She made her way slowly along the side of the deserted road. No cars passed her as she trudged along. It took her almost fifteen minutes to reach the church. She followed the driveway up to the entrance of the church where five wide wooden steps led up to a small porch and the front door. By sheer will power she climbed them, one at a time, holding onto the railing for support. Reaching the porch, she struggled to open the door, and then collapsed face down in the doorway.
The open door caught the immediate attention of Rev. William Tobin as he delivered his Sunday sermon from the pulpit at the front of the sanctuary. When he saw the lonely figure fall to the floor, he gasped and quickly shouted.
“Dr. Simmons, the woman at the door needs help.”
From his seat in the third pew, Ralph Simmons, M.D., director of the Hammond Medical Clinic, reacted immediately. He raced to the back of the church, followed by several church elders. A woman ran to the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Call 911,” Dr. Simmons ordered as he leaned over the elderly woman and took her pulse. “We need to get her to the hospital.”
Exhausted and weak but conscious, Anne looked up at him and whispered in a trembling voice. “Please help . . . Stone Brook Lodge . . . my friends . . . shot . . . dead and dying . . .”
Visibly shaken at her words, Dr. Simmons turned to the men and said, “Get medical help up to the Endicott place right away. Also get the sheriff up there to see what’s going on.”
From the pulpit, Rev. Tobin rushed up the aisle to help. A number of members of the small congregation followed him. Melanie Hayes stood wide-eyed beside her mother as she watched the men bending over the old woman.
“What’s wrong with her, Mama?” she asked.
Her mother replied, “I don’t know, Honey. It looks like she’s sick or something.”
“Please stand back, Everyone. The woman needs air,” Dr. Simmons ordered.
One of the elders lifted her head as Dr. Simmons held the water glass to her lips. Anne took a sip, then another.
“Thank you,” she murmured as the man gently lowered her head to the floor.
“My . . . friends . . . need help,” she whispered again, but the doctor cautioned her not to talk.
“The EMTs are on their way there right now, and Sheriff Redmond is also on his way. Just lie still and rest now. We’ll get you to the hospital and see that you’re taken care of.”
It wasn’t long before the sound of a wailing siren was heard approaching. A rescue squad from the Bristol County Fire Rescue Department was the first to arrive. As it raced into the church driveway, an elder held the door wide open. Two volunteer firemen, a father-son team, both trained as emergency medical technicians, rushed in. The older man dropped to the floor beside Anne. The son opened a black medical kit, took out a stethoscope and handed it to his father who began questioning Anne.
“What’s your name, Ma’am” he asked. Holding her right hand in his, he noticed the scratches and small blood stains.
“Anne Ferguson,” came the weak answer.
“Do you know what day it is?” he asked in a gentle, concerned voice.
“Sunday, September 28,” she replied, her voice a little stronger.
“Do you mind telling me your age?”
“I will be eighty-one on October 22.”
He smiled down at her, pleased at her answers, which indicated she was in full control of her mental faculties. It also told him a little about her character. But how was she physically? he wanted to know.
“Are you in pain anywhere?” he asked.
“Not really, just tired and sore. I fell, but I didn’t hurt myself.”
The comment concerned him. He knew that at her age, broken bones and hairline fractures usually resulted from any fall.
“Are you sure you don’t hurt anywhere?”
When she shook her head slowly, he asked, “Did you lose consciousness?”
Again her answer was, “No.”
“Was it a hard fall? Did you fall on your knees, your back?”
“Hands and knees, in the leaves. Just bruised a little, I think.”
“How long were you in the woods?”
“Maybe two hours.”
As he spoke, he put the rubber earpieces of the stethoscope into position in his ears and listened to her vital signs. All the while his son took notes on the trauma sheet.
The father then examined Anne externally from head to toe, touching her gently and studying her facial expression for signs of distress. But there were none. His preliminary exam complete, he said tenderly, “Good girl. Now let’s get you to the hospital and check you out more thoroughly.”
By then an ambulance had arrived with two more EMTs, one rushing in carrying a black bag, the other a stretcher. The father gave the medics a brief description of Anne’s condition, handing over the trauma sheet completed by his son.
“I think she’ll be OK, but she needs a more thorough exam.”
Together the medics lifted her onto the rigid fiberglass board, fastened her in and covered her with a light blanket as the fire rescue team raced down the road to the Lodge.
Addressing the medics, Dr. Simmons said, “I’ll call ahead to the ER. I’m going up to the Lodge and will be there if you need me.” He had stood by silently observing the rescue teams at work. He knew all the men and respected their skills as first responders, having seen them in action at numerous emergencies. Their quick responses and medical skills had saved many local residents in times of crisis. They knew their job and they did it well, and knew he was there if needed.
Before the EMTs put Anne into the ambulance, Rev. Tobin approached the stretcher and took her hand. Looking deep into her eyes, he said, “God be with you, my dear. We’ll all keep you in our prayers.”
“Thank you,” said Anne in a soft voice.
The ambulance door closed and she tried to relax, but her mind was troubled. She was safe and in good hands now, but what about Meg and Rosemary? Would the medics get to Meg in time? She closed her eyes and prayed as the ambulance pulled away and headed for the emergency room at the Hammond Medical Clinic.
Chapter 26
At the hospital, Anne was behind a curtain in the emergency room undergoing a thorough examination by a young intern, Dr. Richard Maynard. He was pleased to find that her injuries were superficial. There were scratches on her face and hands and bruises on both knees, but there were no broken bones, no fractures.
“You are in remarkably good physical condition for a woman your age,” he told her. “And you were very brave to attempt that walk through the woods.”
Like others in the community, he knew the boys living in the cabin were always in trouble of one kind or another. He also knew about their arrest for breaking into the Lodge last spring, and understood why the woman didn’t go there for help.
It was almost noon and, after examining her thoroughly, Dr. Maynard asked gently, “Could you eat a little lunch, Mrs. Ferguson? You said you didn’t have breakfast.”
“Yes, please,” she answered.
As he prepared to leave, a nurse came in and said that officers from the sheriff’s department wanted to speak with the patient.
“Let them come in. She’s well enough to see them.”
Two uniformed deputies walked into the room and stood on the left side of Anne’s bed.
“We won’t stay long, Ma’am, we just need to ask you a few questions.”
“I understand.”
“First, can you tell us what happened? What did you see?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. I was upstairs. When I heard the shots and screams, I put my bedroom light out and ran out onto the veranda. I hid under the window in the back of the house. After I saw car lights leaving, I waited a long time before going in. I went downstairs and saw Claire lying on the living room floor and I knew she was dead. I put a blanket over her.”
Anne had managed to keep her emotions under control at the church and during her examination by Dr. Simmons
, but now that she was being asked to relive the horror of the night before, she couldn’t hold back the heart-wrenching sobs that escaped her. A nurse was at her side immediately with a sedative in her hand.
“Here, Dear, this will help you rest.”
But Anne resisted. “No, not yet. I have to tell them what happened.”
“I found Meg unconscious in the kitchen. Her arm was bleeding and she had a bruise on her forehead. I got some towels from the laundry room to stop the bleeding in her arm. She was slumped against the desk when I found her. I moved her to lay her on the floor and put a towel under her head to make her comfortable.”
As she spoke, one of the deputies took notes. The other said, “That’s alright, Ma’am. That was the right thing to do.”
“I found Rosemary hiding in the pantry.” She then explained about Rosemary losing her husband early in the year and Claire including her this weekend to help cheer her up.
“But the horror of the shootings left her traumatized. She was terrified and shaking uncontrollably,” Anne continued. “I tried to calm her as best I could and took her into the sun porch to lie down. I sat in a chair beside her all night and she finally fell asleep. But this morning she’s still in shock and needs medical attention.”
Then, looking directly at the deputy who was questioning her, she said, “They stole Meg’s SUV. She parked it under the portico, and it’s gone.”
The officers looked at each other, exchanging a look that revealed keen interest.
“Can you describe it?” he asked.
“A black Lincoln – Navigator she called it, new this year,” then added, “It has a Massachusetts license plate number MEG 828.”
The deputies exchanged another look, this one of complete surprise. They couldn’t believe their good luck. This was one smart woman. The deputy with the note pad wrote down the vehicle model and tag number.
“Are you saying it’s a 2008 model?” asked the lead deputy.
“Yes, she said she bought it last December, but it was the new model.”
He then rushed out into the hall to call it in. Smiling down at Anne, the other deputy said to her, “That’s a real big help. How did you remember the license plate number?”
“Meg told us the letters are her initials. Her full name is Megyn Evans Gordon; MEG, which is what everyone calls her. Her birthday is August 28, so 828. She said she could always remember because it was her name and her birthday.”
It was indeed a big help. The deputy called the sheriff, who put out a BOLO (Be on the Lookout) which was picked up immediately in all six New England states. Since the Lodge was just over a hundred miles from the Canadian border, it was also sent to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Within hours the make, model and tag number of Meg’s SUV were being flashed on television screens from Boston to Bangor, and then from Washington, D.C. to Washington state. The announcements were accompanied by a picture of a black Lincoln Navigator. But there were no pictures of the perpetrators, no composite sketches, because Anne didn’t see them; she only heard their voices. Meg had only seen their masks, and she was still unconscious. Finding them would be Sheriff Jack Redmond’s job.
Chapter 27
Jack Redmond and his wife, Sandy, were preparing to leave for the eleven o’clock service at All Saints Episcopal Church when the call came in. Something bad had happened at Stone Brook, the ancestral mountain retreat of his friends, Ed and Claire Benson of Marblehead, Massachusetts. He immediately dashed to his bedroom and made a quick change into his uniform. Grabbing his holster and gun, a Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol, from the night table, he rushed to his patrol car in the driveway.
Sheriff Redmond was a lawman through and through. He had worked in law enforcement in Boston for twenty-five years. Recruited as a foot patrolman in Southie, within ten years he rose to lieutenant in charge of homicide. He was well-trained and experienced in domestic violence, gangs, narcotics and dangerous drugs, protecting children and the elderly, missing persons, body identification, homicides and serial killers.
Eight years earlier, at age forty-seven, he retired to Woodbridge Notch and renovated his weekend cabin into a comfortable year-round home. But, if peaceful retirement in the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire was what he had in mind, he was mistaken. When his house was completed, he looked around for something to do to keep him busy. It was about this time that old Ben Smithfield had a mild stroke and finally had to turn in his badge after thirty-two years as the county’s beloved sheriff. Jack was asked to serve out the remainder of Old Ben’s term, after which he ran for the office and won.
As Sheriff of Bristol County, the lawman from Boston became known and highly respected for his personal integrity and dedication to the residents of Woodbridge Notch. As law enforcement goes, it had been a relatively safe and crime-free eight years in the peaceful mountain community. Most incidents requiring his attention involved traffic accidents, rebellious teenagers, and loud parties during tourist seasons. But that Sunday morning call on September 28 was different.
With siren blaring, Jack Redmond raced to the Lodge to find two deputies, Dr. Simmons and an EMT unit already there. What he found inside shocked and infuriated him. Claire, now uncovered, lay dead in a pool of blood on the living room floor. Bending over her, he saw the wound in her chest, her ashen face, distorted in death, her right ear and hair caked with dry blood. He had seen his share of brutal murders and cut-throat homicides during Boston’s notorious gang wars, but none brought the gut-wrenching emotion that this did. It tore his heart out to see this beautiful woman, whom he considered a friend, in this condition. Claire Benson loved and cared about people all her life. She didn’t deserve this violent death. Rage swelled inside him as he studied her lifeless body. His jaw set, he fought to hold back the fury that was just below the surface.
While the medical team worked on Meg and Rosemary, the deputies, having searched the property for intruders, were sealing off the premises with yellow crime scene tape.
Many county sheriffs were titular heads of their departments. They had minimal, if any, law enforcement experience and held the office simply as a result of their popularity in the community. In such instances, they depended heavily on highly trained deputies and other law enforcement agencies. This was not the case with Jack Redmond, who was a professional lawman in every sense of the word. He knew exactly what to do in critical situations, and he did so now. As other deputies arrived, he fired off instructions. He ordered one to request the state crime scene unit, two others to the hospital to interview the survivors, and a fourth to contact the families of the three visiting women.
“Get on it, men,” he ordered. Then turning to the young deputy standing beside him, he said in a voice wracked with emotion, “I’ve got to call Ed Benson.”
The sheriff then called his office and told the desk sergeant to look in the Rolodex for Ed Benson’s cell number. As he waited, he wondered how he was going to tell this fine, decent man whom he’d come to know and admire that his wife had been murdered. He had been the bearer of such news more often than he cared to remember during his many years in Boston, but none were on a personal level. And this was personal. Ed and Claire Benson were his friends. During his eight years as sheriff, he and his wife had been guests at the Lodge numerous times. They had skied together on Loon Mountain, and he and Sandy had spent a New Year’s weekend with them in Marblehead. Yes, this was very personal.
“Ed, Jack Redmond,” he said somberly when Ed answered his cell. “Where are you?”
“Hey, Jack. Good to hear from you. We’re over here at the Jack O’ Lantern, ready to leave for Littleton. Why?”
There was a slight pause before Jack answered. “I’m at the Lodge, Ed. Something bad has happened. You need to come right away.”
Ed’s reaction was immediate. His voice changed as he asked, “Is it Claire? Is she alright?”
“You need to come right away, Ed,” he repeated. “Do you want me to come for you?”
&nbs
p; “No, Paul’s with me. What is it, Jack? Is Claire alright?” by now there was panic in Ed’s voice.
“It’s bad, Ed. That’s all I can say.”
“We’re on our way.”
The distance between Paul’s condo at the Jack O’ Lantern Golf Resort and the Lodge was approximately twenty-two miles along a two-lane blacktop that meandered through the picturesque valley of Woodbridge Notch. The road began to climb on the approach to Pine Crest Ridge, then leveled off along the stretch past the church and the cabin, and ended at the Lodge. Claire and Ed had always enjoyed this final leg of their journey, traveling at a leisurely pace on the quiet country road. But not this trip. With Paul at the wheel, Ed in the passenger seat and two of Paul’s physician friends following behind, the two-car caravan raced through the valley, up the incline and along the ridge at dangerously high speeds.
As they rounded the bend near the cabin, they saw the first sign of trouble. A sheriff’s patrol car was parked at the curbside by the entrance to the Lodge and a deputy stood guard at the gate. He hurried forward as the blue Mazda pulled into the driveway and, recognizing Ed Benson, waved both cars through the open gate.
Through the lower branches of the birches, Ed saw the emergency vehicles lining the driveway to the Lodge. As they approached the portico, the scene before them left no doubt of the severity of the situation. There was an ambulance, a fire rescue unit, Dr. Simmons’ car, and two sheriff’s vehicles in the driveway. A deputy was placing yellow crime scene tape around the entire exterior of the house. Two plainclothes officers wearing purple rubber gloves were inspecting the cars in the portico, one with a camera in hand.
Instead of parking in the driveway, Paul pulled around the emergency vehicles onto the lawn beside the portico. Ed was out of the car before it stopped, slamming the door behind him. As he ran past the portico to the front door, he met the medics coming out with two stretchers. On one lay Meg, unconscious and deathly white, but alive. Immediately behind her was another stretcher bearing the trembling body of Rosemary. Ed stood aside to let them pass, then dashed into the foyer.
The Mystery Trip Page 16
