The Siege

by Hautala, Rick

  “Well,” Angie said huskily. “I think we ought to get cleaned up before your gram calls us in for supper.”

  “We can use the outside faucet,” Lisa said, starting across the lawn the cellar bulkhead. “Less explaining to do that way.”

  “Good idea,” Angie said.

  “One other thing,” Lisa said, but she cut herself off and kept her gaze fixed firmly ahead.

  “What?” Angie said, and she snagged Lisa’s arm, making her stop and turn to face her. “What other thing?”

  Lisa’s face did a slow, agonized twist, and Angie thought she was going to cry. Maybe the stress had finally gotten to her, and she was set to fall apart now that it was all over.

  “Did you notice? When I stuck that pitchfork into that man’s wrist, he…” She stopped herself and looked down at the ground, her jaw clenching and unclenching.

  “Yeah?” Angie said, pressing.

  “Did you notice that when the pitchfork went right through his wrist, his wrist… didn’t bleed?”

  IV

  The closest Dale could come to describing supper at Mrs. Appleby’s was that it reminded him of Thanksgiving dinner at his grandmother’s house when he was a boy. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had had a real home-cooked meal that included homemade wheat rolls, roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, peas, carrots, and tossed salad with three kinds of lettuce. Dessert was something else, too: a choice between homemade blueberry pie or fresh-made strawberry shortcake. Dale and Angie both tried some of each.

  “I’m glad we’re only going to be here for a few days,” Angie said, “ ’cause if we were here very long, I’d go home a blimp.” She laughed, but when she saw the sadness that flashed across Lisa’s face, she let her laugh die. It didn’t take her long to feel close to Lisa, and the sudden realization that she would soon lose her newfound friend hit her like a splash of icy water.

  Dale tried to smile, too, but as soon as he remembered that they were here for Larry’s funeral on Monday, the quiet pleasure of supper instantly evaporated. He sat silently sipping his coffee while Lisa and Angie scrambled around, clearing the table and getting the dishes ready to wash. Mrs. Appleby was sitting back, enjoying an after dinner cigarette. It surprised Dale that she smoked, and he commented on it.

  “I know I should quit, but I only smoke Carletons, now,” she explained, chuckling. “They’re not much more than colored air.”

  Dale nodded agreement, having fought his own battles with nicotine. “I think it’s nice the way Lisa and Angie have hit it off so quickly,” he said. “I mean, here we are, not even in town for three hours, and she, in fact both of us, feel like we’re home visiting for the holidays.”

  “Well, like I said,” Mrs. Appleby replied, blowing out a pale plume of smoke, “I started renting out rooms so I wouldn’t be lonely once I retired. ’Course, once Lisa moved in with me, I had all the company I needed, but by then I was used to having a few other folks around.”

  “I can’t imagine all of your boarders get a meal like this, though,” Dale said, leaning back and patting his stomach.

  Mrs. Appleby flicked the tip of her cigarette into the ashtray and then took another shallow drag. “You know, I must admit I had a bit of an ulterior motive,” she said. Her eyes flicked quickly at the kitchen doorway before she continued. “You see, Lisa’s been living with me for almost four years, now, but she still… I don’t know, she just doesn’t seem to have much of a knack for making friends around town. She’s pretty much a loner, and frankly, I liked the looks of both you and your daughter right from the start.”

  “I think it works out fine because it gives Angie something to do besides mope around in a motel room,” Dale said. “And I think Lisa’s a very nice girl. You must be proud of her.”

  “Very,” Mrs. Appleby said, smiling warmly at Dale. “You know, I kind of sensed right off that they’d like each other, and I don’t know. I guess I was being a little selfish hoping Lisa would have someone around for a few days, someone her own age. I mean, here she is, stuck in this house with her old granny, and I, well, never mind. Listen to me. I could blab on all evening. You wanted to go over to Mildred Cole’s tonight?”

  Dale stroked the side of his face and heaved a deep sigh. “Yeah. I suppose I should. I just want to, you know, speak with her before the funeral and tell her how sorry I am about what happened.”

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Mrs. Appleby said, snubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. “The longer you live, the more you see of death, but I’ll never understand why the young have to die like that.” She looked at Dale, and her blue eyes glistened brightly. “It’s about the only thing that sometimes shakes my faith in the Lord.”

  Dale nodded his tacit agreement, not wanting to say anything about his own faith or more truthfully, his lack thereof.

  “Well,” he said, sliding his chair back and standing up slowly. “If the girls are going to do the dishes, I’ll guess I’ll go.”

  “You know where to go now, right?” Mrs. Appleby said.

  Dale nodded. “Yup. Down through the center of town, the first left after the police station.”

  “Ridge Road.”

  “Right. Second house after the school on the left.”

  “You’ll know you’ve gone too far if you see a sign on your right for the town dump.”

  As it turned out, Dale did miss the house on his first pass and ended up turning around at the entrance to the dump. As he pulled up in front of the house, he saw two cars in the Cole’s driveway. He knew Larry’s father was dead, so that must mean someone was staying with Mildred.

  Actually, now that he thought about it, Dale guessed that Larry would probably be buried right next to his father. On their way into town today, he had noticed a small cemetery named Brooklawn and had assumed that’s where Larry would be buried. The funeral, Mrs. Appleby told him, would be at Rodgers’ Funeral Home, and he reminded himself to look for it before returning to the boarding house.

  Dale idled the car for a minute before killing the engine. Then, taking a deep breath, he got out and walked up to the front door. There was only one light on in the house, and from behind a drawn curtain, he could see the flicker and hear the low buzz of a television set.

  The night air was chilly, and a faint puff of steam came out of his mouth as he blew out his withheld breath and rapped gently on the door.

  At first, there was no response, but after a second knock, he heard someone approach the door. There was a loud chunk as the deadbolt lock turned, and the front door opened a crack. One eye peered out at him through the crack. Dale saw the safety lack chain stretched to its limit.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice said, muffled by the door between them.

  “Mrs. Cole?” Dale said. “I’m…”

  “Mildred’s asleep right now,” the person said, her voice a sharp whisper. “Can I help you?”

  “Well, I’m Dale Harmon. Larry and I worked together in Augusta.”

  “Oh, yes,” the woman inside the house said. “Just a minute.” The door closed, and Dale could hear it as the woman slid open the chain lock and opened the door wide.

  “Good evening,” she said, extending her hand out to Dale. “I’m Roberta, Mildred’s sister.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Dale said, shaking the thin, dry hand. “I only wish it was under better circumstances.”

  Roberta rolled her eyes heavenward and took a deep, sighing breath. “I know, I know. It’s been very difficult on Mildred. Other than me, she’s left alone in the world.”

  Dale smiled grimly, waiting to be invited in, but so far, it appeared he would spend his time visiting on the Cole’s front steps.

  “Mildred said Larry mentioned you quite often, and yes, I think I recall some flowers arriving from your department.”

  Dale nodded, grateful that Nichols had gotten right on it. “Perhaps I’d better come back another time,” he said, feeling awkward. “I just wanted to speak with Larry’s moth
er for a minute.”

  “I told you,” Roberta said, “Mildred’s asleep right now. The doctor prescribed a tranquilizer for her, and the damned things knocked her right off her feet. ’S probably just as well, I suppose.”

  Dale shrugged and took one step backward, about to leave.

  “You know, Mr. Harmon, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Mr. Harmon, you being from Augusta and working for the state and all, maybe you could help us out.”

  Dale frowned, genuinely confused. He wondered if maybe Larry’s death had seriously affected his aunt. She was staring at him with rounded eyes and a deep furrowed brow, looking for all the world like she just took a short trip around the bend. Maybe, he thought, she should try one of her sister’s “tranqs.”

  “Ahh, how do you mean?”

  “Maybe you could use some of your pull in Augusta to help us to get to see Larry.”

  Dale shook his head and reached into his pocket for his car keys for a bit of reassurance. “I don’t understand,” he said, holding one hand up helplessly.

  “They won’t let us see him,” Roberta said. Her voice was low and thin, and she leaned forward as though afraid even now she might wake her sister.

  “Franklin Rodgers, the funeral director, won’t let us look at the body. He says the accident was so horrible, he’s insisting on a closed casket service, and he doesn’t even want my sister to see him, not the way he is now.”

  The first thought Dale had was that he hoped Mildred had someone, a minister or close friend to talk to, anyone but her sister. If Larry’s death affected her this much, then Mildred was going to need some serious counseling to get her over it all.

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason for that,” he said. “I mean, if he was really, you know, bad off, it might be too much of a shock for her to see him like that. I’m sure this Mr. Rodgers wants you and your sister to remember Larry the way he was when he was alive.”

  Roberta shook her head viciously from side to side. “No! No!” she hissed. “Just the opposite. I think my sister has to see him, dead like that, so she can start to accept it and live with it.”

  Dale took another step backwards, wishing he had just waited until the funeral to speak with Larry’s mother. He hadn’t counted on a crazy aunt.

  “I’ll see what I can do about it,” he said, jingling his car keys in his hand. “Tell Mildred I was by when she wakes up, okay?” He wasn’t entirely sure how much of his visit would be relayed to Mildred, and he started to think that the less said, the better.

  “I will, don’t you worry,” Roberta said as she started to ease the door shut. “You just do what you can so my sister can see her boy one last time, all right?”

  Dale nodded and, turning, started down the walkway to his car. He resisted his impulse to run the distance, and he felt a slight measure of relief when he heard the Cole’s front door slam shut and the rattle of the chain lock as Roberta ran it back into place.

  V

  Angie pretended to be sleeping when her father came up to the room sometime after midnight. She heard him stumbling around in the dark, tripping over unfamiliar furniture and fumbling through his suitcase. Her body tensed as she forced herself to breathe evenly and deeply.

  After supper, her dad went out to visit with Larry’s mother, but he had returned quickly, saying it wasn’t the right time. So after a mug of hot chocolate, she had said goodnight to him, Lisa, and Mrs. Appleby, and gone upstairs to bed. For more than two hours, though, she laid in bed, listening to the buzz of conversation downstairs in the living room.

  What stuck in her memory, replaying with frightening intensity, was that face, a grinning, leering face with insane, glowing eyes, looking up at her through the shattered wood of the loft door. Her wrist still burned where the man had held her; and when she had washed up for bed, she had carefully studied the bright red half-moons where his grimy fingernails had dug into her skin. The cut from the splinter still hurt, too, but she and Lisa had secretly washed and bandaged it up without anyone finding out.

  Most frightening of all, though, was when Angie thought about that steely grip. It didn’t feel like it was around her wrist; she couldn’t get rid of the sensation that those bony fingers were closing around her throat, cutting off her air and making her pulse hammer in her ears.

  i

  She stirred, rolled over onto her side facing the wall, and groaned when her father sat down on the edge of his bed, making the bedsprings creak. He took off one shoe and let it drop to the floor.

  Like soft hammering! Angie thought, and a surge of panic almost made her cry out.

  He took off the other shoe and let it drop; then he got up and went into the guest bathroom down the hallway.

  The whole time he was gone, Angie lay, staring wide-eyed at the blank wall no more than a foot from her face. Her father left the door open a crack, and the light from the hallway cast her rounded shadow on the wall. Then the door opened, and she saw another shadow loom up over her own. Again, she almost cried out in fear. The shadow looked too large, too slouch-shouldered, too misshapen to be her father! It got bigger and bigger as it came toward her bed.

  A sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead as she gripped the sheets into tight-fisted balls. The shadow grew larger as the slow, steady thumping of its tread got closer and closer!

  Angie tried to keep the thought out of her mind, but all she could think of was that, with a sudden, inhuman grunt, the shadow would suddenly materialize and come crushing down on her. Its bony fingers would reach for and find her neck, and then slowly… painfully crush her throat to pulp.

  “Dad?” she whispered, her voice a gravelly gasp.

  “Sorry, Angie,” her father said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” The bedroom door eased shut again, and the room darkened.

  Angie frantically wished she could get enough air into her lungs and enough courage so she could tell her father about what had happened out at the barn. She knew she should tell him about it, but then again, she and Lisa hadn’t been hurt and maybe Lisa was right. They should keep quiet about it and make sure they never went to the old barn again!

  She stirred and rolled onto her back, smacking her lips and muttering a string of senseless words, pretending to talk in her sleep.

  Her father came over to her bed and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Are you awake?” he said, so softly she could barely hear him even at this close range.

  She snuggled down into her pillow and again smacked her lips, wondering if she was laying it on too thick. As much as she wanted to say something, as much as she wished she could just fall apart and cry on his shoulder, she forced herself to keep her eyes shut and to feign sleep.

  Lisa was right, she decided after all. Just forget all about what happened out there at the barn. Keep the secret of Lisa’s “secret place”! But that didn’t stop the nightmares that came later, once she fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  “Some Unanswered Questions”

  I

  At six-thirty on Sunday morning, Kellerman’s Cafe had all the smells and warmth that only a small-town, working-class greasy spoon can have. Over the snap and sizzle of frying eggs and bacon, and the shouting of orders to Herbie, the cook, and requests for coffee refills, the steady drone of conversation was reassuring to Dale that even in the face of death, life did go on. He found that, ever since Natalie’s death, he took to noticing such reassurances.

  Between the much-too-soft mattress, the sounds of Angie’s disturbed sleep, and thinking about his awkward conversation with Larry’s Aunt Roberta, Dale hadn’t slept very well. He figured Mrs. Appleby saw through his lie when he told her he had “slept like a baby.” He hoped she wasn’t offended when he refused her offer of breakfast but said, instead, that he wanted to take a few hours to look around town. Angie was sleeping soundly, finally, when he tiptoed downstairs.

  Even on a Sunday, when most families were either sleeping late or getting ready f
or church, Kellerman’s was busy. Farmers, truckers on a long haul, and a couple of mechanics sat around at the worn mint green linoleum counter or in the padded booths by the window. Two waitresses in light pink uniforms, one white-haired and elderly, the other well on her way to looking old before her time, dashed back and forth between counter and booths and the ordering window. Dale learned there was a bar downstairs, making Kellerman’s practically the only local entertainment short of a drive into Houlton. He imagined seeing these same faces in the bar on a Saturday night.

  For the money, though, Herbie slung some mean hash browns and sunny-side-up eggs. Dale knew the cook’s name because every other sentence he heard was a sharply barked, “Herbie, I need this! Herbie, where’s my order?” from one or the other waitress. He wondered if Herbie was Kellerman, but from the way the waitresses yelled at him, he doubted it.

  Dale finished scooping up the last bit of yolk with his crust of toast when he looked up and saw a policeman walk in from the back door. The cop was middle-aged, maybe mid-forties, Dale guessed, and beneath his well-pressed uniform, he looked a bit worn out. Although sturdily built, his gut looked flabby and hung out over the edge of his belt. His service revolver looked heavy and mean riding on his right hip.

  “‘Mornin’, Cloe! Hi ’yah, Ruth,” he said, nodding at each woman as he hoisted himself up at the counter near the cash register.

  Herbie glanced up. When he saw the policeman, he touched the rim of his grease-stained chef’s hat in a weak salute and immediately reached for two eggs and broke them open onto the griddle.

  Before the policeman said anything else, Cloe, the older waitress, slid a cup of coffee down the counter to him. “How goes the battle?” he asked, looking down as he stirred two packets of sugar and a squirt of milk into his coffee.

  Cloe snorted as she turned away. “Nothing a year’s vacation in the Bahamas wouldn’t fix,” she said.

  It was times like this that Dale yearned for a cigarette, but he pushed aside the dented green ashtray—color coordinated with the countertop—and contented himself with his refill of coffee. Sitting back in the booth, he took a moment to size up the policeman.