Buried Dreams

by Brendan DuBois

  "But not much. Back home in the North End, a guy this old, a funeral would last all afternoon, and the line of cars would be going out the gate and out to the street."

  "Yeah."

  I noticed Felix staring straight ahead, and then he shifted his weight from one foot to another. "You looking for help?"

  "I am. How much?"

  "Please. This one is gratis. What do you need?"

  "I need to find his younger brother. It looks like he's the one who did it."

  "Okay," Felix said. 'What are you going to do once I find him for you?"

  "Let nature take its course," I said.

  Felix looked over at me, the stubble on his face blue-black against the dark skin. "You mean, give him a fair trial and then kill him?”

  "Sounds good to me."

  Felix turned back to the open grave, slowly being filled. "No argument from me."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Don't mention it," Felix said.

  Chapter Three

  I went home quickly after the burial and got changed into dry clothes, and then drove back over to Jon's house. Diane's unmarked cruiser was in the driveway and I felt a bit irritated, as if it didn't belong there. I pulled in on the street, got out, and walked up to the house. Every other house in this stretch of suburbia had its lawn cleared of leaves, save this one, and that bothered me as well. I would have to take care of it. I looked at the house and saw that the shades were drawn, and it struck me as appropriate. A house where someone lived and breathed and was then murdered should always hide its insides from the shame.

  Diane met me at the door, held it open for me as I went in. The door frame was dirty, covered with the dark gray dust of fingerprint powder. The living room was lit up, but everything looked wrong for me, out of place, and I figured it out in just a moment. The furniture had all been moved around by Diane and her fellow officers, and the pieces had not been put back in their proper places. She sat down on a couch and I took a chair, and she said, "This has been tough for you. I'm sorry."

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Now, I'm going to say something, and you're not going to like it."

  "Okay."

  "Leave it be."

  "Excuse me?"

  She managed a smile. "We've known each other for a long while, my friend, and I know what drives you. You're the one who gets wound up over friends of yours who get hurt or get cheated or who are otherwise harmed. That's one of your many charms."

  "If that's true, then my charm hasn't worked well with you."

  "Then blame genetics," she said. "And I'm going to have to blame your genetic makeup as well. You have this drive for justice. So do 1. And you and I both have the same goals, and that's to bring the shooter in. Okay? And if the shooter is going to be appropriately punished, it's going to happen because the case I have against him is rock solid, with a long string of good evidence, none of it tainted by a vengeful magazine writer whose history and background will be so much raw meat for any half-wit defense attorney. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Perfectly."

  "Good," she said.

  "Have you found the brother yet?"

  She shook her head. "No, but we're running him down."

  “Is he the lead suspect?"

  Diane crossed her legs. "Look, you're getting right into it, all right? Let's say this. He's someone we want to talk to, very badly."

  "You got anything besides what I've told you about their history together?"

  She moved one leg back and forth. "Last answer from me. Okay?"

  "Fine."

  "Next-door neighbor saw the brother come to the house the day of the shooting."

  "What time?"

  "Just after five p.m."

  I nodded. "Right after Jon called me."

  "Exactly."

  I looked around the living room, recalled the times I had spent here with him, talking and drinking and discussing town gossip or the latest news, but always, always, the conversation would veer back to history, the history of the town, the state, the country. And, of course, once we started talking history, we would always end up discussing his obsession, the evidence that his Norse ancestors had walked the same soil that he did. Just last month, each of us drinking a Molson Golden Ale, he clenched his fist and tapped it on the couch's armrest: "I'm close, Lewis. God, I am so close. And when I get that evidence, a lot of people are going to eat crow, and I'm going to be right there to serve it."

  "The Vikings," I said.

  "Yeah, the Vikings," Diane said. "You know, the few homicides I've investigated in Tyler have all revolved around the big two: love and money, and of those, I prefer money. Usually the love is an obsessive love, like some creep boyfriend who can't take no for an answer. Money is so straightforward. Somebody has something valuable that somebody else wants to take, and wouldn't mind killing to do it."

  Then she uncrossed her legs and stood up. "But I've never had a homicide that might have something to do with thousand-year-old visitors to Tyler Beach. Look, can you do me a favor?"

  "Sure."

  "You've been here before," she said. "Can you tell me if anything's missing, anything out of the ordinary that we might have overlooked?"

  The inside of my mouth was starting to feel pasty. "I guess that means going into his office."

  Diane came over to me. "You up to it?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I am."

  "Okay," she said. "Let's do it."

  The walk was short but my heart rate went up about ten percent with each step that took me closer to Jon's office. The lights were on and I tried to ignore the desk in the center of the room, which was about as easy as ignoring the proverbial elephant in the living room. Oh, what the hell, Jon would have laughed at seeing how queasy I had become ---“most of history is written in blood and violence, no way to get around it” --- and so I stared at the desk. The bloodstains had turned to a crusty red, and there was spatter on the hood of the nearby lamp. The chair had been moved back, and there was a fresh stain in the leather, and the sadness of it all just struck me there, that poor Jon had soiled himself after being killed, after the sphincter muscles let loose.

  "How do you think it happened?"

  Diane said, "Best guess is that he knew the shooter. His body was found in his chair, his head and shoulders were on the desk. Looked like the shooter got him with two shots to the back of the head. A nine-millimeter round, it looks like. No spent cartridge casings on the floor, so our shooter was careful."

  "And nobody heard the shot?"

  "That's right."

  I found that I was breathing pretty fast, so I forced myself to slow down and then look at the shelves, on both sides of the desk, remembering why Diane had brought me in here. I went up one shelf and down the other, seeing all the old things, all the old things that had been handled and owned by dead people, and I had another flash of realization, that the circle had come right back again. These possessions once owned by people dead and gone were now once again owned by the deceased. I looked to Diane and said, "I'm not a hundred percent positive, but it looks like shere. The coins, the brasswork.... it doesn't look like anything's been taken."

  Diane had been standing there, arms crossed. "True. Everything does look like it hasn't been moved- --- there’s dust in and around the shelves that hasn't been disturbed- --- there's one thing missing from this house."

  Oh, Jon, I thought. Taken away from you so soon.

  "The Viking artifacts," I said. "He told me on the phone message that he was going to put them in a safe place."

  Diane nodded. "Maybe he did, but Lewis, we've gone through everything in this house, in his car, and out in the yard. If the artifacts were here, they're gone."

  "Then the shooter has them," I said.

  "Sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"

  “Yeah," I said.

  As we went back out to the living room, Diane said to me, "Besides the brother, is there anything else you can offer me?"

  I stopped, thinking ab
out just that question, and I said, "No, I can't. His brother has done time, up in Concord. I saw the two of them have a violent disagreement over Jon's artifacts, and his hunt for the Vikings. Besides that... Just find him, Diane, all right? Just find him."

  Then there was a flash of steel behind those calm brown eyes, and I didn't envy the next few weeks of Ray Ericson's life. "You can bet the house on that, Lewis. You surely can."

  Outside a wind had come up, but at least the rain had stopped. I walked Diane over to her cruiser and I said, "How's Kara?"

  "Kara is fine," she said, opening the door. "You two moving in any time soon?"

  She laughed. "Nice to know you're so concerned about my love life. How about you?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "The lovely Miss Quinn of the Chronicle. You still going to let the town lawyer have full dibs on her?"

  "Mister Mark Spencer? I don't think I have a say in it. It's Paula's choice."

  Diane sat down behind the steering wheel. "If you say so. But I think it's your decision as well, and by not doing anything, well, you've already made your choice. Correct?"

  I gently closed the door on her, my last words: "Forget my love life and go find a killer."

  I'm not sure if she heard me, but at least she was smiling as she drove away. Then she halted in the street, backed up, and lowered her window. "One more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Remember what I said. Leave it be."

  I nodded. "I remember."

  "Good."

  And when the cruiser was out of sight, I said in a low voice, "I remember, but I didn't promise anything, Diane. Not a damn thing."

  I was heading back to my Explorer when I saw the two boys in the front yard of a house just two down from Jon's place. They were working on the lawn, moving about rakes that were about as tall as they were. They looked up at me and I saw that they were brothers, maybe a couple of years apart, wearing baggy jeans and thin down vests. The smaller of the two had a runny nose.

  "Hey, there," I said.

  "Unh-hunh," the older one said. "You guys good with those rakes?"

  The older one kept quiet but his brother said, "Dad says we spend more time playin' with the leaves then rakin' 'em."

  "Tell you what," I said, taking my wallet out. "You know Mister Ericson's house, up there?"

  Now it was the older brother's turn. "The guy who got killed."

  "Right, the guy who got killed," I said. "How much to rake his yard?"

  The younger one said, "You mean, in money?"

  "That's right."

  The two brothers looked at each other and not wanting Mom or Dad to come out and give me hell about talking to their boys without permission, I took out two ten-dollar bills. I passed one to each of them. "Here," I said. "Do a good job, okay?"

  They both looked surprised and didn't say anything, but I was glad when I got to my Explorer: They were both racing up the sidewalk, dragging their rakes behind them, as they went to Jon's yard.

  At home I made a fire in the fireplace --- a strange phrase, I know, since it's the only place one should really make a fire --- and checked the phone messages. Nothing new. I hesitated for a moment, thinking it would be nice to hear Jon's voice again, coming out of the speaker, but I thought that was just a bit too ghoulish. I was tired and achy and hungry, and made a ham and cheese and mushroom omelet for lunch, and ate it while sitting on the couch, balancing the plate on my knees, while I spent a quiet afternoon watching a documentary on the History Channel about Allied bombing tactics during World War II. The History Channel has been one of my great joys and frustrations for television viewing, for it's a great place to escape the mindless chatter on the bulk of my other cable channels, but it's also a great place to lose chunks of valuable time.

  But today, losing time was a good thing, for it allowed me not to think about how I had dealt with Diane, my oldest friend in Tyler. For when she had asked me if I had anything more to offer, I knew I should have said something about what Jon had mentioned weeks ago. Three people. Jon had gone to three people, looking for more information on that farm site in Tyler that supposedly had contained a Viking settlement before being plowed under. I didn't know their names, but I knew their occupations ---anthropology professor, American Indian activist, and retired Tyler museum curator --- and I also knew one other thing. After having talked to one of these three people, Jon had soon found the artifacts, and had soon been murdered.

  A hell of a coincidence.

  And as I got over to the kitchen to wash the dishes after hours of television viewing, the coincidences just kept on piling up, for when the phone rang it was Felix, and he was just the man I wanted to see.

  A half hour after he called, Felix was at my house, bearing gifts. He had brought a fettuccine dish and salad and garlic bread, which he heated up in my kitchen. The formal dress he had at the funeral was gone, replaced by stonewashed jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. We both ate at the small table and had a bottle of Australian merlot, and when it came to the coffee and cannoli stage, Felix got right to it. "I've done some preliminary work on your man's brother," he said.

  "What do you have?"

  Felix said, "Guy's been in trouble since he could pee standing up. Lots of juvie stuff that's sealed away, of course, and a short stint in the navy, followed by a dishonorable discharge for brawling. Then, a bunch of muscle jobs here and there, construction and landscaping work, broken up by jail time."

  "What for?"

  "Robbery, assault, burglary, some drunk drivings."

  "Any homicide, or attempted homicide?"

  "Nothing I could find out," Felix said. "But it's early yet. This guy really spent most of his time here and in Maine. Didn't spend too much of his exciting life down in Massachusetts. Current residence is in Porter."

  "Still, I appreciate it."

  Felix nodded, used a fork to slice off a piece of cannoli. "All right," he said. "Now that you have his record, anything strike you strange about it?"

  "One big thing," I said. "Which is..."

  "Which is how did a guy who spent most of his life either doing grunt work or being in the county or state lockup, how did a guy like that end up running an antique store?"

  "Nicely done," he said. "Glad to see that you're as sharp as ever."

  "Spare me the compliments. There's more to running an antique store than just renting a storefront and putting some old furniture in there. You've got to know what you're selling, know the history and the provenance, and you got to have rock-solid reputations with the other dealers. It's a very close, clannish bunch, and everybody knows what everybody else is up to. You have a record, you do some things that aren't on the straight and narrow... well, your business won't last long."

  "Sounds right to me."

  'What do you know about his business?"

  Another bite of the cannoli. "Not much. Except I know where it's located, and where he lives, which is in the same place. Small building outside of the harbor district. His living quarters are right above the store."

  I got up and poured us another cup of coffee. "And his neighbors?"

  "An adult bookstore and a gas station. Not a very upscale neighborhood. Quick talk with people at both establishments came up with nothing."

  I sat down and passed the cup over to Felix. He put in some sugar and half-and-half and said, "I have a suggestion."

  "Go ahead."

  "You're serious about finding this character before the cops, right?"

  "That's been the general idea."

  "Well, one approach might be to visit his building. See what can be found."

  "The cops have probably already been through it, once or twice."

  "True," Felix said. "But there might be something there they might ignore, something I can use."

  "Through your usual contacts?"

  He took a sip from his coffee cup. "Don't make fun of my contacts, Lewis. They often know a hell of a lot more than the cops."

  "No fun intended," I s
aid. "Okay. A visit to the house and store it is. When do we go?"

  "What do mean we, young man?"

  "I mean the two of us would be going in, not just you. That's the fair thing to do."

  He shook his head. "Nope. That'd be the dumb thing to do. Look, if I go in, I'm going in and doing something I'm familiar with, all right? And one man going in and one man going out is a hell of a lot easier to manage than two men. Plus, if I get caught... well, I've got the background and ability to either talk my way out of it, or have a lawyer friend take care of me. But you? Your record is somewhat clean, Lewis. Why not keep it that way?"

  "Because I need to do this, that's why."

  "Not a good answer."

  "Best I can do for right now," I said.

  Well, that conversation went around in circles for a while, until we both got tired of it and Felix retrieved his coat and I walked him to the front door. As he put the coat on, he looked at me and said, "Why not let Diane take care of it? She's a fairly competent detective for this state."

  "Yeah, but she hasn't managed to catch you for anything."

  That brought a smile. "Not for lack of trying. Seriously, though, why not let the professionals do their job?"

  I realized I had been holding my breath, and I let it out. "Something you would understand, I'm sure. This time, it's personal."

  Felix looked at me with an odd look on his face, and then tapped the side of my shoulder. "You should really let Diane and the cops handle it. We're going into my world, now, and it'd be for the best if I work alone."

  "What do you mean, your world?"

  "You know," he said. "The world of grudges, revenge, blood feuds, arguments settled with two bullets in the hat or a ride out in a boat. That's my place in the universe. Not yours."

  "You mean, the North End way?"

  "You could say that."

  "Well, don't forget my Irish background," I said. "We know a few things about feuds and such."

  Another smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

  "Okay, now that we've gotten our family backgrounds out of the way, when do we go visit Ray Ericson's place?"

  Felix checked his watch. "Let's say ... three a.m.?"