddammit,”
Mike muttered.

From
behind the house a quiet disembodied voice asked, “What’s taking you so long?”

Sharon
Dupont rounded the corner, her form mostly indistinct in the dark, and then she
gasped as she rushed to Mike’s side. “What happened to Pete? Is he okay?”

Mike
looked up bleakly and shook his head. “He’s dead,” he said. “It looks like his
skull was smashed in, exactly the injury he told me on the phone that Bronson
Choate suffered. He never even drew his weapon, which meant he was caught
completely by surprise.”

“Or he
knew his assailant.”

Mike
shook his head. “I don’t think so. Even in the dark, you can see that his skull
was split open from behind. He was ambushed.”

Sharon
stared at Mike, her eyes wide and spooked. “What do we do now?”

“We
call for backup and then clear the house. Whoever did this
should
be long gone, but he stuck around after killing Choate;
there’s no guarantee he isn’t still here…somewhere…right now. After that, we
need to get the bodies transported to the morgue to be examined by Dr. Affeldt.
Then we need to notify the Town Council. We’re down one Chief of Police.”

***

Vehicles lined the trail leading
to Bronson Choate’s isolated cabin, choking the narrow path like weeds in an
untended garden.
 
Police cruisers,
ambulances, unmarked civilian cars. All had been hastily parked anywhere their
drivers were able to find – or make – room. Flashing red, blue and
yellow emergency beacons splashed around the clearing in headache-inducing
repetition.

After
radioing for backup, an impatient Mike and Sharon had cleared the cabin,
refusing to take the time to wait for Harley Tanguay – the only
Paskagankee cop on the night watch still alive – to drag his ass out to
the middle of the forest. They moved steadily from room to room, flipping
lights on as they went, discovering quickly that the brutal executioner of at
least two people was nowhere inside.

Mike
still had his doubts about whether the killer was really gone, though. He could
be within fifty feet of the cabin right now, watching the cops’ every move from
the darkness and safety of the forest, secure in the knowledge he was virtually
invisible in the impenetrable blackness.

A pair
of gurneys trundled Bronson Choate and Pete Kendall side-by-side to waiting
ambulances, their bodies sealed inside the zipped and sealed black body bags.
Hours had now passed since their discovery of Pete’s body, Mike quietly
seething while the corpse of his friend and successor cooled on the ground as
the crime scene was examined and photographed from all conceivable angles.

It was
now past one a.m., and the darkness of the primeval forest seemed to have
thickened further. Mike wouldn’t have thought it possible and wondered if it
was his imagination. He stifled a yawn as a lone vehicle approached the cabin,
headlights bouncing and yawing, the car’s operator struggling to avoid driving
off Long Pond Road and into a tree. It was the first car to arrive in over an
hour.

The
headlights flicked off and the engine died as the driver took his place at the
end of the long line of vehicles. A moment later a hefty, jowly man of around
sixty heaved himself out of the car and clambered along the trail to where Mike
and Sharon stood side-by-side near the front of the cabin.

Mike
offered his hand and the man shook it perfunctorily. Paskagankee Town Council
Chairman Van Beebe was a blue-blood Yankee descended directly from riders on
the Mayflower – or so he claimed – and projected a dour, cheerless
demeanor even in the best of times, which this clearly was not. Adding to Beebe’s
natural gloominess, Mike assumed, was the fact that Mike’s resignation as
police chief had been spurred largely by the council’s displeasure at learning he
was sharing a bed with a subordinate. Mike doubted Beebe had ever planned on
dealing with him again and was surprised the councilman had even consented to
the brief handshake.

“A
terrible business,” Beebe growled, ignoring Sharon and avoiding eye contact
with Mike. “Did Chief Kendall suffer?”

“I
don’t think so,” Mike said. “He was hit from behind. I doubt he ever saw his
killer coming. Obviously, you’ll have to wait for Dr. Affeldt’s report, but my
guess is he never knew what hit him. He was probably dead before he hit the
ground.”

“Yes,
well, that’s something, I suppose.”

“Councilman
Beebe,” Mike said, “I’m sure you’re aware of why we called you out here at this
time of night. Losing Chief Kendall puts the Paskagankee Police Department in a
terrible position. Given the fact Pete was the only management representative
in the department, Officer Dupont and I thought the Town Council would
appreciate as much planning time as possible to determine where you go from
here. Presumably you’ll want to call in outside help to investigate these two
murders, and get your search started as soon as possible for a replacement for
Chief Kendall. He was –”

Beebe
cleared his throat and held up one beefy hand in interruption. His discomfort
with the situation was palpable, but he pressed on. “Mr. McMahon, you and I
have not always seen eye to eye. The situation with Officer Dupont,” his gaze
slid briefly to Sharon before returning to Mike, with whom he resumed reluctant
eye contact, “showed poor judgment on your part. However, your law enforcement
credentials are impressive and your performance running the department was
sterling, especially given the two horrific scenarios you were forced to deal
with in the two years of your stewardship. I’ve already spoken to the other
council members – that was what took me so long to get here – and
we are in unanimous agreement. We would like you to consider coming out of
retirement, on a temporary basis only, to guide the department through this
ugly situation. We know you’ll provide steady leadership, and the town will
benefit from being able to perform a thorough search for a replacement, rather
than having to make a hasty decision, one we might later regret.”

Mike
said nothing for a moment. It occurred to him that he must be more tired than he
realized, because he should have seen this coming. In the chaos of the events
over the last few hours, he hadn’t even given a thought to the possibility of
being recruited back into the job he had so recently been forced out of.

The
town council chairman yawned and looked at his watch pointedly. Mike said, “Councilman,
you understand nothing has changed with my living arrangements. Officer Dupont
and I are still sharing a home and are, in fact, now engaged to be married. We
haven’t set a wedding date yet, but my personal life today is exactly the same as
it was when I announced my retirement. I loved my job as chief here in
Paskagankee, but I love my fiancé more.”

“We understand,
Chief McMahon, and our position on the matter of you and Officer Dupont’s
relationship remains unchanged. However, given the current circumstances, we
believe it to be in the town’s best interest to disregard your situation
– temporarily and unofficially, of course – as we move forward. We
are prepared to offer you a six-month contract, at your former salary, with
your former benefits package intact as well.
 
We believe it’s a generous offer. I’m
sorry to rush you, but we really do need an answer immediately.”

Mike
thought Beebe didn’t sound sorry, he thought he sounded stuffy and self-important,
but said, “As long as we understand each other, I accept your offer. I assume I’m
to start immediately?”

“Of
course.”

Mike
thought for a moment and frowned. He lowered his voice, not sure why he was
doing so but doing it anyway. Saying what he had to say next at any volume
above a respectful whisper would have seemed profane and somehow blasphemous.
“Do you know if anyone’s been to see Pete’s wife yet?”

Beebe
shook his head. “I’m told your dispatcher, Gordie…”

“Rheaume,”
Mike said, suddenly remembering why he disliked the town manager so much.
Paskagankee was tiny, not much more than a village, and there was no reason for
Van Beebe not to know Rheaume’s name, other than a callous disregard for his
employees.

“Yes,
Rheaume,” he continued. “All Mr. Rheaume told Mrs. Kendall was that there has
been some trouble, and the chief has been delayed indefinitely.”

Mike
sighed and glanced at his watch. He wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. “I
guess I know what I’ll be doing first thing in the morning.”

11

Jackson Healy watched the flurry
of activity around the cabin from the safety of the forest with a sense of
disbelief and the growing conviction that the world as he knew it had somehow
vanished. He had felt that way since awakening in the secret underground room
next to the Paskagankee Tavern, and the events of the last few hours had only
reinforced the notion. It came as no surprise the killing of the cabin-owner
would be investigated – the law had very little patience when it came to
murder – but the speed with which the lawmen had been able to marshal a
response had caught him completely off guard.

When
the victim’s lady friend had scrambled down the steps of the front landing and
begun running in the direction of her strange horseless carriage, Jackson had
initially been right on her tail. Another second or two and he probably could
have caught her.

But then
she leaped into the belly of the bizarre-looking beast, and moments later it
began to growl obscenely, and Jackson had been struck with a fear unlike
anything he had ever experienced. He immediately veered off from his pursuit
and began backing toward the house, afraid to take his eyes off the machine. Then
he froze in his tracks in utter disbelief as the young lady somehow piloted the
buggy down a barely visible overgrown trail and out of sight.

After
the roar of the horseless buggy faded away, Jackson had taken a moment to
collect himself and then retreated to the cabin. He stopped to check on the man
lying half in and half out of the front door – dead, exactly as he had
expected – and then hurried into the kitchen. His hunger had been
overpowering.

He
returned to the odd humming icebox – the “fridge,” the cabin owner had
called it – and after rummaging around inside it had come up with some
meat and cheese that was, if not exactly fresh, at least edible. He had stuffed
the food down his throat and then finally taken a moment to sit down and really
give some thought to his situation.

The
young woman would go straight to the law, that much was certain, but Jackson
didn’t feel there was any real cause for concern. From what he had seen riding
into this backwoods village, houses were spread widely apart and it would
likely be hours before the law could muster any kind of response to her claim
of an attacker at this out-of-the-way cabin. Hell, it might not even happen
until tomorrow.

He had
concluded fairly quickly that there was no reason to abandon the dwelling he
had fought so hard to acquire, at least not immediately. Besides, where else
did he have to go? He was in an unfamiliar town with no supplies besides the
clothes on his back, and even those didn’t belong to him.

As he
considered his situation, Jackson felt an extreme drowsiness begin to overtake
him. He was no longer hungry, but he
was
exhausted.
The couch he was sitting on was small but extremely comfortable and before he
realized what was happening, he had fallen asleep. He was awakened some time later
– how much later, he had no idea, as his pocket watch had chosen the
worst possible time to give up the ghost – by the sound of a thick
metallic clunking noise somewhere outside the house and then a man’s voice
cursing, “Holy shit!”

Jackson
had scrambled off the couch with just enough time to hide in a closet before a
man dressed in blue, apparently the color of the sheriff’s department here in
Paskagankee, examined the cabin’s owner – he was dead, as Jackson well
knew – and then hurried off and began talking excitedly into some strange
device he picked up from inside his own horseless carriage, this one painted
blue and white with the words “Paskagankee Police” on the side.

Jackson
waited until the sheriff’s back was turned and then eased as quietly as he
could out the front door. Once down the steps he bolted around the side of the
house and straight into forest. He expected at any moment to hear a shout of
surprise from the lawman, followed by the pistol shot that would knock him off
his feet, but it never came. Whatever the lawman was doing, he was so wrapped
up in it he didn’t see a thing.