Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3)

by Leverone, Allan

  Rainwater dripped steadily off Mike’s soaked clothing onto the lobby floor as he waited for Sharon. He was daydreaming about a hot shower and change of clothes when a distraught young woman burst through the double glass front doors, sobbing and wild-eyed. Paskagankee was a small town and over the course of his two-year stint as chief of police, Mike had gotten to know every resident, at least by sight. He had never seen this girl before.

  She advanced across the big, open lobby, not quite running, and pulled up sharply when she caught sight of Mike. “Help me,” she said. “I need someone to help me!”

  Mike reached for her elbow and led her to a metal bench, where she sat reluctantly. He could see dispatcher Gordie Rheaume peering curiously through the big plate-glass window separating the lobby from the offices within. “What’s your name, Miss?” he asked quietly.

  “Jodie Miller,” she said between sobs. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed.

  “Hi, Jodie, I’m Mike McMahon, former police chief here in Paskagankee. What seems to be the problem?”

  “My boyfriend…it’s my boyfriend.”

  “What happened to your boyfriend?”

  “He was attacked inside his house. He…I think he’s hurt bad,” she said, dissolving into a fit of tears. By now Sharon had entered the lobby from the interior of the station and she watched the exchange curiously, saying nothing. Mike noticed with a hint of jealousy she had changed into dry jeans and a University of Maine Black Bears sweatshirt.

  “Who attacked your boyfriend, Jodie?”

  “I don’t know who he was! I walked up to the house and before I could use my key, Bronson opened the front door.”

  “Bronson is your boyfriend?”

  She nodded distractedly. “He was all out of breath, like he had just run the Boston Marathon or something, and his clothes were torn and his hair a mess. He told me to get out and bring back the police, and then…and then…”

  The young woman broke down crying again, and Mike said softly to Sharon, “Go get Pete.” She nodded and used her ID to buzz through the locked doors, disappearing the way she had just come. Gordie continued watching from the dispatcher’s office, his eyes wide and curious.

  Mike turned his attention back to the distraught woman. “So, you got to Bronson’s front door and he was disheveled when he opened it. What happened then?”

  “And then some guy came up behind him, from inside the cabin, and smashed a gun down on the back of Bronson’s head! He moaned and his eyes rolled up into his skull and he dropped straight down. He fell half in and half out of the house. Oh, God, I’m afraid he’s hurt bad, please, you have to get help!”

  “We’re getting help right now, I promise,” Mike said gently. “An officer is already notifying Chief Kendall. A unit will be on the way to Bronson’s house in a matter of seconds. What’s the address?”

  “He lives way up in the woods off Route 28.”

  Mike furrowed his brow. “Route 28? Does he live anywhere near the Ridge Runner?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, the trail leading to his cabin is maybe a half mile north of the Ridge Runner on 28. It’s called Long Pond Road. But to get to his cabin, you have to drive a long way on the trail. His house is probably three-quarters of a mile into the woods, more or less directly behind the Ridge Runner.”

  Alarm bells started going off in Mike’s head. What were the chances this attack – if it was an attack – was unrelated to the disappearance of a body from the strange underground room discovered earlier today at the Ridge Runner? Mike had spent a lifetime in law enforcement and knew the answer to that question: virtually none.

  The interior station doors opened again and Sharon stepped through, followed by Pete Kendall. They moved quickly next to Mike and the young woman. He nodded to them and then turned his attention back to Jodie Miller. “So,” he said. “Bronson told you to get out and you saw the attacker strike him on the head. Then what happened?”

  “I sort of froze for a second, then I took off running. I jumped back in my car and headed straight here.”

  “Did you try calling 911?” Mike asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

  “Of course,” she said. “But the signal kept fading in and out. I couldn’t get my cell to work at all.”

  He nodded. It was a common problem in Paskagankee.

  “I was scared to death,” she continued, reliving the moment, “because Bronson’s driveway is tiny and very narrow. So is Long Pond Road, for that matter. I had to turn my car around before I could get out. The guy who attacked Bronson had plenty of time to get to me and stop me from leaving if he had wanted to.”

  “What happened?” Mike asked. He had worked more than one home invasion while a member of the Revere Police Department, and he knew the typical suspect in that time of crime would go to great lengths to avoid allowing a witness to escape.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, a sense of wonder creeping into her voice. “He didn’t come after me. He stepped over Bronson and followed me down the stairs at first – he was right behind me! – but the minute he saw me heading to my car, he backpedaled like nobody’s business. I took one last look at him after I had gotten my car turned around, and it was like he was…I don’t know…cowering in fear or something. It was almost like he had never seen a freaking car before. Like he was afraid of it.”

  The alarm bells clanged louder in Mike’s head. Something was very wrong here, far beyond a home invasion in the sticks, an occurrence that was rare but not unheard of around Paskagankee. The region was vast and remote, making it ideal for the construction of meth labs, and sometimes disputes among cookers escalated into deadly violence. This was more than such an incident, Mike was certain, and he could see by the look on Sharon’s face she felt it as well.

  Pete cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m Chief Kendall, Ms.…”

  “Miller,” the young woman answered automatically.

  “Ms. Miller,” he said. “Our dispatcher copied the address while you were talking to Mr. McMahon. An officer is on his way to your boyfriend’s cabin now. Why don’t you come inside with me and have a seat until he reports back. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  Pete led the young woman inside the station and moments later returned alone. He said, “Harley’s on his way now and we should have this mess straightened out soon.” He fixed Mike with an intense stare. “My first thought was drugs, but it seems awfully coincidental that this guy would be attacked in a home invasion not a mile away from where a body disappeared earlier today, don’t you think?”

  Mike smiled tiredly. “I knew there was a reason I recommended you for this job.”

  “You mean above and beyond my pretty face?”

  Now he laughed. “Yeah, above and beyond that.” To Sharon he said, “I don’t think there’s any more we can do for Ms Miller, and you look exhausted. Let’s get out of here.”

  9

  Mike sat at the kitchen table eating apple pie and sipping hot coffee as Sharon rinsed the dinner dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. He had briefly considered a glass of something stronger, but decided to follow his general rule of thumb: support Sharon, a recovering alcoholic, by passing on the alcohol.

  He had half-heartedly offered to help her clean up, knowing she would refuse since he had cooked dinner. When she did, he smiled in satisfaction. He much preferred watching her petite but shapely form glide around the kitchen to scrubbing and rinsing a meat loaf pan.

  A hot shower had rejuvenated his spirits after the long afternoon spent in the cold northern Maine rain. He avoided discussing the Ridge Runner case over dinner to give Sharon a break – he had been away from the job for months and over that time his old love for law enforcement had returned with a vengeance, but he knew being a cop was still a day-to-day grind for her – but now that the roast was gone and cleanup mode was in full swing, he decided it was time to approach the subject.

  He cleared his throat and she turned away from the
sink, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “The disappearing body,” she said with a knowing smile before he had said a word.

  “You know me so well.”

  Sharon laughed. “Dude, you’re not that hard to figure out.”

  “My ex-wife never seemed to manage it.”

  “Her loss,” Sharon said.

  “Well, you’re right on target about the topic for discussion, wise ass, but what am I thinking now?”

  “Let’s see,” she said, biting her lower lip and furrowing her brow as she feigned intense concentration. She looked beautiful. “You’re torn between wanting to get me into bed right now and the desire to discuss a potential connection between the disappearing body and the attack at Jodie Miller’s boyfriend’s cabin.”

  Mike shook his head with a grin. It was spooky how this young woman could almost see right into his head. “I give,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “You’re amazing. So, what do you think? It seems to me there’s no way those two events could be unconnected. You must have an opinion on the subject. I want to hear it.”

  She opened her mouth but before she could answer, the phone rang.

  ***

  Pete Kendall’s voice was grim. “I’m sorry to bother you after a long day,” he said, “but Jodie Miller wasn’t exaggerating about an altercation at Bronson Choate’s cabin. If anything, she might have understated the seriousness of the situation.”

  Mike waggled his fingers at Sharon, calling her over. “Pete, I’m putting you on speaker so Sharon can hear.” He pressed a button and said, “Okay, go. How bad is it?”

  “Choate is dead. His body is crumpled right in his front door. The positioning is consistent with the way Ms. Miller described the attack. And his skull was caved in from the back. Blunt trauma. Multiple blows, from the looks of it, although obviously we’ll need Dr. Affeldt’s confirmation of that.”

  “The doer is long gone, obviously.”

  “Yep, but the crime scene is…strange…to say the least. I know it’s late, and I hate to ask, but I’m in way over my head here, Mike. Would you mind coming out and giving the scene a once-over with me?”

  “No problem, Pete.” Sharon pointed at Mike and then at herself, and he added, “Sharon says I’m not allowed to leave without her. I’ll have company, is that okay with you?”

  “Hell, the more the merrier, although that’s probably not the best phrase to be using right now.”

  “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  ***

  An overcast layer blocked out the dazzling spray of stars normally visible in the northern Maine sky as the Explorer bounced and jolted along the rough trail officially known as Long Pond Road. Evergreens crowded the vehicle from all sides, combining with the weather conditions to form an inky blackness as nearly complete as Mike had ever experienced. The truck’s headlights stabbed through the night and were quickly gobbled up by the encroaching darkness.

  “Jeez,” Sharon remarked after they had crept along the rough trail for nearly ten minutes. “This guy really valued his privacy, didn’t he?”

  “For all the good it did him,” Mike answered as they turned a corner and the trail widened slightly. The headlights washed over an SUV with Paskagankee Police markings that had been parked in front of a tiny but solid-looking cabin constructed in the middle of a small clearing. The SUV sat dark and silent. Chief Pete Kendall was nowhere to be seen.

  “Pete must be inside,” Sharon said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Mike answered, noting the cabin’s open front door and an indistinct lump of shadow, presumably Bronson Choate’s body, positioned half in and half out of the home. Mike eased to a stop behind the police vehicle, which had been squeezed into a small space next to a Jeep Mike didn’t recognize. He shut down the engine and sat for a moment, staring at the scene through the windshield.

  “You seem uneasy,” Sharon said. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Something’s not right. Pete calls us asking for help and then doesn’t come to the door when we show up?”

  Sharon shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here.”

  “It’s as dark as the bottom of a coal mine out here. Our headlights lit up the front of that cabin like the noontime sun. Pete should have known we were coming long before we arrived.”

  Sharon stared at him, saying nothing. Finally Mike said, “Well, this isn’t accomplishing anything. Let’s go find Pete and get this show on the road.”

  They picked up their flashlights and stepped out of the truck, then walked side by side across the small front yard. “I’m liking this less and less,” he mumbled.

  “What is it?” Sharon said.

  Mike held out an arm to stop their progress. “Listen,” he said. “What do you hear?”

  Sharon paused for a moment, concentrating, and said, “There’s a small engine running behind the cabin. Probably a generator, which makes sense, right? There are no power lines running this far out in the boonies, so Choate must have used the generator to power his lights and such. Pete must have started it up when the light began to fail.”

  “Exactly,” Mike said. “So how come the cabin is pitch-dark? Pete starts the generator and then doesn’t bother to turn on any lights?”

  “Oh-oh,” Sharon whispered.

  “Exactly.” Mike eased his gun out of its shoulder holster and Sharon did the same. He lowered his voice. “We’re not going inside until we’ve cleared the exterior. You circle around the house that way,” he gestured to the left, “and I’ll go this way,” he nodded to the right. “We’ll meet up at the generator and then enter the cabin.”

  Sharon nodded and began moving slowly away.

  “Hey!” Mike whispered.

  She stopped and turned.

  “Until we know what’s going on, don’t walk directly in front of any windows, you’ll just make yourself a target if anyone’s inside.”

  She nodded a second time, shielding her flashlight with a palm, and then flitted along the front of the home like a wraith.

  Mike watched until she disappeared around the corner of the cabin, then he eased the other way, alert for trouble, skirting a row of small ornamental shrubs that seemed incongruous to the setting. Who the hell would ever see them way out here besides the guy who had planted them?

  Rounding the corner, he scanned the tree line to his right, the edge of the massive forest barely visible in the all-encompassing darkness. It was no more than a slightly darker smudge looming high above in the blackness; a presence felt more than seen.

  It seemed somehow malevolent.

  Mike’s unease intensified. Something was very wrong.

  He took a step.

  Another.

  A third, and he was almost but not quite surprised when he tripped over…something. Whatever it was had been piled on the flat ground directly in his path. Mike had been so intent on scanning the tree line he had walked right into it. He wind-milled his arms and took a half-step to the right to keep from falling, and then he uncovered his flashlight and swung the beam to the ground.

  And discovered Pete Kendall lying in a heap, unmoving, his glazed eyes staring sightlessly into the black Paskagankee night.

  10

  Blood had pooled on the ground around Pete’s head. It was beginning to congeal at the edges, but much of the puddle remained wet and gruesome-looking in the weak beam of Mike’s flashlight.

  He knelt and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Pete Kendall was gone.

  Mike shone the light on the face of his watch. Nine forty-five. It was less than forty minutes ago that they had received the call from an obviously alive Pete Kendall. He had been upset at finding Bronson Choate’s body but nothing in the tone of his voice had indicated he felt he was in any personal danger. Whatever happened to him after the phone call had occurred within a very small window of opportunity, and the now-dead cop had never seen it coming.

  “Goddammit,” Mike muttered.

  From behind
the house a quiet disembodied voice asked, “What’s taking you so long?”

  Sharon Dupont rounded the corner, her form mostly indistinct in the dark, and then she gasped as she rushed to Mike’s side. “What happened to Pete? Is he okay?”

  Mike looked up bleakly and shook his head. “He’s dead,” he said. “It looks like his skull was smashed in, exactly the injury he told me on the phone that Bronson Choate suffered. He never even drew his weapon, which meant he was caught completely by surprise.”

  “Or he knew his assailant.”

  Mike shook his head. “I don’t think so. Even in the dark, you can see that his skull was split open from behind. He was ambushed.”

  Sharon stared at Mike, her eyes wide and spooked. “What do we do now?”

  “We call for backup and then clear the house. Whoever did this should be long gone, but he stuck around after killing Choate; there’s no guarantee he isn’t still here…somewhere…right now. After that, we need to get the bodies transported to the morgue to be examined by Dr. Affeldt. Then we need to notify the Town Council. We’re down one Chief of Police.”

  ***

  Vehicles lined the trail leading to Bronson Choate’s isolated cabin, choking the narrow path like weeds in an untended garden. Police cruisers, ambulances, unmarked civilian cars. All had been hastily parked anywhere their drivers were able to find – or make – room. Flashing red, blue and yellow emergency beacons splashed around the clearing in headache-inducing repetition.

  After radioing for backup, an impatient Mike and Sharon had cleared the cabin, refusing to take the time to wait for Harley Tanguay – the only Paskagankee cop on the night watch still alive – to drag his ass out to the middle of the forest. They moved steadily from room to room, flipping lights on as they went, discovering quickly that the brutal executioner of at least two people was nowhere inside.