KILLING MAINE

by Mike Bond

  “Yeah, yeah, we took that too. Some mass mailing church advertisement, promising the end of the world.”

  Holy shit, I thought, what a fool I’ve been. “You guys fixed the broken pane?”

  He looked truly surprised. “What pane?”

  “The fucking window in the back door –”

  “Oh that,” Abigail laughed, “that’s my cleaning lady. She sees something broken, she has J&T come fix it right away.”

  “J&T?” Hart says.

  “Jeremy and Todd. My carpenters.”

  “What made you think Bucky shot Ronnie Dalt?” I asked him.

  Again he looked uncomfortable. “That woman.”

  I looked around. “What woman?”

  “The WindPower lawyer –”

  “Cruella.”

  “Huh?”

  “Ursula Heap.”

  “She called the Chief, said she’d heard through contacts in anti-wind groups that Bucky’d shot Ronnie.”

  “She say why?”

  “Because he was in love with you, Maam,” Hart nodded at Abigail. “He killed Ronnie to get him out of the way, so he could dump his wife and be with you. That’s what Ursula Heap told us.”

  Abigail looked stunned. “I was just a way for Bucky to reach Ronnie. He and I were both asking Ronnie to speak the truth about wind.”

  “That’s where the little green book came in?” Hart said.

  “Ronnie was going to reveal it, the next day,” Abigail said.

  “How you two talked on the phone about having a copy of that book,” he said. “That was smart. So this Jesús guy had to come looking for it.”

  “We had him anyway. Phone intercepts.”

  “Yeah but are they admissible?”

  I stared into his eyes. “Who told you to put the heat on me?”

  He faced down, hesitated. “These same guys. Their political friends.”

  “What, Green Dividends?”

  “Yeah them and that other bunch.”

  “WindPower LLC.”

  “You said it. I didn’t.”

  “What political friends?”

  He nodded at the ceiling, as if indicating higher-ups. “We get advised by the Agency or FBI when there’s a suspected terrorist in Maine…”

  This was hilarious, considering that more than once I’ve risked my life to save one of their agents. “I don’t have issues with the CIA or FBI.”

  “Tell that to our Senator. The one on that Intelligence Committee.”

  Then I remembered. At Atlanta airport on the way back from Hawaii, when I’d spoken with the armless and legless vet. Artie Lemon had been on all the TVs, a newly minted member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, giving us the lowdown on ISIS.

  As if he would know.

  “So Artie Lemon had somebody finger me to the Maine police as a potential terrorist?” I actually laughed, having taken down a few real terrorists in my life.

  “You said it. I didn’t.”

  In the end Hart had been an ally, told me as much as he could.

  But that was all I was going to get out of him.

  Gone with the Wind

  WHEN WE LOVE someone or something of course we’ll put ourselves in harm’s way to protect them.

  The same with our country. The same with Maine. Because protecting our country, I’d learned, and protecting Maine from these sleazeball wind promoters and all their accomplices, is exactly the same thing.

  Gone With The Wind is America’s second-most popular book after the Bible. Its renown comes from our love of this great land, our history, our tenacious determination, our passion for reason and justice, our smarts and our caring for others. Maine’s story is similar, the same emotions, the same beauty, the same power.

  The South was destroyed by General Sherman’s brutal March to the Sea. Can we still save Maine from being destroyed by the brutal march of wind turbines across our peaks and mountains and far out to sea?

  While the wind profiteers talk glowingly of a world covered by turbines, the truth is we’re losing everything. All of nature, the wilderness, the outdoors. Losing the magnificent beauty of all these wild species, losing their DNA, losing the human wisdom that comes from being part of the world and not its destroyer.

  So let’s defend Maine, not hand it over to wind crooks and politicians. Let’s keep it what it’s meant to be – fairness and equality, openness and strength, and vast natural beauty – mountains, forests and seascapes which nurture a deep moral fiber that teaches other states and nations what path to take.

  Everyone who loves Maine can help. And we need our saints, the greatest spirits of American literature and advocacy who have loved Maine – Thoreau, Teddy Roosevelt, John Muir, Margaret Chase Smith, Dave Brower, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Edward Abbey, Sarah Orne Jewett, Harriet Beecher Stowe, E.B. White, Kenneth Roberts, Joshua Chamberlain, Percival Baxter, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Marguerite Yourcenar, Mary Ellen Chase, Rockwell Kent, Robert Coffin, Mary McCarthy, Erskine Caldwell, Henry Beston, Booth Tarkington, May Sarton, our beloved Senators Margaret Chase Smith and Ed Muskie and so many more… please come help save the Maine you’ve loved. Please, before it’s too late.

  We all know that when corporations fund elections and pay off environmental groups there can be no democracy, no resource protection or true freedom. So we must rid ourselves of the elected officials and groups who are the propagators and benefactors of this disillusion.

  And we all pretty much agree that not only Maine but our entire country needs reform, though the political and money folks try to keep us apart with false rivalries – R vs D, left vs right, that kind of silly thing. We all want a country that’s safe, has opportunity, honesty, fairness and good. Hardly a person in the United States doesn’t want that.

  Why not ditch our toxic politicians so crooked they’d sell their grandmas to a house of ill repute for another ten grand in SuperPacs? Why not kill corporate bribes and scurrilous lobbyists, establish political contribution limits and online referenda, stop funding pro-wind “enviro” groups, and go back to individuals and communities, not PR and sound bites?

  Why not kill the turbines and SAVE THE EAGLES? And all the other birds?

  Wouldn’t that be a GOOD START?

  Wouldn’t that be FUN?

  Let’s do it.

  Like we learned in Special Forces: Never say it can’t be done.

  THE TAHITI TSUNAMI was in three days. I spent most of the first day at the Augusta cop shop giving them more testimony on WindPower, Dannon Ziller and their crooked governors, legislators and hit men. I also told the media everything, knowing that the papers owned by Congresswoman Muldower’s husband probably wouldn’t print a thing.

  Turns out Maude’s husband and co-conspirator Irvin the derivatives billionaire were partners with WindPower’s Ziller in another corporate welfare scam, but there seemed no way to prove it hadn’t just been “friendship”. And they could spend millions in lawyers to prove it.

  Jesús was already saying for a reduced charge he’d testify that Ziller had ordered Ronnie Dalt’s death. According to Erica, this would probably bring down WindPower LLC and their odious lawyer Cruella, so their claim against Bucky for shooting out their three turbines would probably be vacated. As well as their spurious charge against me in Don and Viv’s fire.

  And because Jesús worked for Green Dividends it would expose them also to prosecution, possibly for conspiracy to murder, which seemed to be a habit of theirs.

  Nonetheless these useless turbine towers all over Maine were going to stand there for years, slowly rusting, still killing birds and bats, the money set aside for their dismantling long gone.

  Hart & Co were doing their best to pretend they’d never believed I was guilty of anything. Needless to say, they’d run out of things they hoped to charge me with except the two turbines that Titus McKee had shot out. And as they had taken photos of my (Bucky’s) boot soles and matched them up to the pix they had of them in the snow, the
re was no doubt I’d been there.

  I gave them a short adaptation of events. “I’d gone for a walk and saw this guy park by Jane Fowler’s place and head up the hill. So I followed him.”

  “Why? That sounds pretty fucking dangerous.”

  When you’re lying, I remembered, put in as much truth as possible. “Since I’d been shot at up there I wanted to see if he was my shooter.”

  “Were you armed?”

  “I had Bucky’s .243. Which fires a different slug from what you’ve found in those two turbines.”

  “Both turbines burned. We never got a slug out of them.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “So you’re saying if this Jesús guy was your shooter,” he said, “maybe he’s the one shot out those two turbines?”

  I didn’t want to pursue this for it might endanger Titus. “You’ll no doubt want to discuss that with him.”

  “Christ we waited hours for his lawyer to show. Some dame from Portland.”

  “Ursula Heap.”

  He gave me an odd look. “How’d you know?”

  “I know a lot more than you think. Or want me to.”

  He sat back, gathering papers. “Is that right?”

  I didn’t push it. I was leaving in forty-six hours for the Tsunami, but didn’t want him to know. For fear he’d try to keep me in Maine.

  MY LIFE ENDED UP a bit more complicated than expected.

  I’d made a brief stop at the Stroudwater cemetery to bring the ancestors up to date, telling them about Pa’s trip out into the ocean, not that they’d said a word. I’d then headed for Jefferson to drink a few goodbye blackberry brandies with Uncle Silas. “You tell Bucky,” he said, “stop shooting people.”

  The night before I left Maine for Tahiti, Abigail and I were at her kitchen table while more snow fell outside. It was dinnertime but neither of us could be bothered. We both felt terrible about being separated, but she got out the Tanqueray and green stuff and we worked on that for a while, and felt better.

  She reached out and squeezed my arm. “I’ve decided.”

  I ran my fingertips between her fingers the way she likes. “What?”

  “I’m going to Tahiti with you.”

  A warm rush filled me. I hadn’t wanted to leave her, and it was lovely to think of the time we’d have together in the palm-shaded sunny tropics, the surfing parties and fun.

  Five minutes later rings Highway to Hell, Erica’s number. I went into the living room and sat on a fluffy couch. “You finally convinced me,” she said.

  “Of what?”

  “That I’m working too hard, have to cut back, take a vacation.”

  “Fantastic, where are you going?”

  “Where am I going? You invited me. If that’s the way you are…”

  Now I remembered having asked her to go with me to the Tsunami, back when Abigail was telling me to get lost. I glanced at the kitchen, couldn’t see Abigail. “Tahiti?”

  “I’ve bought the tickets. Non-refundable, to make sure I don’t back out.”

  I bit the bullet and agreed we’d meet at Portland airport tomorrow at 10:00. I went into the kitchen and sat down across from Abigail.

  “We’re going to have company,” I said.

  She flashed that wicked smile. “Might be fun.”

  LEXIE CALLED next morning as Abigail and I were packing. “Guess where I am?”

  I was trying to print boarding passes and not paying attention. “Where’s that?”

  “Portland Airport.”

  “Portland Airport?” Terror gripped my heart. “Why, Lexie?”

  “Bucky and I are done. School has a ten-day break and I’m coming to Tahiti. To be with you.”

  Who of us is master of his fate? Sure, there’d be some fireworks. But I loved all three of them. What is it you have in tennis? A foursome?

  Like we learned in Special Forces: Never say it can’t be done.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mike Bond grew up in Maine, graduated from Deering High in Portland, and has been active in Maine environmental issues since working with Dave Brower and writing a book for the Sierra Club on protection of the Allagash River. He has since been involved in preservation of Baxter State Park, the Appalachian Trail and Moosehead Lake, in Maine rivers restoration, the proposed North Woods National Park, and in many other battles to protect Maine. A former Wild and Scenic River master planner, president of several environmental groups, wolf expert and wilderness advocate, he gives frequent testimony and TV and radio interviews worldwide on environmental problems including elephants, wolves, whales, tigers, raptors, rain forests, climate change and ecosystem loss. In addition to working as a war and human rights journalist he is the author of five best-selling critically acclaimed novels, as well as hundreds of essays on wilderness protection, endangered species, and renewable energy. Family resident in Maine since the 1600s.

  SAVING PARADISE

  The first Pono Hawkins thriller

  from Mandevilla Press

  the first pages…

  “To tourists Hawaii is an air-conditioned tanning booth with shopping, booze, bikinis, and lots of smiling low-paid help. The real Hawaii is something else…”

  When a beautiful journalist drowns mysteriously off Waikiki, former Special Forces veteran Pono Hawkins, now a well-known Hawaii surfer and international surfing correspondent, quickly gets embroiled in trying to solve her death. What he learns soon targets him for murder or life in prison as a cabal of powerful corporations, foreign killers and crooked politicians focuses the blame on him.

  Haunted by memories of Afghanistan, and determined to protect the Hawaii he loves from dirty politics tied to huge destructive energy developments, Pono turns to Special Forces buddies and his own skills to fight his deadly enemies, trying to both save himself and track down her killers.

  Alive with the sights, sounds and history of Hawaii, Saving Paradise is also a rich portrait of what Pono calls “the seamy side of paradise”, and a relentless thriller of politics, lies, manhunts and remorseless murder.

  IT WAS ANOTHER MAGNIFICENT DAWN on Oahu, the sea soft and rumpled and the sun blazing up from the horizon, an offshore breeze scattering plumeria fragrance across the frothy waves. Flying fish darting over the crests, dolphins chasing them, a mother whale and calf spouting as they rolled northwards. A morning when you already know the waves will be good and it will be a day to remember.

  I waded out with my surfboard looking for the best entry and she bumped my knee. A woman long and slim in near-transparent red underwear, face down in the surf. Her features sharp and beautiful, her short chestnut hair plastered to her cold skull.

  I dropped my board and held her in my arms, stunned by her beauty and death. If I could keep holding her maybe she wouldn’t really be dead. I was already caught by her high cheekbones and thin purposeful lips, the subtle arch of her brow, her long slender neck in my hands. And so overwhelmed I would have died to protect her.

  When I carried her ashore her long legs dragged in the surf as if the ocean didn’t want to let her go, this sylphlike mermaid beauty. Sorrow overwhelmed me – how could I get her back, this lovely person?

  Already cars were racing up and down Ala Moana Boulevard. When you’re holding a corpse in your arms how bizarre seems the human race – where were all these people hurrying to in this horrible moment with this beautiful young woman dead?

  I did the usual. Being known to the Honolulu cops I had to call them. I’d done time and didn’t want to do more. Don’t believe for a second what anyone tells you – being Inside is a huge disincentive. Jail tattoos not just your skin; it nails your soul. No matter what you do, no matter what you want, you don’t want to go back there. Not ever.

  So Benny Olivera shows up with his flashers flashing. If you want a sorry cop Benny will fill your bill. Damn cruiser the size of a humpback whale with lights going on and off all over the place, could’ve been a nuclear reaction – by the way, why would anyone want
a family that’s nuclear? Life’s dangerous enough.

  So I explain Benny what happened. He’s hapa pilipino – half Filipino – and doesn’t completely trust us hapa haoles, part white and part Hawaiian. To a kanaka maoli, a native Hawaiian, or to someone whose ancestors were indentured here like the Japanese or in Benny’s case Filipinos, there’s still mistrust. Didn’t the haoles steal the whole archipelago for a handful of beads? Didn’t they bring diseases that cut the Hawaiian population by ninety percent? And then shipped hundreds of the survivors to leprosy colonies on Molokai? While descendants of the original missionaries took over most of the land and became huge corporations that turned the Hawaiians, Filipinos, Japanese and others into serfs? These corporations that now own most of Hawaii, its mainline media, banks and politicians?

  I’m holding this lissome young woman cold as a fish in my arms and Benny says lie her down on the hard sidewalk and the ambulance comes – more flashing lights – and she’s gone under a yellow tarp and I never saw her again.

  Couldn’t surf. Went home and brewed a triple espresso and my heart was down in my feet. Sat on the lanai and tried to figure out life and death and what had happened to this beautiful woman. Mojo the dachshund huffed up on the chair beside me, annoyed I hadn’t taken him surfing. Puma the cat curled on my lap but I didn’t scratch her so she went and sat in the sun.

  I’d seen plenty of death but this one got to me. She’d been young, pretty and athletic. Somehow the strong classic lines of her face denoted brains, determination and hard work. How did she end up drowned in Kewalo Basin?

  Benny’s bosses at the cop shop would no doubt soon provide the answer.

  Before you go

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  More by Mike Bond

  Saving Paradise

  Holy War

  The Last Savanna

  House of Jaguar

  Tibetan Cross

  Mike Bond Bound