Buried Dreams

by Brendan DuBois

  The phone was put down on a table or something, and I could hear a murmur of voices. Tom came back on the line and said, "Okay, Mr. Cole. You stay put. It's gonna be busy here for a sec. Where are you?"

  "Right by the front door."

  "All right," Tom said. “I’Il make sure Frank doesn't come into your house. Anybody coming into your house, he's a bad guy, all right?"

  I sat on the bottom of the stairs, pistol in hand. "Sure. Anybody comes through the front door, I'll blow his ass away."

  Tom chuckled. "That's a good attitude. You stay on the line, all right? I'm gonna lead Frank right in on the target, but you be careful. There might be other guys out there."

  The phone went down again, and I put my own receiver between my ear and my shoulder. The murmur of voices in the background continued. I took a series of deep breaths, trying to ease the jackhammer in my chest that was threatening to punch a hole into my aorta. There was something strange and terrifying and even comforting, being in my warm and locked-down house, pistol in hand, while two strangers outside on my land danced and moved toward each other. The murmur of the voices was a little drone inside my head, as I imagined Frank out there, with earphone and throat mike, perhaps, being told by his cousin where to go and what to do.

  And the guy out there, with the binoculars? Ray Ericson, maybe?

  Here to check things out for his buddy William Gagnon? Or somebody else connected with Jon's murder and the disappearance of the Viking artifacts? I strained to hear anything from outside, like somebody walking or coughing or talking, but there was nothing. Just the constant murmur of the waves. At least that sound would give Frank some cover, as he crept up on my trespasser.

  The voice from the phone made me jump for the second time that night. "Mister Cole?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Okay, the guy's gone."

  I let a breath out. "Where did he go?"

  Tom said, "I don't know if he got spooked or something, but when Frank got to your house, he just turned around and started climbing back up the rocks, up to Atlantic Avenue. He moved slow and Frank did his best to follow him up, but by the time he got to the road, there was nobody. Just some taillights, heading north."

  I let the pistol drop into my lap, shifted the phone to another hand. "Did the car have one or more in it?"

  "Hold on." More murmuring and then Tom came back and said, "Sorry. Frank just saw taillights. Nothing else. Couldn't even tell what vehicle it was."

  "Oh, Well, tell him thanks for me."

  "Sure will. Look, you all set?"

  "For now," I said. "How about you two?"

  "Frank's gonna do a little walk up and down the road, just to make sure your visitor's gone. I'll ride shotgun with him from the hotel room. We'll call you if anything comes up. All right?"

  "That sounds fine," I said, standing up. "I think I'll go back to bed."

  Tom said, "Sounds like a good idea. Get some sleep. Sorry to have woken you up."

  "Nothing to apologize for," I said, and I hung up and walked back upstairs. I put the pistol back on the nightstand --- not in its holster, so I could get at it quickly if necessary --- and after dumping the robe on the bed, crawled back into the still warm sheets. My hands and feet were cold and the jackhammering in my chest had slowed down to a steady thumping, and I stretched out and stared up into the darkness. I thought about what had just happened and I guess I should have been wired or concerned and certainly sleepless, but the thought of Felix's two men out there, keeping a safe watch over me, actually calmed me down such that the next thing I knew, the morning sun was glaring into my bedroom, and it was time to start a new day.

  It was a warm day for October, and I spent most of it around the house, waiting for Felix to call from Florida, waiting for the two cousins to report anything new, and mostly just waiting. I caught up on a bunch of old newspapers --- let two days' worth of New York Times accumulate unread and you've already kissed away an hour of your time --- and spent another couple of hours doing mindless work around the house, stuff that always needed to be done and which never got done because so many attractive excuses could be rustled up. So as the day wore on and I kept the television set tuned to an all news cable station, I cleaned the stove, emptied the refrigerator of mummified and dehydrated food stuffs, and tried to keep as busy as possible.

  Lunch was soup and chunks of cheddar cheese and fistfuls of saltine crackers, and as the sun warmed up the front yard, I went out again, dirt -encrusted spoon in hand, to dig on the other side of the door, sifting the dirt as before, and, as before, finding nothing.

  Following some of the digging, I rested for a while on the granite steps, thinking about the past few days, about the grip of history. Jon and his love of the Vikings, trying to prove his ancestors had come here. William Bear Gagnon, with love of his own ancestors --- as murky as that might be --- trying just as hard to keep the memory of his forebears alive. Professor Hendricks, trying to measure and record history, the same as Brian Mulligan up north, in self-imposed exile because his view of history wasn't respected.

  And me?

  Just trying to find things out.

  Part of the curse, perhaps, or the blessing, to living in a part of the nation where the history was hundreds of years old, and the history sometimes had a habit of rushing in and grabbing you by the neck.

  Back to work I went, digging again in the hard soil, the sun warm on my back. I dug around the foundation, sifting the soil, finding pebbles, rocks, and, once, a piece of seashell. As the afternoon dragged on, I found that instead of being bored, I was actually enjoying the monotony of the work, the digging, the sifting, and the piling up of the dirt. Maybe because the work took my mind off other things. Maybe because I was getting my hands on my own little piece of history. Who knows.

  What I do know is that the afternoon went along quite well, even though as I worked, something metallic and unyielding dug into my back. My 9mm Beretta, just in case something or somebody got through the Duffy cousins. I dug until the sun had moved, my back was now getting cold, and my fingers were cramped and soiled. I got up, my knees yelling at me for having been in one position for so long, and so I limped into my house, wondering if archeologists had football player knees after years out in the field. Upstairs I dumped my dirty clothes into the laundry basket and went into the bathroom, turning on the shower nice and hard and hot.

  I stayed until the hot water started turning lukewarm, and I got out, grabbing a nice thick towel. Fresh out of the shower, I checked my skin for bumps and swellings, thinking again of history. My medical history, of course, where there was always a little ticking bomb inside of my bloodstream, from when I had been in the employ of the government. The shower ritual was one that would last me until the day I died, and the cold thought that came on some days --- usually in the middle of a dark winter --- that who knew how many days away that might be.

  Freshly dressed and back downstairs, there was a blinking numeral 1 on the answering machine. The call must have come in when I was in the shower. I touched the replay switch and the whir-whir-whir of the tape went on for a bit, letting me think that I didn't have a hang-up call this time.

  And I was right.

  The comfortable voice of Felix came out of the tiny speaker:

  "Hey, Lewis. You know who this is. Well. It's been a productive trip but I'm sure as hell am not going to leave you a message about it. My flight heads out in about... a half hour. I'll give you a ring tomorrow. I know how much you value a good night's sleep." He laughed at his own little joke and then hung up.

  "Thanks," I said to the answering machine, and then I went out in the living room, saw it was near dusk. What now? Wait for Felix or do something?

  It didn't take long for me to make up my mind. Sitting on my butt over the next few hours, at least on this couch, wasn't going to happen. I got up and got my low-rent surveillance gear together and headed out into the fading light. Something about William Bear Gagnon didn't seem right, and I thought it w
ould be a nice night for a get-together.

  In Porter I lucked out twice right from the start. The first bit of luck was that Gagnon's pickup truck was parked in the same place as before, and the second was that the driveway I had used the night before was still empty. I backed in and switched off the engine and waited.

  Lights were still on at the storefront, and again I could make out movement back there, behind the glass. I rubbed at my jaw and thought over the message Felix had left me. A productive trip. In the manner and way of how Felix talked, it meant some good things had come out of his Florida travels, and I didn't mean any erotic encounter with two bikini-clad sisters. Maybe I should have stayed home this evening, waiting for him to show up. Maybe. But I still felt right, sitting here, keeping watch on things.

  Movement, across the street. Three students heading out, laughing and talking among themselves. I had a feeling that one of them had performed an oral service on William Gagnon the night before, and for the life of me, I could not figure out why she would be laughing. I rubbed my hands together, kept my eyes on the storefront.

  Lights off.

  I started up the Ford.

  Movement. I wasted a few seconds, getting the binoculars up and focused. There. William Bear Gagnon, in his pickup truck, and alone this time, heading out onto the street. I pulled out and followed him a block, and then switched on the headlights.

  There. Hunter and the hunted. And this night, I wasn't going to let him get loose.

  We made a pretty direct route through this part of Porter, getting onto Harborview Road, and then made a right onto an exit that lifted us up onto 1-95, heading north. We went over the Kittery Memorial Bridge, and we were in Maine. Traffic was light and keeping track of his truck was fairly simple. Maybe because it was his criminal record or maybe it was just the way he drove, but he kept it straight and narrow, not speeding, not doing any lane changes as we headed into Maine. He took an exit just before the famed outlet malls at Kittery, and in a matter of minutes we were heading west through the towns of Kittery and Eliot. The road was now two-lane and busy, with service stations and stores and garages on either side, but not too many homes. A few minutes later, he took another right, on a rural road that didn't even have a street sign to announce its location.

  I was getting thirsty, but I didn't dare try to reach for the water.

  I didn't want to fumble around and lose track of the truck and the taillights up ahead, moving into this fairly empty stretch of Maine. I tried to keep my speed down, so that it wasn't so obvious that I was following him, and a few times, I lost track of him on a particularly sharp corner or bend of the road.

  All right. Brake lights up ahead, and he made a right, going down a steep dirt driveway. I gave it a quick glance as I went ahead, again not slowing down that much, but I did see that there was a house trailer down there, and a woodpile. I drove a number of yards, saw another dirt driveway with a sign that said NO TURNING. I turned in and thought, well, it's more like backing in and out than turning, and then, lights off, I slowly went back down to Gagnon's driveway.

  Lucky again. Brush and leaves had fallen away with the onset of fall, giving me a somewhat cluttered yet clear view of Gagnon emerging from his pickup truck. He walked up to the front of the trailer, carrying a bag or something under his arm. He walked slowly, limping as he went up to ---

  Limping.

  Gagnon was limping.

  And it came storming back to me, that night at Ray Ericson's store with Felix, when I had turned around, thinking Felix was coming over to me, and that hammer blow to the chest, me falling to the ground, avoiding a boot to my head, Bailing around, finding an antique knife, raising it up and stabbing the assailant in the leg.

  Gagnon, really favoring a leg now, was at the front door of the trailer. It looked like he was fumbling around with the key, and then he unlocked the door and was inside, slamming it shut behind him.

  My chest ached. I tried to ease my breathing. It didn't work. I put the Ford in park, switched off the engine, and reached over and under the newspaper and grabbed my pistol.

  It was time for a talk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There were no streetlights about and the light from the trailer wasn't much, so I took my time, walking down the steep dirt driveway, thankful that it wasn't the middle of winter. I wanted my hands free in case I stumbled, so I put the pistol in my rear waistband, wincing at the cold metal against my skin. I also had the flashlight in a coat pocket, just in case. I kept to the side as much as possible, thinking that the overhanging tree branches would provide some sort of cover. At the bottom of the driveway, at a cleared area where the pickup truck was parked, I went behind the rear of the truck, watching.

  The trailer had seen better days. Around the base somebody earlier had installed a white picket-type fence, but now most of the wooden slats were broken or had rotted way. Parts of the trailer were rusting, and it sagged at one end, like one of those old Soviet submarines slowly sinking at dockside. Utility wires ran from the top of the trailer and followed three poles up to the top of the driveway.

  It was quiet inside the trailer. I waited some more, and then tensed up as the door flew open and Gagnon limped out. He was whistling something and had on a down vest, and he went to the rear of the trailer. I kept my hands together, to keep them from shaking. Only a few seconds passed and then Gagnon came back, whistling still, carrying two chunks of firewood in his arms. Back up and inside he went, and after a few minutes more, I made out the comforting scent of woodsmoke.

  I got up, my knees creaking from all the abuse I had given them these past days, and I went around to the front of the trailer, thinking things through. Gagnon was limping, and some sort of sense was coming together. Obviously he knew Ray Ericson in prison. Ray was on the run. So, Gagnon was at Ray's store the night Felix and I visited. What was he doing there then? Casing the place? Grabbing some records? Or maybe he had been hiding-or even trying to retrieve-the missing Viking artifacts and panicked when Felix and I had shown up.

  I moved out past the side of the trailer, where I spotted a chimney pipe. It looked homemade. I shuddered. Though they were metal, house trailers like this one could go up in flames and be a charred shell in a matter of minutes, and it was either extreme stupidity or carelessness or-more likely than not-extreme poverty that had Gagnon living like this, heating a trailer with wood. I tried to see through the windows, to spot where he might be, but my angle wasn't right, and I didn't want to risk going out farther into the woods to see through the windows, and raise a lot of noise in the process.

  Up ahead was a woodpile, covered by a blue plastic tarp.

  And it was by the woodpile, as I was circling around to come back toward the front of the trailer, that one hand softly grabbed my shoulder, and another hand, holding a knife it seemed, was brought to my throat.

  I froze.

  A quiet, calm voice. "Just so we have an understanding here, you're trespassing."

  "That I am."

  A chuckle. "Damn, it is you, Cole. What the hell are you doing out here?"

  "Interested in a magazine subscription?"

  I could sense his breathing. "Not fucking particularly. What I am interested in knowing is why you're out here, peeking in my windows, looking into my business. You a voyeur, a freak?"

  "Nope, just a writer. Looking for some information."

  A gentle jab of the knife into my throat. "Information? You're looking for information, out here in my yard? Not even a phone call, a visit?"

  "You're not in the book."

  "The fuck right I'm not in the book."

  I said, "Look, let's calm down, all right? My apologies for trespassing. I'm just trying to find out-"

  "No, you calm down. You fuck. You think you can just come here, hunh? Just like that? Come into my turf? Man, I should just cut your throat and dump your body out here. Nobody would miss you, right?"

  Well, maybe a few people would miss me, but I was getting tired of this
. "William, look, why can't we ---"

  Another jab from the knife, harder than before. "No. No more talking on your part. You know what? I think I'm going to cut you, just for the fun of it. What do you think about that?"

  I fell forward, right past the woodpile, the knife blade scraping against my cheek. As I fell, I grabbed a length of wood and rolled over, and as Gagnon came to me, I popped him one across the nearest knee. He yelped but kept coming at me, as I moved around to the front of the trailer, where there was more light from the windows, and Gagnon came at me, face mottled with anger, knife out in a classic knife fighting pose --- no TV nonsense of overhanded blows with the knife, the correct way was holding it out and extended, with fingers relaxed, other hand held high to distract you --- and he said, "Man, I was just going to cut you once, but you're going to get it bad."

  I stepped backward quickly, my hand reaching underneath my coat, grabbing onto the blessed Italian metal of my Beretta, and I pulled it out, extending it toward him in the approved combat stance, pulling back the hammer so there was no confusion about there being a round in the chamber.

  He stopped moving. I took a series of breaths. I said, "Ever hear the joke about coming to a gunfight with a knife?"

  "Yeah."

  He didn't say anything more. I took another breath and said, "Put the knife away, and I'll put the pistol away, and we can talk."

  Gagnon grinned. "Maybe I'll come right at you. Maybe I'll cut you anyway. What are you going to do, shoot me?"

  "The thought's entered my mind."

  "Yeah, you fuck. And what will you tell the cops then? Huh?"

  "I'd say I came over for a friendly talk, and this ex-con with a violent record lost it and came after me. Who do you think they'll believe? An ex-con with a bullet in him, or a writer with no criminal history?"

  The grin faded. “What do you mean, ex-con?"

  "I mean the time you served up in Warren, that's what I mean."

  Now the grin was gone. "You fuck."