The Maine Massacre

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "Jameson, Maine," de Gier said. "Yes, that's what they said."

  "And that's where you are."

  The sheriff's cruiser showed its nose between a shed that housed the strip's machinery and office and a corrugated iron hangar, and an old man in a shapeless coat and an old-fashioned airman's leather cap with form flaps seemed hesitant as to whether he should go to the plane or acknowledge the sheriff's high station by opening the cruiser's door. He finally decided to stay where he was and let things sort themselves out. The cruiser inched forward, then suddenly leaped away, coming to an abrupt halt near the small aluminum staircase that the pilot was sliding from the plane. The pilot jumped down and shook the sheriff's hand.

  "Here he is, all in one piece."

  The sheriff's regular white teeth showed. "You guys spending the night here?"

  "Can you put us up?"

  "I only have the jailhouse."

  The pilot laughed. "No thanks, we have our own jails and there'll be a storm tomorrow. We'll get back while we can.

  De Gier waved at the second pilot and tried to pull his stylish short coat closed with his free hand. His suitcase was leaning against his leg.

  "You sure you want to stay here now?" the pilot asked, turning back to his plane.

  "Sure."

  "Okay, it's your party, let us know when you have enough and we'll come and save you—if the weather lets us."

  "Get into the cruiser," the sheriff said and whisked de Gier's suitcase off the ground. "It's too cold here—there's more ice than air in the wind. Is that the coat you're planning to wear here?"

  De Gier lifted a foot, slipped, and was yanked back upright by the sheriff's wiry arm.

  "What have you got under your shoes?"

  "Leather."

  The sheriff grinned and pushed his guest around the cruiser, holding on to him while he opened the door. As the car moved off de Gier noticed that the sheriff's mustache had become white and that ice had formed on the end of each hair. He felt his own. The icicles tinkled together. He tried to pull them off. The sheriff shook his head. "Don't do that. They'll come off by themselves. Ice melts. What do I call you? Sergeant? The general said that was your rank, how come a general is sending me a sergeant?'

  "Sure, sergeant. Sergeant Rinus de Gier."

  He had to say it again, since the sheriff had trouble with the sharp G of the surname. "Like getting a fly stuck in your throat and trying to bring it up. You have more sounds like that in your language?"

  "A few."

  The sheriff's tone was cold, but de Gier hardly noticed. His thoughts were still in the sky. The small jet had moved like a dragonfly, and the pilot had obliged when de Gier pointed at one of the hundreds of islands and circled the conglomeration of overgrown rocks dotted with a few white wooden houses, going so low that they could see the foam break on the waves, rolling in to froth over the jagged shore. The transition from the even routine of Amsterdam's ugly police headquarters and the gray steady rain of Holland's swampy winter that had made his brain sodden and slow to the sudden explosion of clear colors on the American coast had been too quick, and he felt elated but also stunned. One day with nothing but the prospect of thumbing through a file of lengthy reports on events hardly worth noting and the very next day this. He mumbled and the joined inarticulate words sat on the steady purr of the cruiser's engine.

  "What's that?" But the sheriff forgot his question as he asked it. They had left the road leading to the airstrip and were on a narrow highway, reasonably clean of snow and mud. A car came roaring toward them, cutting through the double yellow lines in the middle of the road.

  "Watch it." But de Gier had seen the car and stretched his legs and held on to the dashboard. A head-on collision seemed possible, but the other car swerved. "Close," the sheriff said and braked and made a U-turn.

  "You mind?"

  "No," de Gier said.

  "Good."

  The sheriff had grabbed the microphone stuck close to the shaft of the cruiser's wheel. "Route One, going south, pursuing subject in black Oldsmobile, speeding, possibly under influence, just passed Billy's farm."

  The radio responded immediately. "Want any assistance, Jim?"

  "Not yet, ten four."

  "A little chase. I'll call it off if you're tired. You had any sleep lately?"

  "Enough," de Gier said. The cruiser's siren was barking just above his head, short urgent blasts, threatening like the howl of a pack of wolves.

  "Motherfucker," the sheriff said.

  "Pardon?"

  "Motherfucker, must have been going over eighty. There's a fifty-mile limit here."

  De Gier thought about the word as he watched the cruiser's speedometer touching a hundred. The low trees on the sides of the speedway had become a continuous fringe of gray green streaked with white where snow clung to the evergreen's needles. The cruiser's purr changed into a controlled roar. The dark eyes in the sheriff's narrow face betrayed no excitement. There was no traffic on the speedway and the only other moving object was the Oldsmobile. The battered rear of the black car was growing. De Gier could see the registration plate, but the numbers were unclear, partly covered by dirt and rust.

  The cruiser's speed grew somewhat and the fleeing car's back fender came closer. The microphone popped back into the sheriff's hand.

  "You there?"

  "Yes, Jim."

  "You got that complaint about the missing Olds yesterday?"

  "Right here on the desk, Jim."

  "Number?"

  "Four-five-two, seven-four-six."

  "Could be, this plate starts with four-five. Sixty-nine black Olds, right?"

  "Right, Jim. Sure you don't want assistance? Bob's cruiser is on Route One, too. I can raise him."

  "Sure, raise him. Ten four."

  The cruiser's engine made its doors vibrate as the two cars raced side by side. The sheriff put his foot all the way down and began to steer to the side. There was a squeal of brakes. De Gier looked round. The Oldsmobile skidded and seemed to be ready to overturn, but it touched a snowbank and dug itself in, its rear wheels spinning frantically.

  "Right," the sheriff said and opened his door. De Gier got out too. "Careful, sergeant. You're not too steady on your legs."

  When de Gier reached the Oldsmobile the driver was facing the sheriff, dwarfing the tight upright figure that stood nailed on the glistening asphalt. Very nice, de Gier thought, a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound suspect. Like many big men the driver seemed pleasant, jolly almost.

  "You're not taking me in, sheriff." The voice boomed and came from a pink slit in a thick beard that grew up to the man's deep-set eyes. De Gier stopped, his feet slightly apart, his arms dangling. The giant turned to look at him.

  "Who are your

  "A rider," the sheriff said.

  "So why is he here?"

  "A curious rider. I'm taking you in, Leroux. Speeding."

  "Curiosity killed the cat." A strong waft of whiskey hit de Gier's nostrils. It hit the sheriff too.

  "You've been drinking, Leroux. That's another charge. And I have a third. You stole the car."

  The pink slit in the beard curled. "No, sheriff. The car belongs to my buddy. You know him—Charlie, young Charlie Bouchier. Charlie had the loan of my chain saw, but he didn't give it back. He gave me some parts back, not the chain saw. He owes me a couple of hundred to have it fixed again, but Charlie has no money."

  The sheriff walked to the Oldsmobile and looked in. He came back. "There's no key in the car. How did you start her, Leroux?"

  "I can start a car without a key."

  "So you stole it. Charlie didn't give you the key, right?"

  "You're not taking me in, sheriff." Leroux hadn't raised his voice, but his eyelids dropped halfway and the fist on his right arm swung, just a few inches forward, then dropped back again.

  "Yes I am, Leroux. Get into the cruiser."

  "Not unless you pull your gun on me."

  De Gier looked at the gun. It stuck ob
scenely from a narrow holster on the sheriff's belt, secured only by a thin leather strap that would spring open if the sheriff flicked a finger. A wicked gun, an oversized revolver, the wooden butt shining in the low sunlight.

  "I won't pull a gun on you, Leroux."

  Leroux's throaty laugh rumbled around the sheriff. "You want to fight me, sheriff?"

  "Get into the cruiser."

  Leroux's hand came up slowly and a forefinger poked out of the fist. The finger touched the sheriff's nose and pressed down. The nose flattened. The sheriff hadn't moved.

  De Gier's reaction wasn't conscious. His mind had appraised the situation and determined it to be dangerous. The suspect was big and undoubtedly strong. He was also armored, for the thick jacket, padded with down or plastic fluff, would absorb any blow. The only exposed part of the suspect's body was the face, but Leroux had his chin down and his left arm was free to block the sheriff's punch. The sheriff didn't have enough weight to resist the pressure of the suspect's hand. Leroux's action constituted a charge: harassing an officer. There was little the sheriff could do except try to stand his ground, but de Gier could attack. Leroux's neck was free. De Gier's knees buckled slightly and his left hand was chopped upward, forming a blade, and hit Leroux's arm a half inch below the elbow joint. Leroux's forearm snapped up and the bearded head turned slightly, but the movement was arrested by a second chop when de Gier's right hand hit the side of the big man's neck. There was less force in the second chop, but it had enough strength to block the flow in Leroux's artery. Leroux's eyes closed and he fell slowly. He rolled over once, as if he were trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold road. Then he sighed.

  "Out," the sheriff said. "Thanks. Good move. I hope you haven't killed him."

  "No."

  "You've hit subjects like that before?"

  "Not too often."

  "I usually hit them with my flashlight." The sheriff showed the flashlight. The stem was a foot long. "Give them a swipe on the temple. Knocks them out and it doesn't hurt my hand. Let's move him."

  They dragged the body to the cruiser and maneuvered it onto the back seat. Leroux groaned and smacked his lips. His eyes were still closed as his hand rubbed bis bruised neck.

  "Did the rider knock me out?"

  "He did. How do you feel?"

  "Bad."

  "You going to behave now?"

  Leroux's groan became a bark. "No! I'll kill you both."

  "Handcuffs," the sheriff said and ripped the metal rings from his belt. "Hold him, sergeant."

  Leroux's hands were fists again, but they had no power and de Gier's long, muscular ringers pried them open and applied a twisting pressure so that the body on the backseat turned halfway and the arms met in the back. The handcuffs touched his hairy wrists and snapped shut. Leroux slumped back.

  "Watch him, sergeant. I'll get the Oldsmobile started and drive it to the jailhouse. Can you handle the cruiser?"

  De Gier looked at the controls. "Perhaps."

  "Have you driven automatic cars before? They have them in Europe, don't they?"

  "Yes, I have. Not often. The P is Park, isn't it? What's the N?"

  "Neutral. Shift in D for Drive and be gentle with the accelerator. If you have to brake, pump it—just touch it with your toe. Can you do that?"

  "Yes."

  The sheriff walked over to the Oldsmobile, opened the hood, and adjusted the cable Leroux had used to start the car. When the engine caught, he reversed the big car out of the bank, allowing the engine to idle so that the wheels just moved and didn't spin. De Gier eased the cruiser behind the Oldsmobile. The radio crackled and he fumbled with the microphone, having trouble finding its button.

  "Caught him, sheriff?"

  "The sheriff is in the suspect's car. We are on our way back."

  "Who are you?"

  "Sergeant Rinus de Gier, Amsterdam Municipal Police."

  The radio crackled emptily.

  "Come again?"

  De Gier came again.

  "You the guy the sheriff went to meet on the airstrip?"

  "Right."

  "You got the subject?"

  "Yes, man named Leroux."

  "Leroux. He's big. Did he fight?"

  "A little."

  "Okay, ten four."

  De Gier put the microphone back. 'Ten four," he mumbled.

  "Means 'acknowledged,'" Leroux said. "Ten three means 'go ahead.' Sheriff's talk. I have a CB radio. Everybody has. It's fun to listen in sometimes, not always. They talk a lot of shit too. You really from the Amsterdam police?"

  De Gier adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could see Leroux's face. The small beady eyes twinkled back at him.

  "Yes."

  "That's close to France. How come you're here?"

  "An exchange. I am learning."

  Leroux laughed. "On me, hey? I would have murdered that little bastard."

  "Maybe not. How do you feel?"

  "Bad. Take the cuffs off and I'll feel better."

  "No."

  Never trust a suspect when he's just been arrested. A golden police rule. An arrested suspect feels threatened, his nerves are ready to break, his reasoning is impaired. Better to humor him.

  "You French?" de Gier asked.

  "Not French French, local French."

  "American."

  "Yes, everybody is American. But I'm French. They don't like us here; they say that we are niggers but we've been sandblasted so the color doesn't show."

  "What's wrong with black?"

  "Black isn't white," Leroux said. "Take my cuffs off. Bastard put them on too tight."

  "In a minute."

  Leroux leaned forward. The sheriff had left the glass partitioning open. Leroux's chin rested on the barrel of the shotgun that was clipped to the two front seats.

  "I can bite your neck off."

  "Don't bite my neck off," de Gier said. "It'll be another charge. You have enough already. Did you steal the car?"

  "Borrowed it."

  "Will the owner say you borrowed it?"

  "Sure. Charlie only wants his car back, and I won't give it back unless he gets my chain saw fixed."

  "You'll give it back now. Are you drunk?"

  Leroux grinned slyly. The Oldsmobile was still ahead. There were houses on both sides of the road now, and the dainty steeple of a clapboard church pointed at the clear, pale blue sky. Great elms flanked the street. A store sign glided by: ROBERT'S MARKET. TWO pickup trucks were feeding off the pumps under the awning of the store. An old woman pushed a rusty supermarket cart through the caked snow on the sidewalk. A fat black dog limped behind the woman.

  "Jameson," Leroux said. "Good old Jameson, nothing but trouble. I haven't made money, not even in the summer. Broke my leg and the bill from the hospital is still on the shelf. They'll be pulling the house from under me soon. It's a good thing they're feeding the kids at the school or I'd have them whining around me. There's a deer in the freezer for the holidays, but they eat a deer in a week and there'll be another week after that one. If the judge fines me heavy it'll be all over."

  The cruiser turned sharply, following the Oldsmobile. A small sign, overshadowed by a twisted pine, said JAIL. The sheriff stood next to the cruiser.

  "How is our friend? Quiet now?"

  "I'm quiet, sheriff."

  The sheriff opened the rear door. Leroux didn't move.

  "I'll be real quiet, sheriff. Take them off."

  The handcuffs snapped free.

  "Walk."

  "Yes, sheriff."

  "Bernie McDougal," a fat man said and shook de Gier's hand. "Good to meet you, you did some work, that's good, loafers get very cold here. Shall I take him, Jim? I couldn't raise Bob's cruiser, but you had enough help."

  "All yours."

  Leroux was led to the rear of the building. The big man was rubbing his wrists. There was the clang of a metal door and Bernie came back. He wore the same uniform as the sheriff but there was a plastic disc above the left tun
ic pocket: "Chief deputy."

  "Are you going to hit him, Jim?"

  "Speeding," the sheriff said. "Fifty-mile limit, he was doing eighty but maybe we'll drop it to sixty-five. That'll be a twenty-dollar fine. He won't have much more."

  "Drunk?"

  "He wasn't too drunk."

  "Stolen car?"

  "Phone Charlie. Tell him we found his car and to bring the key. Leroux used some silly wire. It may short-circuit the system. Charlie won't want to press charges, but we should talk to him about Leroux's chain saw. Leroux is a logger in winter. He needs the saw. If Charlie has broken it he should do something."

  "Coffee?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Coffee. Is there a place to eat nearby?"

  "By my guest," the sheriff said. "We have a cook in the jailhouse. What's he got, Bernie?"

  "Pea soup and there's bread in the oven. No eggs but there's bacon. Four frostbitten green peppers from the greenhouse but enough lettuce. Tomatoes. Clam chowder."

  The sheriff nodded. Bernie went back into the jail and returned with a barefoot young man with long shiny brown hair.

  "You had your bath?"

  "Yes, sheriff."

  "Won't have a dirty cook. Did the bread rise?"

  "Yes, sheriff. But you got the wrong yeast. I don't want little chunks, I want the little bags."

  "Chunks are cheaper. Meet the sergeant."

  De Gier and the young man nodded at each other.

  "The sergeant is our guest. A police officer from abroad. Call him 'sergeant.' His name will give you a sore throat. Sergeant, this is Albert, second man of the BMF gang. He'll be out tomorrow, but we have another cook. How is he shaping up, Albert?"

  "His soups are better than his stews."

  "He'll have to learn."

  The meal was served on the room's only table. It was a big room, pine paneled on all sides and with a high roof carried by dark brown rough beams. Half a dozen rifles and shotguns were chained to a rack on the wall. A modern radio transmitter and receiver stood on a shelf next to two old black telephones. Uniform jackets and stiff high felt hats hung from hooks near the door leading to the jail. The sheriff unbuckled his gunbelt and lowered it carefully into a drawer under the table.

  "You want a gun, sergeant? I can let you have one, but you'll have to wear it so that it shows. There's a law against hidden guns here and I can't make you a deputy. Only Americans can serve in a sheriff's department. I can call the general—maybe there's an exception to the rule I don't know about."