Pineland Serenade

by Larry Millett

  “No, it most definitely is not,” Cassandra said. “Do you know when Phillip Gordon began living at the home?”

  “No, but as I recall he was just a baby when they took him in. Grew up to be one of those rebellious types. They probably thought they could save his soul and look what it got them.”

  Cassandra nodded in sympathy. “Yes, it’s very sad. Was your brother a religious man?”

  “He claimed to be.”

  There was a hint of contempt in Emma’s response, and Cassandra picked up on it. “I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but it sounds like you have some doubts about your brother. We’ve heard some things as well, concerning possibly improper behavior at the home.”

  “You mean diddling the kids?”

  I had to give Emma credit. She didn’t put any sugar on her cereal.

  “Yes, that’s what we’ve heard,” Cassandra said. “Do you think it could be true?”

  “I don’t know. What I can tell you is that Jimmy maybe liked children more than a man should.”

  Cassandra began maneuvering toward our ultimate destination. “It’s been very kind of you to talk to us, Miss Biersdorf. There’s just one other thing. We’d love to have any family photos of your brother, his wife and their foster kids for our show. It would be especially nice if you have one with Phillip Gordon.”

  “I don’t keep much of that stuff,” Emma said. “When you’re as old and sick as I am, all you have is your memories and sometimes you wish you didn’t because they don’t really amount to anything. Your life is going down the drain and who cares? Anyway, Janice’s family—they’re in Florida now—got most of the things.”

  Cassandra persisted. “Anything at all you have in the way of family memorabilia would be very helpful.”

  “Well, I might have something. There’s a photo album on the top shelf in the closet over there. Could you get it down for me?”

  I fetched the album and gave it to her. She started going through it as we looked over her shoulder.

  “Here’s one of Jimmy and two of the kids,” she said. “Nineteen eighty-seven.”

  The photo showed a florid, balding man in his late thirties, flanked by a boy and a girl who both looked about ten. I saw nothing familiar in the boy’s face and in any case, Phillip would have been only two years old at the time. Emma continued leafing through the album, but most of the photos were of her and various friends. James, Janice and their foster children were ignored.

  Then she stopped and said, “Wait a minute. I just remembered something. It’d be at the back.”

  Her wrinkled hands found the last page of the album. “Here it is. It was the last Christmas card I got from Jimmy and Janice in two thousand. All the kids are there with them.”

  I stared at the photo. James and the woman who I assumed to be his wife posed in front of a Christmas tree. Next to them, arranged by height, were six children, four boys and two girls. Standing beside James was the oldest child, a boy in his teens. He was tall and slender, with long dark hair and sharp dark eyes that stared at the camera with indifference. I knew his face.

  “Yes, that’s Phillip,” I said, “next to your brother.”

  Emma was startled. “Have you seen him before?”

  “Many times,” I said. “He hasn’t gone far.”

  “So now what?” Cassandra said when we returned to the hearse.

  “I’m thinking,” I said.

  Emma hadn’t wanted to part with her Christmas card, and our burner phones didn’t have cameras. But Mara agreed to take a shot of the card with her phone. She e-mailed the image to Cassandra, who had her laptop with her. We studied the image for a while in the hearse as we tried to figure out what to do next.

  I said, “As I see it, we’ve got a couple of options. We could go to the authorities now and tell them all about Phillip and why we believe he’s a murderer. Or, we could do something else.”

  “‘Something else’ being?”

  “Go back to Pineland and try to make our own case against him before I’m arrested. It’d be a real long shot, though.”

  Cassandra said, “Well, I don’t think going to police would gain you much. The trouble is we don’t have any proof at the moment that Phillip is guilty of anything. All we know for sure is that he’s in Pineland, using a new name. That’s not a crime. He might even admit he’s Peter’s lost son if the authorities come asking, but so what? He’ll probably claim he and daddy dearest were reconciled, and who’s to prove otherwise?”

  “Does that mean you’re ready to try option number two?”

  “It does. What other choice do we have? We’ll be in jail pretty soon, and once that happens, it’ll be much harder for us to make a case against Phillip. He’s one clever motherfucker and he’s worked everything out. But I don’t think he knows we’re onto him, and that’s the advantage we have right now.”

  “All right, back to Pineland it is.”

  We reached Swaboda’s by three. I put the hearse in the garage and we went into Dale’s office. We’d developed a plan to smoke out Phillip, and it involved playing his own game. There’d be a new message, identifying Phillip as the Serenader and exposing his real identity. We planned to post it at a place sure to get the attention of authorities. Our plan was to post the message after dark and then, to ensure it was found, call in an anonymous tip to the sheriff’s office.

  We’d stopped for sandwiches at a Subway in St. Cloud but by late afternoon I needed a snack. Cassandra remembered she had a six-pack of granola bars in her car and went out to retrieve it while I continued to work on the exact wording of the message.

  I thought she’d be back in literally a minute but she wasn’t. Maybe she was digging around for her granola treasure. Another minute went by and I sensed something was wrong. I rushed out to the parking lot. Cassandra’s rented Hyundai was there but she was wasn’t. I opened the driver’s side door and peered into the front seat, where a pack of chocolate-chip granola bars lay next to one of Cassandra’s pearl earrings. A wave of fear sliced through me, sharp as a sword. I didn’t want to believe what I knew in my heart.

  Phillip had come for her.

  42

  In Hollywood movies, when disaster strikes, the hero always knows instantaneously what to do. Orders are issued, forces assembled, everyday people turn magically into gunfighters and stunt drivers, and off they all go to save the day. None of that happened to me.

  I stared at the car seat, dumbfounded, a river of questions rushing through my head. What did Phillip intend to do with Cassandra? Where would he take her? How had he found us? Should I call the police immediately to report Cassandra’s kidnapping and hope the cops would believe me even as they locked me up?

  I took a deep breath and tried to focus. I was pretty sure Phillip wouldn’t do immediate harm to Cassandra. He’d want to talk to her, out of sheer spite if nothing else, to contrast his life story with hers, to explain all the injustices that had befallen him after his abandonment and to expound on his brilliant scheme of revenge. It would be a form of malevolent pleasure to have her as his captive audience, and he would take his time. And then? The thought made me sick. I—or the law—had to find Cassandra.

  I saw no real choice about what to do next. I went out to the garage and backed out my Prius. Rain was falling, accompanied by blustery winds, and no one was on the streets. I called 911 as I drove east toward Pembroke Woods, where I thought I’d be safe for a while.

  An operator answered on the second ring. “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  “I’d like to report a kidnapping.”

  There was a brief pause—maybe the operator was startled—before she said, “All right, sir, who was kidnapped?”

  I provided the details, as succinctly as I could. I stated where and when the abduction had occurred. I gave the operator Cassandra’s full name, age, and a phy
sical description, including her clothes. I also described her rented Hyundai and how it had been left in the funeral home’s lot. I went on to identify the man who had taken Cassandra, using the name he went by in Pineland. I described him. I said he was almost surely armed and dangerous. I suggested a check of his license information to see what kind of vehicle he might be driving.

  The more I unwound the story the crazier it sounded, even to me. I knew the operator would find it equally strange.

  The operator finally broke in. “And what’s your name, sir?”

  “I can’t say. But please believe me, there’s been a kidnapping and Miss Ellis is in extreme danger.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re sending a unit to the funeral home. Can you tell me why Miss Ellis was there?”

  Good question, ma’am. “It’s a long story. But if you contact Jason Braddock from the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension he can fill you in about Miss Ellis.” I knew Jason’s cell number by heart and gave it to the operator.

  “Will you be at the scene when the officers arrive?” the operator asked.

  “No. But you have to take this seriously and call Jason. A life is at stake here.”

  Then I disconnected.

  The lot at Pembroke Woods was deserted, as I hoped it would be. A narrow gravel service road used for park maintenance leads off into the pines and I followed it until I was out of view from the parking lot. As a kid, I’d thought the trees, with their long straight trunks, were columns holding up the sky. Maybe they were. Now I felt as though the sky had fallen, collapsed in pieces around me, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Stay calm, I told myself, and think.

  I assumed Pineland police had gone to the funeral home and found Cassandra’s rental car. I also assumed Jim Myers or someone else at the police department had contacted Jason. Then wheels would turn and it wouldn’t take long to finger me as the 911 caller.

  So now what? I couldn’t go to my house because the police would put it under surveillance. Kaitlyn Berglund’s apartment might provide a refuge, but I didn’t want her to possibly face charges of sheltering a fugitive. I considered turning myself in. But would Jim Meyers or Jason Braddock believe anything I told them? Probably not. Instead, they might conclude I’d done something to Cassandra and that the kidnapping story was just a smokescreen to hide my criminal activity. And if that were the case, precious time would be lost.

  Then, from somewhere out in the great blue yonder, an idea wormed its way into my head. There was one man in Pineland who just might have a motive to help me, a man whose chance for redemption might also be my best chance to find Cassandra. It was worth a try.

  I picked up my burner phone and punched in a familiar number. A gruff voice answered after the fourth ring: “Who’s this?”

  “Paul Zweifel. Don’t hang up.”

  Arne said, “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I want to find Cassandra Ellis and you can help me. She’s been abducted and I know who took her.” I identified the kidnapper, as he was known in Pineland, and said, “His real name is Phillip Gordon. He’s Peter Swindell’s son and he’s the man who framed you with that photo.”

  A long pause followed and I thought Arne was about to disconnect. Then he said, “I’m listening.”

  I knew when I made the call that Arne was my last hope, despite all that had happened between us. He didn’t like me, didn’t trust me and blamed me for his recent troubles. He may even have believed I was a murderer. But I also understood how angry he was about the compromising photo with Jill Lorrimer that had put his career in jeopardy and made him the county’s laughingstock. I thought if I could show Arne that the photo was part of an elaborate frame-up, by the same person who had also framed me, he just might come around. So I explained, as briefly as possible, everything Cassandra and I had discovered about Phillip Gordon.

  “You’d better not be shitting me,” Arne said.

  “I’m not. I’ve got an image of Phillip taken when he was at the Biersdorf home.” Cassandra had left her laptop in Dale’s office when she went out to her car and I had it now. “There’s no doubt about his real identify or that Peter was his father.”

  Arne said, “You know what, counselor, stupid as it sounds, I might just believe you. I knew I was being framed and I thought at first you were the asshole who did it.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “The gun.”

  “What gun?”

  “The one they found at your house yesterday. They’ve already done the ballistics. It was the gun used to kill Peter, Dewey and Marty.”

  “Where did they find it?”

  “It was in an old paint can in your garage. A thirty-eight-caliber Colt Python revolver. I used to own one myself. A very nice handgun. There were three live rounds and three expended shells in the cylinder. Once Jason and his crew found it, they put out an arrest warrant for you. You’re officially the mad-dog killer county attorney now. You’re in shit right up to your nose.”

  “Well, that’s lovely,” I said, then told Arne how Phillip had tapped my phone and stolen the key to my father’s office. “He also took the revolver—it belonged to my father—and then came back to plant it in that paint can.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. The thing is, when I heard about the gun, I knew something wasn’t right. I know you, and you’re an asshole as far as I’m concerned, but you’re not a stupid asshole.”

  “How kind of you to say so.”

  “Yeah, well, the way I look at it, if you shot three people, you wouldn’t leave evidence sitting around your house just waiting to be found. The gun would be long gone. Same thing with that typewriter in your dad’s old office. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed way too obvious. I couldn’t figure out a motive, either. Why the hell would you be writing those messages and maybe even killing people? So I started thinking maybe you were being screwed over, just like me.”

  “Happy to hear that, Arne. Now, what about it? Will you help me find Cassandra?”

  “That’s a matter for those fuckers from the BCA and the local cops. I’m officially out of the picture.”

  “I know and I’ve already called nine-one-one. I told them everything I could about what happened to Cassandra. But I don’t know how seriously they treated the call. It must be apparent by now I was the caller, and maybe everybody thinks I was trying to send them off on a wild goose chase. I don’t know. All I’m sure of is that Cassandra is in terrible danger.”

  “I get that, genius. But if you don’t know where she is, I don’t see what you can do.”

  “Maybe I can figure something out,” I said. “If I can’t, then just go ahead and arrest me. I’m at Pembroke Woods. How long will it take you to get here?”

  “Fifteen minutes. But if you’re playing some fucking game with me—”

  “There’s no game, Arne. See you in fifteen.”

  Secreted in the pines, I reflected on the doleful fact that Phillip Gordon, a brilliant and twisted soul if there ever was one, had for the last month pulled off an amazing feat. His grand plan, a spectacular creation with many moving parts, had spun out with uncanny precision. He’d taken his revenge on the father who abandoned him to a molester and he’d eliminated Peter’s legitimate son and heir, Dewey.

  He’d also gone after the sons of Theodore Moreland, Magnus Sigurdson and Phillip Zweifel—three men he saw as facilitators in the terrible fate that befell him. But why had he murdered Marty while settling for a different kind of revenge, in the form of elaborate frame-ups, against Arne and me? I wasn’t sure.

  Still, the scope of his vengeance was stunning. Besides murdering five people, counting the Biersdorfs, he’d torched and destroyed almost every building associated with the Swindell family. And now he’d kidnapped his own sister. Phillip was a family annihilator, and I had no doubt he intended to kill Cassandra, if only because she’d enjoyed
a life of wealth and privilege and he hadn’t.

  So where were Phillip and his captive now? They wouldn’t be at Phillip’s house or his place of employment. Too obvious. A hotel or motel room? Not likely. Too public, too many chances for Cassandra to make a scene and call for help. Phillip would want seclusion but also shelter. A cabin in the woods, maybe, but there are lots of cabins and lots of woods in Paradise County.

  I felt frustrated, at the end of my rope, and also hungry. I glanced over at the passenger seat, which serves primarily as a small dumpster for snacks and the usual miscellaneous junk. The snacks included a four-pack of Oreos, and I reached over to grab what was likely to be my last meal as a free man. And that’s when I noticed the little plastic statue of St. Jude Arlen Sandquist had given me.

  Of course. It had to be. I knew where Cassandra was.

  43

  “I’m waiting in the lot,” Arne said when I answered my cell. “Where the fuck are you?”

  “There in a minute,” I said.

  I wondered if Arne had come to Pembroke Woods alone or if half the lawmen in Paradise County were with him, ready to slap the cuffs on me. I thought it was a fifty-fifty proposition. Arne was hard to read, and he might still have it in for me.

  I drove back to the parking lot and was relieved to find Arne there by himself in his white Ram pickup. I grabbed Cassandra’s laptop and joined him in the front seat. A rifle was mounted by the rear window, and Arne had a Glock holstered at his hip. He stared at me with a mixture of expectation and disgust.

  “God, but you’re a sorry sight,” he said. “I should arrest you right now, but what the hell. That’s quite a story you told me. Let’s see that photo you claim to have.”

  “Sure, but first things first. I know where he’s taken Cassandra,” I said and told Arne where we needed to go. “Let’s get moving.”

  “How do you know they’ll be there?”

  “Believe me, I know. It’s the only place that makes sense.”