The Maine Massacre

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  What next? Another cigarette? But he had just put one out. He felt in the side pocket of his jacket and his hand came up with an Amsterdam bus ticket. He held the ticket at arm's length and read its text: "This ticket is valid on the day of issue for any distance on an Amsterdam streetcar or bus including transfers provided that..." He crumpled the ticket and threw it into the garbage carton. Not too interesting, no plot, no characters. He glanced at the enemy. The enemy wasn't doing anything in particular, but Albert still whistled. Even so, there had been some subtle change. Albert's pouted lips blew a variation on the theme and his foot tapped twice. The taps seemed to set off the fox fellow, who got up, walked to a position halfway between the counter and the door, and began to click his fingers. Madeira's right hand became a fist, and her knuckles hit the warped and stained counter. Tom did something too. He picked up his knife, turned it around, and made the handle repeatedly touch his beer can. The sounds didn't blend at first, but Albert's whistling became a little louder and he held a note, broke it, and held it again. The rhythm fell into place.

  De Gier got off his stool and unbuttoned his jacket. The enemy turned toward its prey, but the whistling, clicking, knocking, and rapping continued. De Gier's hand reached into his inside pocket and produced a flat black leather case. The whistling stopped, then started again. He opened the case and took out a small metal flute and screwed its two gleaming parts together. He blew his first note. It fitted into a missed beat of the knocks and clicks, and the sergeant breathed in, held his breath for four bars, and blew a higher, much longer note. When it broke, Albert's whistling caught up and spread and de Gier made the flute go down and become the whistle's shadow. He wouldn't dominate the enemy, he would be content to follow. He knew the tune. "Straight, No Chaser." A very good tune, created and played by the best musicians on the Coast and in New York City. He had the tune on at least twelve records. He had played it often with Adjutant Grijpstra accompanying on his old set of drums. But perhaps the present rhythm section was more of a challenge than the methodical approach the adjutant, the faraway adjutant, had offered on previous occasions. He knew the adjutant's style well and liked to adjust to Grijpstra's ways, but the enemy was new and bound to produce surprises, sudden changes, a whole new way of making use of the tune's possibilities.

  He started the high note again but cut it into slivers and got back into the theme, repeating it to give the others a chance to fit in. Madelin was the first to start the chant. There was a word to the chant: Cannonball. Tom chanted with her, using the word's syllables to stress the main theme of the tune. Madelin's voice reminded the sergeant of the iced landscape he had seen in the Orca road surface, but the emptiness was no longer void. There were beings in it now, transparent and floating. The hoarse, thin voice of the fox fellow gave the beings more form and de Gier began to recognize some of the creatures on the edges of his mind, but not quite, for they were of his dreams and wouldn't enter into actual, definable existence. Can-non-ball. The word seemed logical, the only word that could be used in the chant. He remembered that he should follow rather than lead and Albert's whistling filled the store again, reaching into its dark corners. Tom had left his protected nook by vaulting across the counter. He no longer held his knife and the beer can. The fox fellow was no longer clicking his fingers. The chant had become powerful. Even quiet Albert was chanting, and Madelin's voice rose and broke die limitations of the room. She sang the last syllable of the chant's word. Ball. High and eerie but also sweet. A holy sound, de Gier thought, but truly holy, cleansed of the goodness that clings to angels and saints, approaching the purity that can no longer be named.

  He was facing the door when it opened and the sheriff and chief deputy came in and stood between the shelves holding giant cola bottles that formed a corridor into the store. The store's scanty light reflected in the blue metal of their guns and the silver badges on their Boy Scout tunics. The tune halted abruptly when the flute dropped away from de Gier's lips, and Tom vaulted back to his place behind the counter. He faced his customers and smiled.

  "What can I do for the law this evening?"

  "Any sandwiches left, Tom?"

  "Yes, sheriff. Turkey or salami? Eat here or take out?"

  "Turkey. What do you want, Bernie?"

  "Turkey."

  "Turkey, twice, to take out."

  The sandwiches appeared from the depths of the refrigerator and looked fresh and tasty. Tom wrapped them, pulling the plastic from a slit in the counter, pulling and cutting the thin film in a single movement. The sheriff paid and the two men turned and began to walk back to the cruiser waiting under the awning, partly visible through the door's glass. The cruiser's wide nose nudged the timid shape of de Gier's Dodge.

  "Evening, sergeant," the sheriff said as he eased his way past de Gier. "See you later in the jailhouse. I still have an hour of patrol to get through with."

  De Gier nodded. The door closed and a hand touched his wrist. He looked up into the light yellow brown eyes of the fox fellow. The door's key rested in the fox fellow's outstretched hand. De Gier took the key, walked to the door, inserted the key into the lock and turned it. There was a click, but no latch moved out of the lock.

  "A trick lock?"

  "No, just old."

  "You have used it before?"

  The fox smiled, a pleasant slow smile. "Not too often. It tends to upset people."

  "Sergeant?"

  Tom had joined them. He held a brown paper bag. "Your things. The bag is on the house. I like your flute, come again."

  The fox laughed. "You don't have to say that, Tom. You've got the only grocery store."

  De Gier carried his bag to the door. The girl slipped past him and opened it.

  "Thank you."

  "Do you remember where I live, sergeant?"

  He remembered. The house behind the realtor's office. He also remembered that her father had gone to the Bahamas.

  "Yes."

  "I'll be waiting for you."

  Her feet hardly touched the snow as her slender body, wrapped in a tight fur coat, flitted to a large car parked in the yard by the store.

  When he switched the Dodge's radio on the sheriff was talking to the deputy called Bert. "But we've got to get eggs, Bert. You know that the egg truck overturned. Robert's Market won't have any eggs for a week. The prisoners want eggs for breakfast."

  "I can't get them, Jim. I tried. Nobody has eggs to spare, it's winter. They've slaughtered most of the chickens." The radio crackled.

  "I may get some duck eggs from Smithtown. Would the prisoners eat duck eggs, Jim?"

  "Get duck eggs, Bert. Get them tonight. Ten four."

  "Sheriff," Bert said. "Jim, please. That's thirty miles each way and the roads are bad. Maybe he's out of eggs too. He's got no phone. You don't want me to go nowhere for nothing, Jim."

  "Ten four, Bert."

  "Jim!"

  "Ten fucking four." The sheriff's voice was low, almost loving, but it had a frazzled edge.

  De Gier pressed his microphone. "Sheriff?"

  "Ten three, sergeant."

  "I may be late, Jim. Madelin Astrinsky has asked me in for a drink. I am on my way there now."

  The radio chuckled. "Good for you. Are you still on Main Street?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to talk to you for a little while. Don't go to her just yet. Go up Main Street and keep on going. There will be some elm trees on your right. You know what elm trees look like?"

  "I think so."

  "Tall straight trunks that only fork high up. They died some years ago, but the town hasn't allocated money for cutting them down yet. Died of your Dutch elm disease. Stop there. Keep your engine running. I'm out of town now but coming back."

  The elm trees reached up with great surging gestures. The bark was peeling off and waved slowly in the dying breeze. The naked ghost trees impressed the sergeant. Corpses, skeletons almost, but still expressive of the life power that had made them grow into huge symbols of the planet
's urge to join the sky. The small blue car had slid to a stop facing some dried-out weeds that threw shadows on the snow, a moving bristle of sharp black lines. The windows were icing over and de Gier scraped them. He saw the white glow of the landscape stretching away on both sides of the deserted road. The cruiser's lights appeared in the curve ahead and approached rapidly. Its growing bulk seemed evil, a disturbing entity about to interfere with his bliss. He got out of the car and the frost bit into his face. He impatiently adjusted his raccoon hat, but the tail still dangled over his face. That hat had been bothering him in the car too, but he hadn't dared take his hands off the wheel. He couldn't take the hat off now either, as it was protecting his ears.

  The sheriff waved invitingly, and de Gier stumbled to the car's rear door, which had swung open. The cruiser's back seat was a simple wooden bench, and the windows on each side of it were barred. There were no handles on the insides of the doors.

  "Hope you don't mind sitting in the prisoners' quarters, sergeant, but we won't keep you long. Just wanted to fill you in."

  The sheriff had opened the thick glass partitioning behind the driver's seat. The chief deputy filled the right side of the front seat. He was eating his turkey sandwich.

  "They did the trick of the door on you, right?"

  "Yes."

  "They've done it before, a perfect trap. I asked you to meet me because mere's a CB radio in the store and they have our channel. Was it on while you were there?"

  "No."

  "It'll be on now. I've asked for a scrambler, but the state can't afford it. Everything we say on the radio is public knowledge. The door trick didn't work, did it? You all seemed quite merry when we came in. What happened?"

  De Gier told him.

  "Yes, I thought I heard music at first, but that store is so dark you can't see what's going on. Good, so that's the first round won. But the gong sounds again. Now Madelin wants you, right? That's good too. You should be able to get some information."

  "How long has she been with the gang, Jim?"

  "I am not too sure. Bernie's an expert on local history. Tell him, Bernie."

  The fat deputy swallowed and turned. "Ever since the gang formed, sergeant, ten years ago maybe. They were youngsters then, and we used to run them in for slashing tires and breaking windows. They used to be a public nuisance, but it was all easy stuff. They're different now."

  "Do they have records?"

  Bernie looked at what was left of his sandwich. There was nothing left. He folded the plastic, making the crumbs run into his hand, and ate them. "No, not really. That early stuff got wiped out because they were underage, and after that it was just speeding and drinking in a vehicle parked in the public road." He yawned and looked at his watch. "Another half-hour, Jim."

  "I did a little work today, sergeant," the sheriff said. "I saw the town clerk. Cape Orca has three present owners. There's Mrs. Wash, of course, she owns the bulk of the land. Then there's Michael Astrinsky, who has bought all the vacated properties, and Suzanne Opdijk still owns her house and land. You might count Jeremy as a fourth owner since the island is his and the island is in Orca Bay and Cape Orca embraces that property."

  "Astrinsky? Did your realtor friend tell you about the real value of Mrs. Opdijk's house?"

  "Yes, ninety thousand. And Astrinsky offered thirty you said."

  "So Astrinsky is playing Monopoly, trying to get a whole street. What would he want with the street?"

  "A marina perhaps," the sheriff said. "He could build a jetty with a little port for pleasure craft. It wouldn't be a bad proposition."

  The sergeant looked at the metal bar separating him from the driver's seat. The bar was worn smooth by sliding handcuffs. "Yes. And Astrinsky took off for the Bahamas. Any chance of getting him back for questioning?"

  Bernie laughed. "Astrinsky? He's a big shot, sergeant. He knows the governor. He's a town selectman. He's the president of the Blue Crustaceans. Everybody owes him favors. Astrinsky is a big fish in a small pond."

  The sheriff nodded. "I could make him come back if I asked the state cops to start an official investigation, but what do I tell the state cops? No, sergeant, it's just us, puttering around. You did some puttering today. How is Jeremy these days?"

  The sergeant reported on that morning's visit. The radio came on and Bernie answered the call.

  "Game warden here," the radio said. "That you, Bernie?"

  "Yes."

  "Got that dog?"

  "I thought you were going to kill that dog."

  "No," the radio said. "And you know it. We agreed twice now that you were going to do it and this is the third time we're agreeing. Let us know when you've got the dog. Better let us know tomorrow."

  "Ten four," Bernie said. He pushed the microphone back into its clip and cursed.'

  "Same ten sixty-four again, Bernie?" the sheriff asked.

  "Yes, Jim, same old ten sixty-four. They're passing the buck to me and I pass it back."

  "Not this time, it seemed to me," the sheriff said.

  "What's a ten sixty-four?" de Gier asked.

  Bernie was studying the dashboard. His face was impassive but there was some movement in the rolls of fat in his neck. "Dog-deer complaint, sergeant."

  "Dogs hunting deer?"

  "Yes, sergeant," the sheriff said. "The dogs go after the deer but so do the tourists. We like to sell them hunting licenses and cabins and supplies and anything else they think they need. It's part of the business of the county. The game wardens are supposed to patrol the woods, but they use helicopters. They don't like to work on the ground; they reckon we can do that. If they see a dog hunting deer they'll track the dog and find out who owns it, and they'll warn the owner once. The second time they shoot the dog from the chopper. But the dogs are getting clever, and hide when the chopper is around so we have to come in and do the job."

  "Right," Bernie said. "And we're busy. Everybody has a dog here and nobody ties the dog up. The dogs chase anything they see and deer are the biggest thing they see, and they don't kill the deer, they just cripple them. One dog can cripple a dozen deer in a day."

  "So you shoot them?"

  "Sometimes. The locals don't like us shooting then-dogs; they like us to warn them. So that's what we do. We go around warning dog owners. I've warned the owner of this particular dog a dozen times. And every time old Bill says, 'Sure, Bernie, won't happen again. I'll tie him up.' But he never does. And I never see the dog. Bill hides him when he sees the cruiser. Bill has lived here all his life. He runs a saltwater farm. A very crafty man, old Bill Thompson, too crafty for me. But the game wardens don't want to know. They speak to me every other day."

  "Yes," de Gier said. "What do you think about these murders of ours, Bernie?"

  The deputy crumpled the plastic from his sandwich into a little ball, opened the window, and threw the ball out. He pressed the window's button and the glass zoomed up. "Littering, a one-hundred-dollar fine. Everybody does it all the time. You tell them it's unlawful and they laugh. You write a ticket and they slash your tires. Murders? What murders? Seems to me you've got to prove them. Just one would be enough. Then you can call in the state cops. Homicide is not the sheriff's business. He can spot it, but he can't work on it too much."

  The sheriff seemed bored. His small, narrow hand moved over the controls of the cruiser's dashboard and touched a button. The siren barked once, tearing at the silence outside. "You heard what the sergeant said, Bernie. Mary Brewer's corpse was found, not her boat. Maybe we can find the boat."

  Bernie pointed at the bay. "That boat is out there, Jim. The bay is freezing up. We can't look under the ice."

  "The boat is orange. Orange is a good color. If it hasn't sunk, it'll show up from the sky."

  "We don't have an airplane, Jim."

  "We don't have many things, but others do. I have a friend in the Coast Guard, an officer. The Coast Guard has dozens of choppers. Maybe they need exercise. I can ask for a favor; they've asked us for favors. I d
on't need an official investigation to make a few choppers fly around."

  Bernie belched.

  "You don't think I should ask the Coast Guard?"

  "Sure, Jim, go ahead. Maybe the boat will turn up. Maybe we can connect the boat with the gang. The gang is bad, Jim. Look what they did to my cruiser. Look what they did to poor Captain Schwartz. Sure the guy is a Nazi and sure Nazis are bad, but Schwartz was nuts, just nuts, harmless. He would walk around in that crazy uniform and he would foul-mouth niggers and Jews, but it was all talk. He didn't do no harm. He was a quiet old guy, but the fox visits him and the next thing we see is Schwartz hotfooting it out of town. His son or nephew or somebody comes out and sells the house and has a yard sale and all die captain's goodies go for a nickel and a dime."

  "The fox," de Gier said. "Does he have any particular reason to dislike the Nazis?"