It started about noon.
The rush to buy heavy-duty locks and ammunition.
By three o’clock, Kevin Waggoner, the clerk at Ace Hardware, was selling his seventeenth box of Remington cartridges that afternoon. He was wondering whether there was some way he could jack up the price without the boss finding out and pocket the difference.
“You been selling lots of ammo?” the latest customer asked. He was Joe Coleman, the owner of the pharmacy and the mayor of Ice Island. Coleman was one of those people whose skin was so white he looked anemic. His slight frame and thin gray hair added to the perception. The veins in the backs of his hands stood out like the secondary highways on a road map.
“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Cartridges and locks. We’ll be out of both by tomorrow if it keeps on like this.” He handed a box of .38 Remingtons to Coleman.
“Man’s gotta protect what’s his,” the mayor-pharmacist said.
Kevin nodded. No one had ever tried to take anything away from him, so he’d never given too much thought to protecting what was his. But then, as Irene was always pointing out to him, he didn’t have a whole lot of possessions. Marrying Irene, Kevin was coming to realize, was probably not the smartest thing he had ever done.
“I don’t know who this psychopath is,” Coleman said. “But if he comes into my house, he’s going to go out in a body bag.”
Although Kevin Waggoner would be the first to admit he wasn’t the most perceptive person in the world, even he could see that Coleman was trying to convince himself. His jerky hand movements gave him away, as did the breathy quality of his voice, the haunted look in his eyes. The eyes were the main thing. All the people who had come in to buy cartridges and heavy-duty locks had that look in their eyes. The whole damn town was scared.
“Later on, I’m going to talk to Don Farraday,” Coleman said. “See what progress he’s making. Whoever this maniac is, we need to get him locked up as quickly as possible.”
After Coleman was gone, Kevin Waggoner got a box of .45-caliber ammunition and slipped it under the counter. He had a U.S. government type .45 automatic pistol at home. Maybe he should get it out, clean it and oil it, have it ready. Just in case.
2
Kesselring wasn’t in his room. As Don drove away from the Superior Motel, heading west on Island Avenue, he tried to concentrate on the familiar surroundings as a means of getting his mind off the five murders he was supposed to solve.
On his right was the elementary school, a long one-story building with the U.S. and Michigan flags waving out front. On his left was Phil Deemis’s Shell station, which was across the street from the town’s only park, a square block of trees and picnic tables and playground equipment. In the next block, across the street from the city hall and police station, was the grocery store. He passed Coleman’s Pharmacy and then the island’s only stone building, the First Lutheran Church. Reverend Pfeil was up on a stepladder, attaching a banner to the front of the building that said revival 7 p.m. Friday.
Although Don wasn’t terribly interested in religion, Allison was into it, and she insisted that he accompany her and Sarah to church on Sunday mornings. Don’s mother had had an attitude like Allison’s, so he had been attending the First Lutheran Church of Ice Island most of his life. He had never known it to hold a revival, something he associated with more fundamentalist denominations. Inwardly he shrugged. Reverend Pfeil probably wasn’t going to get much of a turnout. Ice Islanders tended to be staid, conservative, Germanic types. Waving their arms in the air and praising Jesus wasn’t their style.
Don decided he’d try the Icicle Lounge first. It was where he’d found Kesselring last time, and even if the ex-cop wasn’t there, he still needed to talk to Sally Wolfe, the co-owner and principal cocktail waitress.
Kesselring wasn’t there, so he sat down in a booth and waited for Sally to come over and take his order. The only other customer in the place was old Ralph Higgins, a retiree who’d spent most of his life working as a maintenance engineer at the Soo Locks at Sault Ste. Marie, where Lake Superior met Lake Huron. Superior was twenty-one feet higher than the lower Great Lakes, and the locks were the only way for the big ore carriers from Duluth and other Lake Superior ports in the United States and Canada to get out of (or onto) the lake. It was a subject Higgins could talk about for hours, and Don was glad the old man hadn’t noticed him.
“Hi, Don,” Sally Wolfe said, stepping up to his booth. Her smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. “I guess you’ve really got your hands full, huh? I mean, with the murders and everything.”
Don said that was true.
“Nothing like this has ever happened around here before,” Sally said. She let it hang there, as if she was waiting for Don to tell her it would be all right, that she didn’t have to go to bed with a gun under her pillow and try not to sleep too soundly. When Don failed to do that, she said, “I’m a little scared. I think everybody’s a little scared.”
Unable to think of anything he could say that would help, Don motioned at the booth’s unoccupied seat. “Would you mind joining me for a moment?”
“Oh, sure.” She sat down, patted her salt-and-pepper hair, looked at Don expectantly.
“Have you seen the man I was talking with the last time I was here?”
“Kesselring? Sure, he’s in here all the time. Always has that black case with him that looks like there’s a flute inside—except it’s too long for a flute, isn’t it? What’s he got in there? You know?”
“No,” Don said. “I don’t. Does he talk to you when he comes in?”
“A little. He’s asked me twice about people acting strangely.”
“Did he explain that?”
“No, he just wanted to know if anyone was acting strangely.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That everybody was acting strangely what with all these murders. They don’t know who to trust.”
“And if I asked, what would you tell me?”
“Same thing.”
“What else has he talked about?”
“When he was here earlier, he was talking about the murders, but then that’s what everybody’s talking about.”
“What exactly did he say about the murders?”
“Not too much. He mainly listened. Said he used to be a policeman, so whenever the subject came up, he was usually drawn into the conversation because he’s an ex-cop. Because he knows more about murders than we do, I guess.” Suddenly her face drained of some of its color, and her eyes widened. “Don … is he a suspect?”
“I don’t have anything on him, Sally. I’m just checking him out because he’s the only stranger on the island.”
She nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on him. “Don, do you have any idea who it is?”
A jillion answers went through Don’s mind. Yes, but I can’t discuss it in public right now. I’m following several promising leads. An arrest is imminent. But Don had never been very good at lying, especially to people he knew well. So he took in a slow breath and said no.
Sally Wolfe seemed to be trying to find something encouraging to say. Like she had every confidence in him. Or how that maniac had better watch his step with Don Farraday after him. But she said none of these things. She just stared at him, looking frightened.
“Sally,” Don said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but people in your line of work hear things.”
“I hear a lot of things,” she said. She smiled faintly. “I’m a good listener.”
“What do you hear about Paul Edley?”
“I hear he was promiscuous.”
It was the first time Don had heard the term applied to a man. Like calling a guy a bitch. It just didn’t sound right. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“He made it with every woman who was willing.”
“You hear any names?”
“Only one lately. Irene Waggoner.”
“Thanks, Sally.” Don slid out
of the booth. It was the second time he’d heard Irene Waggoner’s name in connection with Edley. Although he had nothing to connect her with the Gordons, he was still going to have to check out both Irene and her husband, Kevin.
“You think Irene had something to do with it?” Sally asked. The frightened look was back on her face.
“I’m just checking out every lead,” he said.
As he walked through the lounge, he nodded to Sally’s husband, Todd, who was tending the bar. Todd nodded in return. Don could feel both the Wolfes watching him as he stepped through the door.
3
The Islander Cafe was on the same block as the church, on the other side of the street. Don parked in front of the restaurant. As he got out of the car, he noticed that the minister had finished putting up the banner announcing a revival.
He found Kesselring in the restaurant, drinking a cup of coffee at a table. The pool cue case was resting on the seat of an unoccupied chair.
As Don sat down, Kesselring said, “I hear you’ve had another murder.”
“Another four, to be exact.”
“Am I to assume I’m a suspect?”
“Let’s just say you’re still the only stranger on the island.”
“Did you check the murder weapon you found at Edley’s for prints?”
“Yes. I found prints, but not yours.”
“How about at the Gordons’ place? You find my prints there?”
“No.”
“So I’m not a very good suspect for any of the murders.”
“Not in terms of physical evidence, no.” Don’s tone made it clear Kesselring was far from being off the hook, however.
Nancy Nowaski came over to see whether Don cared to order anything. He asked for a cup of coffee. After she brought it, he said, “Lieutenant, where were you between eight and midnight last night?”
“Icicle Lounge. You can ask the barmaid.”
“The whole time?”
“It’s the only thing in town that’s open after eight.”
“I’ll check that.”
Kesselring nodded. “I’m not responsible for what’s happening here,” he said.
Don was almost certain that Kesselring knew more about what was going on than he was willing to admit. Had he chased two killers here, Edward Dwyer and someone else, someone whose presence on the island wasn’t known? Was he a bounty hunter, afraid of losing his commission? But then these were just wild guesses. Very wild. And probably very inaccurate.
Don said, “Why do you keep asking if anyone is acting strangely?”
For several moments, Kesselring just stared at him. He took a slow breath, let it out. “I don’t want any more people to die.”
“Me neither,” Don said. “Tell me what you know. Help me stop this.”
“Look for people acting strangely.”
“Why?”
“If someone is acting strangely, it’s probably the killer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you find someone acting strangely, call me. Immediately.” His eyes bore into Don’s. The ex-cop was utterly serious about this.
“What do you mean by strangely?” Don asked.
“In any way. People being withdrawn, not being themselves, sudden shifts in behavior—anything like that.”
“What…” Don let his words trail off. He had no idea what to ask.
“There will be more killing,” the ex-cop said.
“How do you know?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
Kesselring shook his head.
“I could arrest you for withholding information,” Don warned.
“Save your breath. You’re talking to a career cop.”
“I don’t want anyone to die because you didn’t tell me everything.”
“Neither do I.” Kesselring stood up, picking up his pool cue case.
“We’re not through talking,” Don said.
“Do what I told you,” Kesselring replied. “Watch for people acting strangely. And if you get a lead, let me know. I can help.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“Because it’s the truth. Because I know how to deal with what you’ve got here.”
“What do I have here?” Don asked, rising so he’d be on Kesselring’s level.
“A … sickness. A killing sickness. If you find one killer, it can move to another, and people will start dying again. You can’t stop it.” He grabbed Don’s arm, squeezing it tightly. “I know how to stop it. So, for God’s sake, call me if you learn anything.” He whirled away from Don and strode out of the restaurant.
Don stared after him, totally befuddled. What the hell was the man talking about? A killing sickness only Kesselring could stop? Don’s first inclination was to dismiss the former policeman as a nut case. The things he said simply made no sense.
Or was this just a way to avoid telling Don what Kesselring’s real purpose was? Give crazy answers and the man will think you’re nuts and leave you alone.
Don finished his coffee, wishing more than ever that he had some help. Maybe the state police would know how to deal with Kesselring. Don had no idea what to make of him.
A killing sickness.
Nonsense, Don thought. And yet the words hung there. Ominously.
4
The hardware store was right next to the restaurant. As Don walked from one door to the other, he glanced at the church. revival 7 p.m. Friday. He wondered whether he was wrong about how many would attend the meeting. Maybe people were so unnerved by the murders that they’d go just to be with others, forget the horror for a while, and maybe stand together as a community.
Don found Kevin Waggoner at the cash register, talking to Hank Bergstrom, who was buying a dead-bolt lock. Both men eyed him somberly, without the customary smiles and small talk.
“That was terrible what happened to the Gordons,” Bergstrom said, breaking the silence.
Don agreed.
“Were they really … eaten?” Bergstrom asked, making a face.
“The killer used his teeth to tear them up.”
“I heard that Michael’s head was … was removed.”
“He was decapitated.”
No one spoke, the silence getting more palpable by the moment. Hank Bergstrom again broke it. “Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Not yet,” Don said.
The silence settled in again, nobody saying it but everybody thinking it: It’s your job to protect us, Don Farraday, As long as this bloodthirsty lunatic is still out there, we’re all in danger, and it’s all your fault, because you’re not doing your job well enough. The unspoken accusation seemed to float in the air like dust particles caught in a sunbeam.
Maybe it was just Don’s imagination. Maybe they weren’t thinking that at all. But they would be if there were more murders and no arrests. And maybe they’d be right. A real cop, one trained to handle things like this, might be able to apprehend the killer. This was the first time Don had ever had doubts about his ability to do the job, and he was learning that doubts were like cockroaches. Let a couple in, and you had hundreds, then thousands, skittering through the dark corners of your consciousness, nibbling away at your self-confidence.
Hank Bergstrom paid for his lock and left, saying he hoped Don caught the crazy son of a bitch before he could hurt anyone else. Don said he hoped so too.
“Been selling a lot of locks and ammo,” Kevin Waggoner said.
Don studied him. Kevin weighed at least two-fifty. His belly hung over his belt. He had flabby arms, a puffy-looking face, a double chin. Anywhere you touched him, he’d probably be soft, like a woman’s breasts. And he had a problem with body odor. There was always something vaguely acrid about him, even in the dead of winter, when most people’s sweat glands seemed to hibernate.
“How well’d you know Paul Edley?” Don asked.
“Didn’t,” Kevin Waggoner replied. “I’m about six years older than he w
as, so we didn’t even go to school together. You looking for people who might have known him?”
Ignoring his question, Don said, “How about the Gordons? You know them?”
Kevin shook his head. “Naw. They only moved here a few years ago, and everyone I know is a native—like us.” He grinned, and for a moment Don thought Kevin was going to wink. Native to native, pals, kindred spirits.
“Where were you last night between eight and midnight?” Don asked, and Kevin’s grin vanished. His jaw dropped about half an inch. He stared at Don as if to say, Why you asking me—your pal and fellow native—that question?
“Hey,” Kevin said. “I mean, you don’t think …”
“It’s just routine, Kevin.” The line always worked for Joe Friday.
“If it was just routine, you’d have asked Hank. But you didn’t. You’re only asking me. How come?” Kevin was starting to look worried.
And what the hell was Don supposed to say? That Kevin’s wife was boffing Edley, which gave Kevin a motive for killing him? That maybe Kevin enjoyed murdering Edley so much that he decided to make it his hobby, see how much bloodier he could make each one than the one before?
“I heard that you and Edley didn’t get along,” Don said.
“Who said that? I told you I didn’t even know the guy.”
“Kevin, I’ve just got to check out everything I hear, that’s all. Now if you’ll just answer my question, I’ll go away and leave you alone.”
“Which question?” Kevin Waggoner’s eyes were small, and at the moment he was staring at Don like a frightened rodent.
“Where were you last night between eight and midnight?”
“Home. Ask Irene.”
“All night?”
“Of course. We watched TV and went to bed about ten-thirty. What else is there to do on the island?”
“And when—”
“When Paul Edley was murdered? I was either here or at home. The Split’s on, man. The only movie theater’s on the mainland. The only bowling alley’s on the mainland. When you can’t get off the island, work and TV’s all there is.”
Not for your wife, Don thought, but he kept the comment to himself.
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