by Arthur Day
“I think I’ve done enough for the first time,” he gasped.
Pam looked at him and nodded. “I think you’re right. See you back at the compound.” With that she turned and walked away.
“Hey wait a second,” he called. “Do you stay on this road?”
“Nope.” She called back over her shoulder. “I take the first left on the road around the lake.”
BUCKMASTER
John Buckmaster drove slowly up the rutted dirt road that was more of a track than a road. He cursed himself for not bringing the four-wheel-drive and wondered if maybe he should call Dan or whatever deputy was available to bring it. On the map it showed the track as a road and at the end of it a house. According to Nicole who talked with an old timer in the diner, a John Rossman lived in the house and if anyone knew how Pam’s body had been brought to the place where MJ had found her it would be him. Lived the life of a hermit up there in the woods. Knew every tree and every rock in the area. Kind of an oddball is how Nicole’s customer described him. If he doesn’t want to be seen, then he is a ghost. The old man lives completely off the grid. That, at least, was what Nicole passed on to him.
Grid or no grid, Buckmaster wasn’t certain that any vehicle could get to this house. The track had petered out in front of a solid wall of trees. There wasn’t even a good way to turn around and head back to civilization There seemed to be a faint path off to his right. Hoping that this didn’t turn out to be a wild goose chase or worse, Buckmaster followed the path on foot. For about a quarter of a mile it wove between trees and around large chunks of bedrock generally heading north. He found himself climbing up a hillside following the path along a small creek that tumbled down the hill. The path twisted around a large boulder and then came to a complete end in front of a small cliff perhaps twenty feet high. By this time Buckmaster was puffing and starting to sweat through his uniform shirt. He stood for a moment looking at the cliff and wondering which way Rossman went. Right or left? Certainly not straight ahead. The cliff face had some small cracks in it but Buckmaster didn’t think it was climbable.
He went right. The cliff curved around for maybe fifty yards and then he found himself on top of another cliff, this one considerably higher. Would want to be walking out here in the dark he thought. He turned and walked along the cliff to the left of the path. This was easier going and after about a half mile the cliff merged into the hillside. Still no sign of the path though.
“Stop right there whoever you are. Very slowly move back two paces.” The voice was strong and came from the top of the cliff behind him.
Buckmaster looked up. “My name is John Buckmaster. I am the sheriff of Rockmarsh County.” He slowly removed his badge and held it up in the air.
“And I’m the friggin’ Pope.”
Buckmaster smiled. “Well then maybe you can get God to tell me where I can find John Rossman? I hear he lives somewhere in this area.” He slowly turned and looked up at the cliff top behind him, but he saw nobody.
He stood there in silence for what seemed to be forever but was probably about thirty seconds. Some distance away a woodpecker hunted for his supper. Buckmaster could feel the cool of his sweat drying “Anybody still there?” he called.
There was no immediate answer. Buckmaster pinned his badge back on. “This is not about you John. You want to play ghost that’s fine with me, but a woman’s been murdered, and I think you can help me. Won’t take long.”
No response
“She was a good woman from what I hear. Her mother is grief stricken. What have you got to lose?”
“Anytime the government comes poking around I lose. Far as I’m concerned, if I never see you or anyone else that will be just dandy.”
“So, whatever happens in the real world is none of your business and even if it might be you just don’t give a damn. Does that about sum it up?”
There was no response.
“How selfish is that? Did you come from a family who didn’t give a damn about anyone but themselves? If that’s true, then why are you here? Answer me that?”
The woodpecker apparently had either run out of bugs or had eaten his fill for there was a sudden silence. “Take two steps to your left and then walk forward.”
Buckmaster did as he was told. The cliff face extended several yards further on and turned in hillside again. He walked forward some more and suddenly a man appeared before him. Buckmaster had no idea how the man had gotten there. He just appeared. “Rossman?” he asked drily.
The man before him was of medium height with a long white beard and clothes that he might well have made himself, at least they had the appearance the belied anything store bought, homespun it was once called. The man had a narrow face but large blue eyes and a fleshy nose that seemed to crowd out other features. The large blue eyes stared at Buckmaster and there was no hint of hospitality in them. “What’s your questions?”
“This woman was killed, raped and then taken to the spot where she was found. We found no tracks of vehicles anywhere near the area, so we need to know how it was done. I hear you know this part of the state pretty well and so might be able to help us.”
“Depends”
“On what?”
Again, there was no answer. The woodpecker, if it was the same one, started up again. “On what part of the land you’ve got questions on.” Rossman turned and walked back up the hill. Buckmaster had no choice but to follow.
They walked up the rest of the hill and then down part of the other side. Suddenly the man stopped and disappeared again. Buckmaster stopped in amazement. From what seemed like a large hole in the side of the hill, Rossman appeared carrying a small homemade bench that he dropped on the ground and then proceeded to use. “I’d invite your in but it’s a little cramped in there, but my mother always told me about being nice to guests so have a seat and talk to me about this problem of yours. You want a beer?”
Buckman was so taken aback by the sudden hospitality that he just stared at Rossman for a moment and then sat down beside him. “Thanks. Not right now,” he said.
Rossman shrugged and took a long pull from his bottle. “Civilization is thirsty work. I’m sure you’ve been told that I’m some kind of hermit who never shows his face and lives a life that most of those weenies couldn’t even imagine.”
“Matter of fact, I heard about you from my wife who was talking to another man who’s been around a while. I only know that I can use all the help I can get. If that’s a weakness in your eyes then so be it.”
He looked sideways at Rossman who grinned and took another pull from his glass. “Nope. I don’t mind helping out unless doing so means people tracking through here talking trash and sticking their noses in my business. Your wife was probably talking to old Bill Donny. He likes that diner cause the waitress treats him with respect. He gets money for recycling cans and bottles and then goes to the diner to live it up a bit. I owe him. Don’t care what other folks do. So, tell me the problem. Describe where you found the woman.”
Buckmaster related the scene that he and MJ had found and the fact that the woman’s body had been dumped there. He explained that they had combed the area but had found no trace of a vehicle that transported the body, if not to the scene itself at least close enough so that a strong man could carry the body to the scene.
Buckmaster finished and looked at Rossman who seemed to have fallen asleep. He sat on his bench with his back against the hillside. His eyes were closed and his breathing regular. Damm, Buckmaster thought. I knew I wasn’t a great public speaker, but I didn’t think I was that boring. He nudged his companion who opened one eye and looked at him.
“Just thinking ‘bout how I’d go about it if I knew these parts and had a body that I wanted to get rid of. If I was a stranger, then someone would have to act as a guide or at least explain what needed to be done. There aren’t many of those around here and if you found someone,
how are you going to explain the body?” He got to his feet and took a sip from his bottle as if he had arrived at some sort of decision. “Follow me.”
They walked slowly down the slope of the hill from what Buckmaster could only term a large foxhole. The land flattened out and there in among the trees. was a small house of about thirty by forty feet. Rossman opened the front door and Buckmaster followed him inside.
It was a small room but seemed much larger. Workbenches were filled with tools and more of them hung on two walls. The other two walls had wooden carvings of animals beautifully detailed so that they truly seemed lifelike. Some were waxed and polished to a high sheen while others had been painted their natural colors. The room was dominated by a large black bear up on his hind feet mouth open and front feet extended. Buckmaster could only stare at it in amazement. “You do this?” he asked softly. Even using a soft voice, he felt he was somehow intruding on the beauty of the carvings and the atmosphere that they engendered.
“Yep and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about what you see here. Some of it isn’t finished and, like I said before, I like my privacy and don’t like a lot of people making a trail to this part of the woods. I take this over to Billy Black and he sells them to the tourist traps in places like Old Saybrook, Sturbridge Village and Foxwoods. In return he brings me the few things that I need that I can’t supply on my own. Works pretty well.” He walked over to one of the workbenches, opened a drawer, and pulled out a rolled document that he spread out on the table top.
It was a small-scale map of Rockmarsh County with elevations, streams, roads and highways marked across the green, brown and grey colorings of woods, hills and towns. Buckmaster tore his gaze away from the carvings and forced himself to look down at the map where Rossman was pointing at a spot about a mile away from their current location. “That’s the spot I think you found the woman’s body.” The old man moved a knarred, hairy finger slightly to the left. “Right here’s a creek. I call it Rossman’s Creek, but the surveyors probably called it something else. No matter. The important thing is that it runs down the hill past the spot you described, passes Billy’s place and then disappears underground. Probably feeds an underground river if I had to guess.”
“Okay so you think this stream is the answer?”
“It’s not one of these little runs that you can jump across. It’s probably eight or nine feet wide along most of its length. Not deep but wide and the bottom is mostly bedrock and pebbles”
Buckmaster suddenly understood what John was saying. “You think the murderer used this?”
“He could put her in one of those all-wheel-drive all-terrain vehicles and driven up the creek to within a quarter mile of your spot. No tracks. No scent if you brought out dogs.
JACOB WARREN 2013
Jacob watched the road where it branched off to the right towards a big white farmhouse. He was not in a hurry and was not impatient that the road remained empty of people and vehicles. It was early, and he really did not expect anyone to come along except the person for whom he watched and if she did not appear he would try again the next day and the day after that. Whatever it took. That’s what he was prepared to do. This was the part of Pam Pease’s daily routine that was not always at the same time. She had done this in New York and would do so here. She had talked of her lake walks the short time they had been together. Whenever she woke up, she would go out and walk around the lake for exercise, but this could happen a little earlier or a little later in any day. He sat on small rise behind a tree and looked down the road through binoculars.
He was a man of peace. Had anyone asked him he would have told them that and he would have believed it. If people did not cause him problems he was quite happy to let them be. He was quite social and a good conversationalist. He went to the parties of friends and co-workers in New York on a regular basis. He did not drink but did not mind holding a glass of liquor during a party so that everyone thought he did. He did not smoke but thought that the outcry over second-hand smoke was overdone and did not mind if people around him smoked. He had s store of jokes both clean and dirty and would use whatever type was appropriate. His friends considered him a helluva nice guy who was great to be around. At work he was good at figures but was not considered a nerd, a distinction that was not easy to make. He was a natural leader and rose steadily in the management ranks.
He was not an ugly man. Slightly above average height, Jacob was somewhat thin but far from skeletal. He had narrow features with brown eyes and a thin nose that flared slightly at the end. He wore his hair short and made regular visits to his barber to keep it that way. He bathed every day in the morning and kept his teeth in good shape. For all intents and purposes, he was a good catch for any woman and many were attracted to him both for his looks, his demeanor and his prospects. His manner with them all was friendly but a little aloof and no one knew if he actually had a woman or women – over a period time – in his apartment. The more spiteful whispered about homosexuality but if anyone knew Jacob’s sexual proclivities they did not tell. He accepted the bad and the good with equal aplomb. He could talk with his boss, an executive vice president with the same manner as he talked with Freddie from the mail room.
Ahh. There she was. Jacob watched her figure grow slowly larger through the excellent Zeiss lenses. She wore a dark blue t-shirt over white running shorts. She wore her hair in a ponytail and it swung back and forth with the rhythmic swaying of her body. She was a beautiful woman. He had always thought so and would never change his mind. She walked past, her arms up and pumping, her face slightly flushed with the exercise. He had remained perfectly still, and she had not seen him behind his tree. He took a notepad from his shirt pocket and noted the time and place. He then rose and walked up the road towards the farm and the spot where he had left his rental car.
Jacob and Pam had met at work. Bart Ferlllo, one of their more profitable authors, had a fight with his editor and demanded a new one. Going through the names of the copy editors and editors at the company, he had picked Pam over more experienced people because he had seen her interacting with the people in her unit and in other departments and thought she could more easily manage Ferillo’s prickly character and frequent tirades. In short, he needed an intelligent punching bag, one that would not storm off thus pissing off Ferillo and Jacob’s boss.
She sat in the chair in front of his desk looking a little nervous but excited nevertheless. She was beautiful, and Jacob realized suddenly that Ferillo’s previous editor had been an excellent writer but nothing to look at. Pam might be just what Ferillo needed. “Have you read any of Ferillo’s books,” he asked.
“A couple. Writes to a standard formula but does a good job of it. Has a loyal following.”
“Yes, to the tune of 2 million copies worldwide and he’s only thirty-one.”
Pam looked at him waiting for more. Surely, he had not taken the time to set up this appointment simply to tell her what they both knew. He saw this in her eyes and steepled his fingers in front of him. “He needs an editor.”
“He has one. Judy is really first rate,” Pam said.
“He wants a different one for the book he’s working on now. Says he can’t work with Judy and with his contract coming up we need him to be a happy writer. Happy, happy, happy and busy writing his usual immense number of words every day.”
Pam smiled. “I know. The guy writes by the inch instead of by the page.”
Jacob smiled back. She had a great smile. “Precisely.”
His love for Pam had started then, he thought, and continued at the celebration party for Ferillo’s latest book a couple of months later. Ferilllo, drunk off his ass, was regaling a group of people who were laying bets as to when he would pass out.
Jacob had no interest in that and had walked into the next room where Pam was standing looking out the window at the city below. “It has a certain majesty from here,” she said
without turning around to see if anyone was behind her.
“Yes, better from here than at street level,” Jacob responded, “but even there the city and its people can’t help but amaze the tourists. It is so massive, and yet in constant movement. I suppose all big cities share that characteristic, but I’ve always thought New York was special in that respect.”
“Yes,” she agreed as if her mind was a thousand miles away and the answer was on auto-pilot. She turned slowly to look at him.
“Ferillo is celebrating. I should be out there with him.”
“No need. He won’t remember in the morning I’m sure.”
“That bad?”
Jacob nodded, and they stood for a minute looking out over the city. “Why don’t we leave and find a place to have supper?” Suddenly his heart was in his throat and he felt chills along his arms, but the words were out, and the bell could not be un-rung.
Pam looked at him. “What about Ferillo?”
“It’s not your job to babysit him. I’ll have Ken make sure Ferillo gets in a cab and has fare to make it back to his place.”
She thought about it briefly. “Okay. That would be pleasant.”
Momentarily, Jacob thought he was surely the happiest man on earth. That feeling persisted over the next few weeks as the days went by in a blur of work and the nights and weekends turned into a string of dinners and trips to museums and even the Bronx Zoo. He found himself doing things that we would never have considered before and even enjoying it. He thought such feelings were the result of having Pam by his side a blithe spirit who was more widely read then he expected and had a memory for authors and quotes that astonished him. She seemed to feel about him the same way he felt about her; It seemed to him that what they felt about each other was much more than a simple friendship. Jacob started looking around for an engagement ring.
Jacob drove slowly up the dirt road past the big, white farmhouse where the road curved to the left and then back to the right before straightening out by a rundown old house set back from the road behind a thicket of overgrown honeysuckle and fir trees. He went past the house for fifty yards before pulling over to the side where there was enough of a shoulder to park. There he spent some time studying a map on the seat beside him. The spot he wanted was well off the road. He remembered it from the time when he and a couple of other kids had run wild through this area. It would suit his purpose perfectly. He had followed Pam and her husband to the same spot years before when he had decided what he needed to do and began the slow process of gathering intelligence. That big oaf McCaal had never seen him. What irony. Jacob smiled. Only he would know but that would be enough.