Bellows Falls

by Mayor, Archer

  Padget had benefited from nothing like this. Manipulated into disgrace, he’d been just as passively extracted from it, and like any piece of manhandled baggage, while he’d survived the trip physically, he’d been forever scarred by the process. Watching him stare out into space, his options unknown, I’d mourned my inability to be of much use. I hoped he’d stay in law enforcement, but I knew that might be expecting too much.

  I turned away from the river and walked toward the village, my reborn optimism attracted by the repair work being done on that old building.

  Ignoring the clearly written sign not to do so, I crossed the canal using the short railroad trestle, and cut left along the opposite bank until I was standing at water’s edge, in the grass, looking up at the imposing structure. From this side, it reached four stories to the sky—stained, rusting, disfigured by an ugly fire escape, and yet oddly regal. Beneath the grime were ornate cornices and fancy moldings—details of an ancient attention to care and pride—the murmurings of the old Bellows Falls.

  One of the carpenters paused in his work to look down at me from the balcony. “How’re you doin’?”

  “Okay. Fixing the place up?”

  “Yeah. Been empty longer than I been alive. Still in good shape, though. They want to turn it into a teen center, a restaurant, who the hell knows?”

  “That’s a good thing, though, right—instead of letting it rot?”

  He shrugged and turned to peer at it again. “I guess. They might pull it off this time—God knows the town’s due for some good luck. But if I had the money, I’d spend it somewhere else.”

  “You from around here?” I asked. He looked down at me for a long time, his face finally breaking into a smile. “Yeah—probably die here, too… I see your point. Guess I better get back to work.”

  Excerpt

  If you enjoyed Bellows Falls, look for The Disposable Man, ninth in the Joe Gunther series.

  The Disposable Man

  IT WAS DARK by the time I reached the reflecting pool, but not much cooler. The tradeoff for walking had been a reminder of just how tenacious southern heat can be. It radiated off the sidewalk as from a wood stove in the middle of winter, and filled the air—in a startling paradox—with the familiar parched odor of warm silage, the acres of cropped grass around me substituting for the farm fields of memory. The jacket I’d been wearing had gone from being slung over my shoulder to being held uncomfortably in one sweaty hand.

  But I had no complaints. This part of Washington, especially at night, subdued most petty complaints with its sheer wide-open majesty. The pale-lit Washington Monument, a red beacon at its apex, looked otherworldly in the surrounding darkness, its daytime absurdity replaced by the mysterious murmurings of its Egyptian forebears. And that aura spread outward like a thin mist, snagging on the spotlit architectural oddities that belted the Mall like an ancient ring of mountains. I took it all in, from the Capitol to the museums to the gargantuan, recumbent federal buildings, with the happy acceptance of a willing tourist. I walked the length of the quarter-mile pool—Lincoln’s tomblike tribute reflecting in the water like a ghost—and yielded utterly to the theater of it all, using the countless historical cues to carry me back to my past.

  Finally, thus summoned, a pale scattering of distant shadows caught my eye through the trees, to the left, and brought my journey to an end. I stood stock still in the darkness, in the here and now, and saw the defining image of myself as a nervous, isolated teenager, on the threshold of self-discovery.

  Scattered across a gently stepped slope, only barely illuminated by concealed, muted spotlights, a company of soldiers silently hovered in the gloom, as if frozen in mid-step by the distant, dying flash of a random artillery flare.

  I abandoned the sidewalk and cut across the warm grass, all discomfort forgotten, transfixed by the nineteen nebulous bronze statues that formed the centerpiece of the Korean War Memorial. As I approached, their details emerged, commingling with memory. Clad in windswept ponchos, their weapons held with the casualness of umbrellas or shovels, they were lean with hunger, fatigue, and worry, and their faces, barely caressed by the thoughtfully directed light, were by degrees exhausted, pensive, frightened, and resigned. The closer I got, the more clearly I could see the slightly blurry photographs I’d sent my mother from beyond the ocean, and which reside still in the albums by her side.

  It is a beautiful monument, low-key and reflective. A mixed service company of slightly larger-than-life soldiers—sculpted by a fellow Vermonter—ascends a series of shallow, planted terraces, reminiscent of rice paddies. Ahead of them is a pool and a flagpole, to their right a low, black polished granite wall, sandblasted with the smoky images of over a thousand people looking out, like half-seen specters, representing the millions who served with the likes of me. The countries that contributed to this ephemeral, poorly remembered effort are etched in stone, along with the numbers of people sacrificed—over fifty-four thousand of them. It is a quiet place, designed for pensiveness and reminiscence, and alone in the night, I gave in to just that, slowly pacing the walkway that circled the entire site.

  That quiet, however, was offset by occasional urban interruptions, the most jarring of which were periodic low-flying jets heading for nearby National Airport. I was strolling in an easterly direction when a particularly noisy one made me stop in my tracks and turn around to watch. Instead of focusing on a startlingly nearby airplane, however, I came face-to-face with a rough-looking, bearded man, standing a mere ten feet behind me. He and I, witnessed by nineteen well-armed silent soldiers, were the only ones within sight.

  At first, he seemed as surprised as I was, his eyes widening and his body stiffening, and then he whirled around as I had, and stared down the empty walkway. He looked back at me, his eyes suspicious. “Whaddya lookin’ at?”

  His voice was slurred and thick. “You,” I admitted.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know. What’re you doing here?”

  His mouth set in an angry line. “You sayin’ I can’t be here?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He considered that, found it acceptable, and loosened his stance, looking almost athletic in the process. He wasn’t old—at most in his mid-thirties—and his clothes, while far from city wear, were more rough than ragged.

  He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “You do me a favor?”

  He took a couple of paces toward me, which I didn’t like. Only half consciously, I moved my jacket before me, holding it loosely in both hands.

  “I need some money,” he continued. “I gotta get enough for bus fare. You give me something?”

  I stepped back as he drew nearer, the hairs on my neck tingling. “Isn’t this a pretty strange place to be looking for bus fare?”

  His eyes narrowed, and his right hand dipped to his side. There was a metallic click and a flash of reflected light. I surprised him by leaping forward, the jacket held taut between my fists. He came up with the knife, startled by my sudden proximity, and I caught the blade in the folds of the coat, twisting it away and to one side. Inches from his face now, enveloped in his breath, I saw his mouth open in pain as he let out a shout. I then brought my knee up between his legs with all my strength.

  The results were mixed. On TV that would’ve been the end of it. In fact, as he crumpled, he grabbed me around the neck with his free arm, rolled with his hips, and sent me staggering toward the nearest soldier. I tripped over the low curb separating the walkway from the terracing, and stumbled with a dull clang into the statue, twisting around to keep my eyes on my assailant.

  I’d dropped my coat in the process, the knife still within it, and it now lay between us on the ground. Doubled over, one hand clutching his groin, he dove for it the same time I did, just as a clear shout rang out in the night.

  “Police. Stop where you are.”

  I got to the jacket first, but only because my opponent pulled up at the last second, rabbit-punching me in the neck in
stead of fighting for the knife. As I collapsed onto the cement, the flat switchblade hard against my chest, I saw him run off into the darkness toward Independence Avenue.

  Heavy footsteps ran up behind me. “Don’t move.”

  I twisted around to look up at a young patrolman, standing over me with a gun in his hand. “I’m the victim.”

  He looked at me nervously, and then glanced up to where the other man had vanished.

  “I’m also a cop,” I continued, very slowly reaching for my back pocket. “Can I go for my badge?”

  I extracted the worn leather folder and flipped it open.

  The patrolman slowly lowered his gun, his disappointment complete. “Shit.”

  The DC police were sympathetic and helpful, giving me aspirin and an ice pack for my neck. They listened patiently to my account, took a few notes, and when they were done, they even drove me to my Arlington motel. But I wasn’t asked to look through any mug books, or to give a detailed description to an artist, and when the switchblade was recovered, I noticed no effort being made to preserve any fingerprints. What I’d suffered, I was told, was a typical attempted mugging—one of the mandatory accessories of any large city. I was wished a pleasant visit, given a generalized apology for having witnessed the back end of the welcome wagon, and left to my own devices. That night, however, as I lay watching the traffic’s lights play across my ceiling, I found myself unable to be as casually dismissive. While not a city dweller, I still knew the makeup of the average mugger. The man I’d wrestled with had not been such a creature. I’d sensed duplicity and purpose in his eyes, beyond the presence of any cash in my wallet. As the hours slipped by, the more I replayed what had happened—and the more I believed our meeting to have been no random act.

  About the Author

  Over the years, Archer Mayor has been photographer, teacher, historian, scholarly editor, feature writer, travel writer, lab technician, political advance man, medical illustrator, newspaper writer, history researcher, publications consultant, constable, and EMT/firefighter. He is also half Argentine, speaks two languages, and has lived in several countries on two continents.

  All of which makes makes him restless, curious, unemployable, or all three. Whatever he is, it’s clearly not cured, since he’s currently a novelist, a death investigator for Vermont’s medical examiner, and a police officer.

  Mayor has been producing the Joe Gunther novels since 1988, some of which have made the TEN BEST or MOST NOTABLE lists of the Los Angeles and the New York Times. Mayor has also received the New England Booksellers Association book award for fiction, and Vermont’s 2012 Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  The Joe Gunther Mysteries

  Open Season

  Borderlines

  Scent of Evil

  The Skeleton’s Knee

  Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

  The Dark Root

  The Ragman’s Memory

  Bellows Falls

  The Disposable Man

  Occam’s Razor

  The Marble Mask

  Tucker Peak

  The Sniper’s Wife

  Gatekeeper

  The Surrogate Thief

  St. Albans Fire

  The Second Mouse

  Chat

  The Catch

  The Price of Malice

  Red Herring

  Tag Man

  Paradise City

  Copyright

  This digital edition (v1.11) of Bellows Falls was published by MarchMedia in 2013.

  If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.

  Copyright © 2012 by Archer Mayor.

  ISBN: 978-1-939767-00-4

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Errata

  MarchMedia is committed to producing the highest quality e-books possible. If you encountered any obvious errors, typos or formatting issues in this text, we would appreciate your bringing them to our attention, so that the next edition can be improved for future readers.

  Please email Margot@archermayor.com, stating the name of the e-book, the type of device you are reading it on, the version (see copyright page) and the details of the error.

  If you are experiencing difficulty with the display or function of the book, we suggest you first contact the vendor from whom you purchased it, to ensure that you received a complete, uncorrupted file.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  Lt. Joe Gunther of the Brattleboro, Vermont police force has a serious problem: in a community where a decade could pass without a single murder, the body count is suddenly mounting. Innocent citizens are being killed—and others set-up—seemingly orchestrated by a mysterious ski-masked man. Signs suggest that a three year-old murder trial might lie at the heart of things, but it’s a case that many in the department would prefer remained closed. A man of quiet integrity, Lt. Gunther knows that he must pursue the case to its conclusion, wherever it leads.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  Seconded to the State’s Attorney’s office, Lt. Joe Gunther is in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom investigating a minor embezzling case. It’s a pleasant distraction, and a chance to reconnect with old friends, but when a house fire reveals itself to be arson, compounded by murder, Gunther can’t help but investigate. Suddenly, he finds himself enmeshed in a web of animosity between put-upon townspeople, the state police, angry parents and members of a reclusive sect. Murder follows murder, yet no one seems to be telling Gunther the whole truth—not even his childhood friends—and truth is what he desperately needs if he’s to stop the killings.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  When the body of a fast-living young stockbroker is found in a shallow grave, suspicion first falls on a cuckolded policeman. Lt. Joe Gunther investigates the increasingly bizarre details of the crime, but finds that he’s too far behind events to prevent a second murder. Indeed, whoever is responsible always seems to be a few steps ahead, as if there’s a leak on the force. Sweltering August heat does nothing to calm the increasingly agitated town selectmen, who demand results.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  When a reclusive market gardener’s death proves to stem from a 20 year-old bullet wound, Lt. Joe Gunther is presented with a very cold homicide to solve. But who was the victim exactly? A deeply private man eking out an ascetic existence from a hardscrabble mountain field, Abraham Fuller was virtually unknown to his neighbors, in the manner of someone pursuing more than mere solitude. The discovery of a duffle of unmarked bills and a body buried in the garden patch suggests that Fuller had motives beyond misanthropy. Nor is it such a cold case either, as someone seems willing to kill to ensure that old secrets remain buried.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  Gail Zigman, town selectwoman and Joe Gunther’s companion of many years, is raped, and the detective finds himself caught between the media, local politicians, and a network of well-meaning victims’ rights advocates as he tries to put his own feelings aside and follow the trail of evidence.

  Every lead seems to point to a single, obvious suspect, but is the evidence too perfect? Risking his friendship with Gail, the respect of his peers, and his own life, Lt. Gunther keeps digging, hoping to find out if the man they have in jail is rightly there, or if the evidence against him is tainted—"fruits of the poisonous tree."

  Also by Archer Mayor

  A brutal home invasion shocks Brattleboro’s small Asian community, but no one’s talking. Undeterred, Joe Gunther digs deeper and discovers a cross-border smuggling route carrying drugs, contraband, and illegal aliens into and out of Canada. Operating below the radar for years, competition between underworld rivals is bringing it into the light with deadl
y consequences. International jurisdiction is a complicated thing, and Gunther will have to collaborate with the FBI, the Border Patrol and the Mounties in the pursuit of justice.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  A small girl brings Joe Gunther a bird’s nest—made partially of human hair. In the search to put a body, and an identity, to the hair’s owner, Joe comes upon an unexplained death, a grisly murder, and a sudden disappearance. All seem to be entangled in a puzzling web of municipal corruption, blackmail, and industrial espionage. A shell-shocked World War II vet nicknamed “The Ragman” may hold the key to it all, if Joe can get him to talk before the murderer strikes again.

  Also by Archer Mayor

  Joe Gunther is seconded to the neighboring town of Bellows Falls to investigate harassment allegations against a fellow officer. What begins as a seemingly open-and-shut case comes to look more and more like a frame job as Gunther doggedly pursues the truth, and soon he finds himself feeling around the edges of a statewide drug distribution network. As always, Vermont itself is a major character in Mayor’s writing, with Bellows Falls standing in for any number of slowly decaying once-proud mill towns.