Joe conceded the point. “I do like it, I’ll admit that, but it only takes us so far. Assuming the Loomis fire is arson, which is a stretch, then what’s the connection between all three?”
“The farmers sold out, like you said,” Jonathon said quickly.
“Two of them did,” Shafer corrected.
Joe made a face. “Right—as far as we know. But if the point was to make each one sell out, then why? The properties aren’t contiguous, and one is miles away. Also, the two buyers we do have so far couldn’t be more disconnected.”
“Age?” Jonathon suggested, clearly thinking in overdrive, both stimulated by the challenge and embarrassed by his possible mistake with the Loomis investigation. “All three farmers were long in the tooth.”
Shafer and Gunther stayed silent for a while, until Joe suggested, “Okay. I don’t know what to do with that yet, but let’s keep it in mind. What else?”
No one answered. “How about a smoke screen?” he continued. “The old theory that you hide a needle best among other needles. Could be only one of the arsons really counts.”
“Then which one is the needle we want?” Shafer asked.
Gunther smiled. “That’s easier than it sounds. It may not matter. Again assuming that Loomis is an arson, we have three felonies to investigate anyhow. If you want to get technical, we don’t want to rule out two to find the one left over; we need to solve them all. If we’re successful, we’ll find out at the end.”
Now it was Michael’s turn to sit back. “But that was true from the start.”
Shafer couldn’t resist the dig. “Except that until now, we didn’t know to give Loomis a second look.”
Gunther gave Jonathon high marks—he merely pressed his lips together briefly before admitting, “Point taken.”
Joe tried to clear the air. “Okay, there are three of us and three roads to go down. Tim, you stick with Farley Noon; Jonathon, I know you have some of the Cutts case to organize, but while you recheck Loomis, let me carry the investigative load there. I suggest we get in touch every couple of days, face-to-face or by e-mail or phone, just to share updates. Also, I’m going to have someone at headquarters make a few calls, find out how many other farms in the area have gone on the block—when, where, why, and who bought them.”
He slid off the booth bench and stood up, looking down at them both. “You wanted something to chase, Tim. Guess we all got lucky—in spades.”
Chapter 7
DEPUTY SHERIFF LEON LEDOUX ROLLED HIS CRUISER slowly to a stop at the edge of the shopping mall parking lot, far away from the nearest light source. In general, his assignment here was simply to patrol the lot, giving comfort to merchants and instilling caution in those planning mischief. But he’d done that earlier, as he’d been doing for more years than he could count, and it had been as effective—or not—as usual. The trouble with such gestures, he’d discovered—the reason they were so void of satisfaction—was that success was measured by the absence of activity.
His immediate boss, the chief deputy, always asked him the same question when he checked in every night: “See anything at the mall?” And to Leon’s perpetual “Not a thing,” he always responded, “Good. That’ll teach ’em.”
Leon had a good idea who the “them” were. He was less convinced about the value of his supposed teaching.
Not that it mattered in the long run, since that conversation only applied to when the stores were open and people milling about. Later, there was no doubt about either Leon’s lesson plan or the people he hungered to instruct. All ambivalence or frustration was replaced by the thrill of the hunt.
For right now, long after hours, the chief deputy was asleep in his bed and Leon Ledoux was out to catch bad guys.
He’d been doing this for ten years, ever since he left the Marines and joined the department. By day, he served papers, stood around court, drove prisoners from one spot to another, and chased taillights—and made those “demonstrations of force” so dear to his boss’s heart. But by night, with the setting of the sun, as the glow from his car’s dashboard slowly replaced daylight, Leon felt his nondescript, bulky, uniformed persona metamorphose into something predatory and lithe, like a watchful panther.
Leon Ledoux lived for the night.
His cruiser dark, its engine running, he reached for the binoculars he kept under his seat, and trained them on a tight circle of figures clustered around a car before the abandoned Ames department store across the parking lot. The store’s black and featureless windows supplied a suggestively apocalyptic backdrop to what was clearly a drug deal under way.
“I got you, you bastard,” he murmured, still staring through the binoculars.
Leon lowered the glasses and surveyed the snow-dusted ground between him and his target, as if he were planning an attack on an enemy pillbox. In fact, his approach would be simplicity itself: His only real choice was to emerge from the shadows and cross the lot as quickly as possible, blue strobes flashing, hoping against reason that his prey would stay put.
He sighed slightly, as if in recognition of reality not quite matching fantasy. In truth, the people he busted were mostly teenagers or assorted losers that he’d dealt with from virtually his first day on duty. Barring the few exceptions who appeared periodically from out of town—usually from nearby Canada—they were as familiar as the horses on a carousel and just as prone to coming around with monotonous regularity, circling out of sight into jail before returning for each repeat performance.
There were an elite few, however, who fit the truly rare category of the bad news local who had never been arrested—so far. They were a source of special irritation to Leon Ledoux, and he had one of them right now, literally in his sights: Rick Frantz.
He unhooked his radio mike and keyed the transmit button to update dispatch. Not in detail, of course—he didn’t want company messing up a drug bust. He merely mentioned he was investigating some suspicious activity.
After that, he studied the scene before him one last time—memorizing the players—before gunning his engine, hitting his lights, and peeling out of hiding like the avenging angel he felt himself to be. Partway across the parking lot, he switched on his public address loudspeaker and barked out, “This is the police. You are under arrest. Do not move.”
Of the five people he’d cataloged, three froze and two bolted. Frantz took off on foot, while the driver of the car hit the gas so hard, his back end began fishtailing on the slippery snow.
Ledoux had eyes only for Frantz, as the latter ran the length of the abandoned department store and headed for a dark alleyway between it and its neighbor.
This undivided attention, however, carried a cost. In exchange for only tracking Frantz, Leon took his eyes off the other car, whose rear wheels now suddenly found purchase on the asphalt under the snow and launched the vehicle straight at the cruiser.
Ledoux watched in horror as the young driver, caught like a ghost in the cop’s headlights, abandoned his steering wheel and covered his face with his hands. Ledoux swerved, lost control, and met the other car in a perfect T-bone configuration.
Shouting a string of curses, ignoring the pain in his neck, he leaped from his vehicle and ran to the other driver’s open side window.
“You son of a bitch,” Ledoux yelled, ignoring the blood that was pouring from the driver’s nose and lip. “You’re under arrest. Put your hands on the wheel. One above and one through the middle. Now.”
Dumbly, the boy complied. Ledoux slapped his cuffs on his wrists, locking him to the steering wheel. He then reached past him and pulled the key from the ignition.
“Where is Frantz headed?” he demanded, peering into the gloom.
But the boy was now crying.
The deputy stepped back, quickly surveying the damage to his own vehicle. “God damn it,” he swore, and kicked the door before him, making the driver jump in surprise.
Ledoux pulled his radio from his belt. “Dispatch, this is oh-eight. I’ve been in a te
n-fifty at the mall. Am in pursuit of a subject heading behind the Ames store along the north wall. Need assistance.”
Paying no attention to the dispatcher calmly repeating his message, Leon replaced the radio and began running. Coming abreast of the three young men still standing rooted in place, he only slowed enough to yell at one of them, “I got all your names, Carl. You move one foot from where you are, and you are screwed for life. You got that?”
All three merely nodded as he passed.
Despite the extent of this turmoil, Rick Frantz had been gone for only a little over a minute.
Ledoux arrived at the entrance to the alleyway, sweating and out of breath. Already, in the distance, he could hear sirens approaching. He didn’t have much time.
He poked his head around the corner. The alleyway ran straight and narrow to a streetlight at the far end, allowing him to see that there was no one in sight. Still, crouched low, he entered the narrow space warily, watching and listening.
About halfway down, he found something. A side door into the empty building was slightly ajar. Using his flashlight, Ledoux saw a set of melting footprints leading inside.
“You dumb bastard,” he said in a low voice, killing his light and silently stepping through the doorway.
It was cold in the building, almost as cold as it was outside, and very dark. The only light came from the parking lot fixtures, far away and filtered through the long row of dusty front windows. The room was huge, as befitted a space that once housed a department store and was now only home to a scattered jumble of counters, broken shelving units, forgotten furniture, and dozens of boxes.
It was otherworldly in its stillness and oddly disconcerting, since above a certain height, all obstacles ceased to exist, the abandoned rubble not reaching above five or six feet. It was like being in an enormous movie soundstage, designed for cameras and lights to fly overhead for hundreds of feet, totally unimpeded.
Except that Leon had no access to airborne lights or cameras. He was stuck on the ground, and that ground was increasingly resembling a maze of potential ambushes.
He hesitated, considering his options. He knew he was in trouble. The car crash had reduced his derring-do to the swagger of a reckless cowboy. His choices, as he saw them, were to retreat and face some serious disciplining, despite having taken in all but one of the suspects, or to finish the job, make a clean sweep, and hope that his success might offset his transgressions.
It wasn’t even a contest. Walking on the balls of his feet, Ledoux advanced into the cavernous room, keenly aware of his shoes crunching on the debris underfoot.
Even with the tumult before him, he could pick out the ordered pattern of erstwhile aisles, and began calculating what route Rick Frantz might have taken. He then moved toward the long back wall, instinctively bent over, and got the dim light coming through the far windows to reflect off whatever wet footprints were still visible.
Feeling surer now, and further stimulated by the appearance of blue strobe lights in the parking lot, he killed his radio and pager so they wouldn’t give him away, removed his heavy shoes, and silently began traveling parallel to Frantz’s glistening tracks.
He moved fast. Even buried inside the building, he could hear car doors slamming outside, along with a few muffled shouted commands. It wouldn’t be long before his colleagues followed his example, informed by the kids he’d left behind, and found the same door he had in the alleyway. He needed to get his hands on Frantz before that happened.
He was nearing a collection of tall shelf units, lined up like dominos, row on row, when at last the footprints inevitably faded to nothing. Undeterred, Ledoux remained against the far wall so that as he worked the row of shelves, he only had to look in one direction. He hadn’t seen a weapon during his earlier surveillance, but by now, he was beginning to fantasize that one reason Frantz alone had taken off was that he was probably armed. Instinctively, Ledoux slipped his gun from its holster.
He glanced down the first alley-like aisle and stopped dead in his tracks. The shelves were too tightly packed to allow the light from the front windows much access. Disappointed, he pulled his flashlight free, aimed it down the shadowy corridor, and hit the switch for just an instant. In a burst of light barely longer than a camera’s flash, Ledoux saw only empty floor space. He slipped along the wall to the next aisle.
He’d worked his way up five rows in this fashion, his tension increasing with each flash of his light, when he suddenly heard the loud crash of a door opening far behind him, making him jump.
“This is the police,” came a shouted, nervous voice. “If anyone’s in here, come out with your hands up.”
Ledoux swore under his breath. Things were not improving. Hedging his bets between remaining silent and letting out a shout, he turned his radio back on and murmured into the mike, “It’s Leon. I’m in the Ames store. I got him cornered. Block the door so he can’t get out.”
Instead of the answer he was hoping for, he heard, “Unit calling. I can’t copy.”
He was about to respond, bluntly and loudly, when a small sound drew his attention. He looked up the aisle beside him, just in time to see a shadow flit past its far opening.
He gave up the radio and bolted down the aisle. At its far end, he turned toward where the shadow had been heading, assumed a shooter’s stance—one hand holding the gun, the other the flashlight—and shouted, “Police. Don’t move.” He then switched on the light and captured Rick Frantz out in the middle of the room, one hand holding a small canvas bag.
Damn, he thought, I got you.
But it wasn’t to be. A split second later, bank by bank, in rapid succession, the ceiling’s rows of fluorescent lighting stuttered awake, causing both Ledoux and Frantz to instinctively freeze, their eyes cast heavenward.
With the light came a burst of shouted voices, causing them both to whirl and face the side entrance.
“Don’t move.”
“Police. Freeze.”
“He’s got a gun.”
To his horror, Ledoux saw not one but four of his colleagues on either side of the door, all of them with drawn weapons, half of which were pointed directly at him.
“It’s me,” he shouted, and waved his hands.
It was the wrong thing to do. One shot rang out, the bullet thudding into the shelf unit by his head, followed by another, which only elicited a small grunt from Rick Frantz.
Ledoux spun back in time to see the boy crumple to the floor, dropping his small bag.
“You stupid bastards,” Leon screamed, fighting the impulse to return fire. “It’s me.”
He ran over to Frantz’s side, seeing a pool of blood already seeping out from under the body.
He came to a stop in his stocking feet, holstered his gun in an embarrassed quick gesture, and stared at the end result of his evening’s work.
“Shit.”
Chapter 8
GENERALLY SPEAKING, BODIES AREN’T BURIED DURING the winter in Vermont. The ground’s hard, covered in snow, and the expense of dealing with both is too great. Most people attend a service away from the cemetery, comfort the grieving family, and bid farewell to the casket, not considering that the body will spend the rest of the season in cold storage before being quietly interred a few months later.
Most people were not Marie Cutts, however. Despite the family’s financial misfortune, she was sparing no expense. Her son was to be buried properly and promptly, with no practical discussions being broached.
The morning following Leon Ledoux’s series of poor decisions, Joe Gunther parked behind a long line of vehicles—mostly pickups—that was tucked against the embankment of a narrow dirt road at the top of a hill. He got out, turned up the collar of his coat against the chill morning air, and made for a small metal gate in the wrought-iron fence ringing the cemetery.
It wasn’t large, as burial grounds go, but it was perfectly perched on the hill’s very cap, so that as he climbed the path toward the backs of the assembled crowd,
Joe felt the sky opening up all around him. And as he reached the crest, this faintly biblical impression was only enhanced by the view suddenly yawning at his feet. Instead of seeing more hills, which was the norm in a state as geologically lumpy as Vermont, he was faced with a vast and dizzying emptiness, sweeping away into the Lake Champlain valley, across the flats cradling a miniaturized St. Albans, over the frozen slab of the lake itself, and only then coming to a halt against the distant and forbidding wall of New York State’s Adirondack Mountains. It was a view to impress even the dullest onlooker, made all the more stark by being clad entirely in snow and ice. To the horizon’s hard edge, under a blinding sun and a sky as blue as the base of a torch’s flame, the whole world looked as cold as when glaciers had scoured the trough in which the lake’s waters were now frozen.
It was at once beautiful and repellent—a fanciful glimpse of the Paleolithic past and a future conjured up by science fiction writers too depressed to imagine anything less bleak.
A perfect setting, Joe thought, for this particular funeral.
He found Jonathon Michael standing apart from the crowd, dark-suited like Joe and wearing a thick topcoat. He’d found a small knoll to stand on, presumably chosen to give him a vague sense of distance and objectivity, and which, Joe found as he joined him there, also served well as an observation post.
“You hear the latest?” Joe murmured to Jonathon after exchanging nodded greetings.
Michael merely raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Rick Frantz is in a coma, shot by some nervous deputy last night during a drug deal.”
“We can’t talk to him?”
“Not if we want him to talk back.”
They were silent for a few moments, watching the somber group slowly reorganizing around both casket and minister, a few settling into the folding chairs reserved for the immediate family.
“It would be a drag if Frantz is our guy,” Jonathan said in a low voice, “and we never got to find out.”
St. Albans Fire Page 6
