"Plenty of times," I said, which earned me a jab in the ribs.
About thirty minutes later we were in Durham, at a small stretch of roadway outside of the campus that Paula told me was called Gasoline Alley, for the number of gas stations lined up on both sides of the narrow road. Paula shook her head at all the traffic rolling in and out of Durham, to the place where she had gone to school, and she said, "Damn place was so crowded when I was here, I probably couldn't stand it now."
At the Circle H service station, I paid the usual and customary bills, got a lecture on how the dents and dings should get looked at before they started to rust, and Paula joined me as we walked out and stopped by my Ford Explorer, parked forlornly at the end of the lot, near a line of other cars and trucks, most of which were missing chunks of fenders, bumpers, and windows. My own set of wheels had scrapes and dents on both sides, and a brand-new tire that looked out of place with the other three.
"Well," I said, reaching over to pull out a clump of grass from a broken sideview mirror. "At least it's the best-looking in the bunch."
Paula slipped her hand into mine. "Lewis, tell me again what happened."
"Wheel fell off."
"I know that. How did it fall off?"
"The lug nuts holding it together came off, that's how."
She squeezed my hand. "Lug nuts don't come off by themselves, do they."
"Not hardly."
"What's going on?"
I thought about that for a second, and I squeezed her hand back. 'What's going on is that I'm grateful for the ride over here, and you should go back to Tyler and keep on getting your house together, and spending time with your town counsel. That's what's going on, Paula."
Her hand felt warm and soft in mine. She said, “We could have had something, the two of us. I think about that, every now and then."
'We did have something special," I said. "It was right for the moment, it was special, but... we both knew it wasn't going to last. Couldn't, not the way I am, and because of what you need. What you've got now is good, Paula. Don't worry about me."
She squeezed my hand and said, "You're welcome for the favor. And don't be sure you know just how good I have it."
I watched her as she got into her Camry, responded to her own wave, and then got into my wounded Explorer and headed home as well.
At home a light rain was starting to fall, which discouraged me from resuming my failed archaeological project, which didn't upset me that much. I spent some time in the kitchen sink again, trying to get the dirt off of my hands, and when that was finished, I gave Diane Woods a call at the Tyler police station. She was out and I was surprised at how comfortable that made me feel. I had a question to ask her, and with her not available, it allowed me to find out the information on my own.
But how?
I went up to my office and spent a few minutes on-line, until I found the phone number I was looking for, and I sat back in my chair, looked at the phone, ran some options and possibilities through my mind. There was a number of ways I could get this question answered, and some years ago it would have been just a matter of picking a particular fib that would work. But no longer. Technology had pretty much dumped the option of using the favorite method of private detectives, con artists, and snoopy journalists: the pretext call, phoning someone and pretending to be a loan officer, lottery official, or a phone company rep, all in the attempt to get information. With caller ID and the method of calling back and verifying a number, the pretext call was getting too hard to pull off.
Which just left one option. The truth.
"The truth," I said aloud. 'What a concept."
And with one hand, I picked up the phone, and with the other, I picked up a legal pad and pen, and started calling.
After the initial call north, I was transferred one way and then another, until a pleasant-sounding young man named Jeff Simpson took pity on me. He was a press officer with the state of Maine's Department of Corrections, and he said, "Run that by me again, please?"
So I told him who I was and explained what I was doing and what I was looking for, and he said "hmmm," a lot, and I guess I got him in a good mood or government workers in Maine by nature are always in a good mood, for Jeff Simpson said he would get back to me in a while with the information I was looking for. I said that was fine and hung up the phone and decided to stay in my office instead of rooting around out in the front yard any more.
And I was also under no illusions. The polite young man was no doubt at this moment on the phone calling Shoreline magazine to check on my bona fides. He wanted to make sure I was who I said I was, and not some nut or freelance or somebody out to do something. So the checkup would go on, a call to Boston to the offices of Shoreline would take place, and I would just sit here and wait until the young man up in Augusta ---about a three-hour drive from where I sat --- was satisfied that he could talk to me.
So what to do then?
Not much. I looked fondly on a small black rock that was sitting on top of my computer and briefly recalled how that bit of American history ended up in my home, when I had a strange encounter with a female representative of the federal government some months ago. Then I turned my chair around, ready to pull something down from the nearby bookshelf to read, when the phone rang. I took a breath, picked up the receiver, said hello.
"Mr. Cole?"
"That's right."
"Jeff Simpson, returning your call."
"Thanks."
Over the receiver, I could make out the sound of paper being moved around. "I've made the necessary phone calls, and I can confirm your question. But any other additional information would require a Freedom of Information Act request. Do you understand?"
"I do,"
"All right," he said. “William Gagnon. I can confirm that he was in fact an inmate at the Maine State Correctional Facility in Warren. He was released just over a year ago, on September first."
"Okay. And the other name?" The phone suddenly felt slippery in my grasp, like it was ready to be propelled across the room.
"Oh, Yes. The other name you mentioned. I can confirm that as well."
"Sorry?"
"The man you asked about. Ray Ericson. He was an inmate at Warren, and he and Mr. Gagnon were at the facility at the same time for approximately seven months."
I didn't bother writing anything down. I didn't have to. I hung up the phone and stared at the nearest bookshelf for a moment, and then got up and got going.
Chapter Twelve
So back to Porter I went in my Ford Explorer, back to Stark Street. I drove by the still-lit storefront twice and saw a pickup truck near the front. It was a dark blue Ford with rusty wheelwells and FREE TIBET and FREE LEONARD PELTIER stickers on the rear bumper. I then found a place to park in a dirt driveway that belonged to a small white house that had its windows covered by plywood and decorated with a number of NO TRESPASSING stickers. The house was on the other side of the street, two buildings down from the storefront. Backing in, I shut off the engine and waited. The storefront didn't seem as crowded as before. Through the windows I could tell there was movement back there. I sat and waited, hands folded in my lap. On the passenger's seat next to me was a copy of today's New York Times, a bottle of water, and underneath the Times, my 9mm Beretta and a pair of 7 x 50 binoculars.
I squeezed my hands tighter. Earlier Billy Gagnon had said he had never heard of Jon Ericson, had only met him that one time. Perhaps. But he had been at Warren with Jon's brother, the one who had been on the run since Jon's murder. A coincidence, maybe, but I hated coincidences.
I waited. Over the years, I had read lots of detective novels in which the hero went out and conducted surveillance on somebody.
Interesting tales, but one thing authors usually left out was the sheer boredom of sitting on one's behind, keeping watch on a building or a doorway. The seconds and minutes dragged by, like staring at a shadow on the ground and keeping track of its travel as the sun moved overhead, and distracti
ons like a radio or music couldn't be risked.
So there I sat. Waiting. Alone with my thoughts and the sound of traffic. I moved my hands up to the steering wheel, kept an eye on the movements inside the lit storefront. A door opened up and I saw two high school students --- both young girls --- head out and start walking away. I picked up the binoculars but the view inside the building was terrible. I could only make out movements, shapes. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir could have been in there giving a free concert for the cause, and while I might have heard them, I certainly could not have seen them.
I kept waiting. It was getting darker. Before racing up here from home I had spent a few unsatisfactory minutes, going on-line and flipping through a couple of local phone books, and if William Bear Gagnon had an address or phone number in his name that was local, then he was doing a pretty fair job of hiding it.
And why was I here? Because I wanted to see what he was like outside of his storefront, outside of his little office. I wanted to see where he went, what he did, and where he slept at night.
Something happened. The lights went off at the storefront.
I turned the key and got the Explorer's engine running, just as a tractor trailer truck grumbled by, obscuring my view. I was too keyed up even to curse properly, but when the truck finally gave way, the pickup truck was on the move. I eased out onto Stark Street and was right behind the pickup truck. It came to a stop sign, made a very legal and complete stop, and then made a left turn. I followed, noticing that there were two people in the truck. I could see that Gagnon was driving, and his passenger appeared to be female.
Well, whaddya know.
The truck went slowly through downtown Porter, and I managed to keep pace with him. He headed east, toward Maine, but then made a right from Congress Street, to the oldest section of Porter, Strawbery Banke, where the first settlers came here in 1623. I had a brief thought that perhaps Gagnon was here to burn down some of the historic homes, in some way righting a historic wrong, but he didn't slow as he drove through the narrow streets, lined with homes that are older than most nations in the world.
Then, another left. Past a sign that said PEAVEY ISLAND CITY PARK CLOSED AT DUSK.
It was way past dusk, but in the charming way that New Hampshire communities sometimes run their parks and government, there was no gate or chain blocking the entrance. I followed them into the park, being careful to stay a few car lengths behind. The roadway entered onto a narrow causeway, spanning Porter Harbor. Off to the right were the lights of Foss Island, a larger island and town to the south of Porter, and to the left, were the buildings and cranes and bright illumination of the Porter Naval Shipyard. On the small island the road curved to the left, and then to a dirt parking lot. There were swing sets and picnic tables and benches off beyond the dirt lot, but Gagnon pulled his vehicle over, to the farthest side of the lot.
I switched off the lights to the Explorer and rolled in past him, and then parked where I got a good view. I kept the engine running, looked about. There were just two other cars in the lot, which made sense. No doubt the serious visitors and partiers came in as the night grew longer.
I looked over at Gagnon's pickup truck, picked up my binoculars. The lights from the shipyard illuminated the interior of his truck cabin fairly well. He seemed to be talking to his female companion, who was nodding a lot. Maybe he was explaining the centuries of oppression that had led the New England Indian tribes to their current fate. Maybe he was explaining how Peavey Island rightly belonged to his people. And maybe he was explaining what was going to be eventually built on this piece of property, from a casino to a museum to a cultural center.
Or maybe not.
He was over her, kissing her it seemed, and that went on for a while, until he leaned back on the driver's door and the young lady's head dropped from view. Gagnon seemed to rest his head back, and even though the light was poor and the viewing through the rear of the truck cabin wasn't the greatest, I could detect the smile on his face, as the high school girl performed upon him.
I put the binoculars back on the passenger's seat, waited.
A convicted felon and a high school girl. Though I'm not that familiar with the laws of the state of New Hampshire, I'm sure there was a crime going on over there in that pickup truck.
I kept on waiting. Then the brake lights came on as the truck roared into life, backing up and then speeding out toward the causeway. I left the lot as well, followed them out back to Strawbery Banke, where Gagnon headed back into the downtown, and as I was catching up to him on Congress Street, he blew through a red light.
I almost skidded to a halt, as traffic from the cross street went its way, one vehicle blowing its horn at Gagnon's departing truck.
Damn.
I waited through the light cycle, wondering if Gagnon was in a hurry to get his young charge home to wherever she lived, or if he had noticed me following him and was in a hurry to get away.
Either way, my goal for the evening, to see where Gagnon rested his head at night, had been blown.
It was time to go home.
Back to Tyler Beach I went, for the second time that evening, and as I went into the Lafayette House parking lot, I saw a man standing by the plumbing and heating van. I slowed down and saw that it was my two guardians, the two cousins. Tom and Frank Duffy. Tom, the younger of the two, was standing outside and ambled his way over to me.
"Everything all right, Mr. Cole?" he asked. "Things are fine. How are you two doing?"
"Getting ready for shift change. Frank's giving me grief about being ten minutes late. He's looking forward to some room service food and an adult movie on the pay-per-view."
"Sounds like a good night to me."
"Yeah, well, he's gonna have to get his ass back here in four hours anyway."
I nodded and said, "You hear anything from Felix?"
He shook his head. "Not a word. You expecting anything?"
"Something, sometime, but I didn't know if he had contacted you at all."
Another shake of the head. "Mr. Cole, Felix just put us here and told us what to do, and how to do it, and we're supposed to stay here until he comes back and tells us to our face that it's done and we can go home."
"Yeah, that sounds like Felix," I said.
"Don't it. Now, if you excuse me, I've got to get back and get my ass in the van, 'fore Frank has a freakin' heart attack or something."
I drove the Explorer down the rough dirt road, parked her in the open garage and walked over to the front door. I had left a couple of the lights on inside and I could make out the spot where I had been digging earlier in the day. Nothing. Not a damn thing. It was hard to believe that generations of people trooping in and out of my house wouldn't have dropped anything in the process, but either they had sticky fingers in this home's earlier life, or somebody with better luck than I had gone through here earlier, digging on his or her own.
Inside, I dropped my coat and pistol and binoculars and unread newspaper in a chair, and went to the answering machine, which had a little red numeral that said 4. Four new messages. I hit the play button as I got a pen and small pad of paper, but I was just wasting time, for the message was the same, each and everyone.
A hiss of static, and a hang-up. That's it. Four hang-up calls.
Solicitors, upset that I hadn't been home? Or who else?
I lifted the phone and did what those little phone company ads always push, for those who can't live without thinking of who might have been behind that missed phone call, so I pressed the star key and then the numerals six-nine, and got a polite recorded message that the incoming number had been blocked. Well, how about that. If this had been any other time, I might have called up Diane Woods and asked her to perform some kind of police magic, but this wasn't one of those times. I had heard her earlier message ---a bout keeping away for a while --- loud and clear.
And no doubt Diane was with Kara at this very moment, adjusting to their new lives together. As I put the phone receiv
er back down, a bleak little thought traipsed through my mind. The two cousins up at the parking lot, arguing and talking with each other. Diane with Kara this cold October evening, and Paula Quinn was well, with her lawyer friend, Mark Spencer. Felix down south, vying for the attention of two bikini-clad sisters.
And me?
I went out to the small living room, turned on the television set quite loud, and went into the kitchen to find something to do, something to make for dinner.
About four hours after dinner the ringing phone in my bedroom shot me up like somebody had just drilled a load of adrenaline into my spine.
I fumbled in the darkness and the voice on the other end said, "Mr. Cole? Don't turn on any lights."
"Don't turn on --- who the hell is this?"
"It's me, Tom Duffy. I'm in the hotel across the street. Don't turn on your lights. We got movement on the north side of your house. Frank's going over to check it out."
I rolled out of bed and in the darkness grabbed my 9mm Beretta from the nightstand. I shivered in the cool air, threw on a terry-cloth bathrobe that had been tossed on the bed. I kept the phone to my ear as I moved through the bedroom in the darkness.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Two a.m."
"What kind of movement?"
"One person, out by the rocks. Moving slow, heading your way. I spotted it about ten minutes ago. We're both on night-vision scopes, old Russian stuff that's still pretty good."
I was on the stairway, moving slowly downstairs, the hand holding the pistol gently tracing the wall for guidance. At the bottom of the stairs I went over, made sure the front door was locked.
"What's he doing?"
"Who? Frank or the guy?"
"Frank."
"Frank's coming down your driveway."
"And the guy?"
"Looks like he stopped for a second. Okay. I think he's checking things out with a pair of binoculars. Hold on."
Buried Dreams Page 15