Buried Dreams

by Brendan DuBois

  I strained to hear noises from the other side, of Felix walking up the driveway, of Felix knocking on the door, maybe a quick, hurried discussion and then... Felix emerging at the rear door, a smile on his face, a thumbs-up to indicate everything had gone well.

  Nothing yet. Somewhere in the woods a chickadee announced her presence.

  I shifted my weight, felt the leaves rustle under my feet. The Beretta was starting to feel heavy in my hand.

  Still no sound. What was going on?

  That's when the little train of thoughts started rumbling through my head, of how long would I stay out here by myself, had something bad happened to Felix, had he been ambushed coming up the driveway, was I now alone, what was going on, what was going to happen, what should I do ---

  Sounds. Shouting.

  Movement by the rear window. The rear door flew open.

  And Ray Ericson ran down the steps, almost tripping over the last one, running by himself, wearing gray sweatpants and a white tanktop and black sneakers and ---

  I stepped out from behind the tree, went toward him. "Hey!" I yelled. "Hold it right there!"

  Ray stopped and then looked up at me and grinned. "Out of the way, asshole."

  I held my pistol out, both hands on the handgrip, pointing right at him. "On your knees, right now, Ray."

  The grin was still there. "Man, who the fuck do you think you're dealing with?"

  "I know," I said, moving toward him. "I know quite well. Now. On the ground."

  Ray shook his head, came quick in my direction. "Man, I'm going to take that gun and shove it up your ass so far, there'll be ---"

  That was enough. I aimed and pulled the trigger, and the sound of the report was quite loud.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ray Ericson dropped to the ground, just as a red-faced Felix came sprinting out the rear door, his coat bunched around him, his MP5 held out with one hand. Something was wrong, something was not right, for Felix's left arm was hanging in an odd way, but I had no time to ask him anything, as he came up and said, "He dead?"

  "I don't think so."

  "You hit him?"

  "Only if my aim was off."

  Felix's face was still red, a harsh scarlet that was frightening me, even though the focus of his anger was the man on the ground. Felix nudged him with his foot.

  "You alive down there?"

  Ray rolled over. "Fucker! That fucker shot me between the legs!"

  Felix said, "Your unit still intact?"

  "Shit, yes, but man, I could feel that slug pass right underneath my ---"

  And Felix drew back his foot and connected it with Ray's crotch, like he was trying to make the winning soccer goal in the World Cup with seconds remaining, and Ray rolled over and howled. Felix drew his leg back again and then stopped, and looked up at me, his eyes moist and reddened.

  "Sorry," he said. "Emotions got away from me there for a second. You got this guy covered?"

  "Yeah, I do. Felix, what in hell ---"

  Felix let his free hand drop the MP5, which hung on the sling, and then he gingerly examined his other hand, and I looked and felt nauseous. It was red and raw and blistered, and Felix looked up at me and said, "Guy was ready for me."

  "He knew you were coming?"

  "Well, maybe not me, but he was ready for a visitor. I knocked on the door and said I was here to pick him up, and he said great, and when I got in, he started acting hinky. He asked me if Curt had sent me, and I said, Curt who? That's when things went to the shits. Must have been a code word or something. So I followed him into the kitchen, and he made to go for a pistol on the kitchen table, and when he saw that I was carrying, he backed quick to the stove. Damn, he moved quick!"

  "What did he get you with?"

  Felix smiled, though it looked like he was also gritting his teeth. "Damn con had a pot of water on the stove, just boiling along. Nice, quick weapon, easy to use. Just picked it up and tossed it at me, nailed me good. Was out the door in seconds. Hey, by the way, great backup."

  "Thanks," I said, the nausea still gurgling along in my gut as I kept my pistol aimed at the moaning Ray Ericson. "I think we need to move this party indoors."

  "Why? I thought people in rural Maine don't mind hearing the occasional gunshot. Part of the surroundings."

  I looked down at the man whose brother's murder had brought me here. "True, but they might get upset if they start hearing other things."

  Felix nodded. "Good point. Yeah, let's get him inside."

  "Are you sure you can ---"

  "Yeah, I'll take care of it. Still have one good hand and arm left."

  Felix reached down with his right hand, grabbed Ray's right ear, and twisted it. Ray howled again and Felix said, "Come along, little doggie, we're going in. You cooperate and I'll stop twisting your ear."

  Ray got up and Felix said, "Lewis, anything funny, anything funny at all, shoot the fucker. And don't miss this time."

  "I won't."

  The three of us went into the house, Felix leading the way, Ray in the middle, and me following. Ray said, exasperated, "Damn it, you said you'd stop twisting my ear if I cooperated."

  Felix gave his ear another twist. "I lied."

  Inside Felix worked quickly and efficiently, even with one injured hand, and Ray was soon on the couch, his ankles bound together by thin dish towels, as well as his arms, tied behind him, not at the wrists, but at the elbows. Felix said, "I've got to get some things set up. You just sit here and keep an eye on our guest, okay?"

  "Sure," I said, sitting in a kitchen chair, holding my pistol on Ray, only now smelling the scent of burnt gunpowder. From the rear of the house we had passed through a small kitchen and then into a living room that had the usual couch, two easy chairs, and a television set in one corner. There was a bookshelf full of romance and Harlequin paperbacks. I doubted that Ray had been perusing that bookshelf in the past several days, but I wasn't in the mood to start asking him questions about his literary interests. Ray sat there and watched us, breathing hard, not saying a word. His bald head was still bald, and his usual stubble had grown out some, so that he was about a week or so away from having a reasonable-looking beard. I thought that by my sitting with him, he'd start asking questions, start demanding answers as to why we were here and what we were after, but no, not a word. And that frightened me, his utter lack of concern for why we were here. I looked at his eyes and felt the chill deepen. Oh, he cared all right, but he didn't care about why we were here. His eyes were observing, evaluating, and I suddenly knew that this ex-con, the younger brother of my murdered friend, was going to be a tough one.

  Felix came out of an adjacent bathroom, wiping some sort of ointment on his burnt hand and wrist. He grimaced but didn't say a word, and then he went out to the kitchen, where I heard running water. Felix came out and the redness in his face was fading, as he wrapped wet white towels around his damaged hand.

  He said to me, "You doing okay?"

  ''Yeah. How about you?"

  "For now I'm hanging in there, though we'll need to see somebody medical when we're... when we're done here. Hey, Ray, how are you doing?"

  Ray just glowered, not saying a word. Felix said, "Well, take good stock of how you're feeling now, because it's going to change in a while."

  And then Felix did something that spooked me even more. He went over to the television set and turned it on, and found MTV, which- --- some strange reason --- was actually playing music videos. Near the television was a small stereo system, built on a shelf, and Felix turned that on as well, finding an all-talk station. The noise level was loud --- not deafening --- but the mix of the music and the talk made it hard to hear what was going on in the room.

  Which was the point, I'm sure.

  Felix went over to Ray and said, "You still doing okay, Ray?" And for the first time, even though he tried to hide it well, Ray was beginning to look nervous. His eyes blinked and his tongue just barely came out, touching what looked to be dry lips.


  Then Felix leaned over and I thought maybe he was going to take a shot at Ray with a fist or an openhanded slap, but instead he just gently touched his cheek and said, "I'm going to get started in a little bit. You just hold on."

  And that was it. Felix went into the kitchen, and while Ray was trying to look stoic, I was terrified. Seeing what Felix had done with the television and the stereo, and his gentle manner of dealing with Ray, made me think that if I had been in Ray's place, I would have been eager to confess to the JFK assassination before allowing Felix to proceed.

  I swallowed. My mouth was dry. I suppose I should have done the civilized thing, to talk to Ray, to appeal to whatever better nature he had, but instead I listened to Felix whistling out in the kitchen, the clatter of some pots and pans, and I remembered Jon's office, his blood spatter over the desk and the lampshade. I remembered the first time I had met Ray, and how he had tried to punch me out. And I remembered the blisters on Felix's hand.

  That made me feel better about what was going to happen. Not a hell of a whole lot, but enough.

  Felix called out, "Almost ready, mes enfants!"

  I tried to be cocky and said, "He's just back from Florida. St. Petersburg, in fact. And among the many things he came back with, was a talent for French."

  No reply. Just the look of hate and the coldness in those eyes.

  I smelled something cooking, heard the sizzle of something being stirred around, and then Felix came back out of the kitchen, whistling again. He carried a tall kitchen stool with him, another thick towel, and a frying pan. He set the stool down next to the couch, placed the towel down and put the hot frying pan on top of that. "Don't move, I'll be right back," Felix said. He grinned. "Hey, that was a joke. I liked that."

  Felix came and went in a matter of seconds, and this time, he was carrying a wooden stirring spoon and a pair of kitchen scissors in his damaged hand, and another kitchen stool in his good hand. He put the stool down and sat on it, and then gently leaned forward with the scissors.

  "Don't mind me, Ray," he said. "I've got some things to do here."

  Ray didn't say a word, not a thing, as Felix pulled at the bottom of his tank top, and then, with the scissors, started cutting up. The shirt came apart easily enough, and then Ray was sitting there, the shirt in tatters on either side of him. His chest and belly were covered with black hair, and there was a thick scar off to the right, just above his belly. Maybe it was surgery. Maybe it was an old knife scar. I didn't know and didn't care to know.

  Felix then went to the frying pan and picked up the spoon, and picked something up from inside the pan and flicked it in Ray's direction.

  "Jesus!" Ray yelped, finally saying something over the sounds of the music and the talk radio. "Jesus, hold on, hold on... Christ... you fucker, that hurt."

  Felix put the pan back down on the cloth-covered stool. "Oh, so you can talk."

  "The fuck right I can talk, asshole."

  "Glad to hear that. How does your chest feel?"

  Ray glowered. "It hurts. You know it does."

  "Sure," Felix said. "You nailed me with hot water. Fair enough, I guess. Now I'm returning the favor, but this time, I'm using olive oil. Nice, hot, heated-up olive oil. Hot water can burn but hot oil... not only does it burn, Ray, it burrows into your skin. Burns you even deeper."

  "You... you .. you didn't even warn me."

  Another chilly grin from Felix. "Ever hear the tale of the farmer and the mule? The farmer wanted the mule to do something, so he came out and whacked him in the head with a two-by-four. Somebody watching asked him why in hell did he do that without any warning. The farmer replied that he just wanted to get the mule's attention. Get the story, Ray?"

  Ray nodded, eyes still filled with anger and fury. "Yeah, I got the goddamn story. What the hell do you want?"

  Felix nodded in my direction. "My friend here is going to ask you some questions. Answer them truthfully, honestly, and quickly, and the hot oil remains in the frying pan. Got it?

  Now Ray looked at me. "You... fucking slug. You need this guy to back you up, hunh? Not man enough to do this on your own?"

  I waved the pistol back and forth a bit. "I was man enough earlier to make you sing at a higher octave, right?"

  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!"