Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3)

by Leverone, Allan

  He made a mental bet with himself that the caller would be Annette, then he punched the flashing button to activate the circuit. “Paskagankee Police,” he said, and congratulated himself when a voice much too young to be Rose Pellerin’s answered.

  “Yes, hello,” the voice said hesitantly. “This is Annette Middleton over at Needful Things.”

  “Hello, Annette,” Gordie said. “How can we help you?” Gordie had dropped candy bars into a young Annette’s goodie bag at Halloween for many years and saw no reason to provide cold, impersonal service simply because he represented the police department.

  “I…I’m not exactly sure,” she said. “I just talked to Rose at home, and I got the definite impression that something was wrong.”

  “Wrong, how? Did she sound sick?”

  “That’s the thing, I don’t know. She may have been sick, but it sounded more like…”

  “Yes?”

  “Gordie, I might be crazy, but she sounded terrified, like she was trying to hide how frightened she was, but couldn’t quite do it.”

  “She sounded afraid? Did you ask her what was the matter?”

  “She couldn’t wait to get me off the phone. Gordie, I hate to ask, but could you…”

  “We’ll send an officer out there right away,” he interrupted. “It’s no problem.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said, the relief evident in her voice. “I’m sure I’m just being silly, but something just seemed…wrong.”

  ***

  Standard operating procedure in Paskagankee was to have two units patrolling during the day and one at night from Sunday through Thursday. On weekend nights, a second unit would be added. Sharon was working the day shift today with Harley Tanguay, and she had told the other officer when they were coming on duty that she expected to spend the majority of her day in the Route 28 area, specifically in the vicinity of the Ridge Runner. Harley had agreed to cover the remainder of Paskagankee, an area massive in size despite being lightly populated.

  Common sense would seem to indicate the killer of Bronson Choate and Pete Kendall was long gone by now, probably halfway to the West Coast, but Sharon wasn’t so sure. If he were going to flee, he would have done so after killing Choate, but had apparently chosen to stick around. He had to have been hiding in the thick forest to get the jump on a good cop like Pete Kendall. Who was to say he wasn’t doing exactly that now?

  The prospect was creepy and frightening, and Sharon wondered if maybe the double murderer was somehow drawn to the area for reasons as yet unknown. Hell, maybe he was a Paskagankee resident, although why anyone would want to kill Bronson Choate and Pete Kendall, two men seemingly with nothing in common, she couldn’t imagine.

  In any event, the theory was worth pursuing, and she had spent most of her shift cruising Route 28 within a two to three mile radius of the Ridge Runner and criss-crossing the many back roads and fire trails interconnecting the remote area.

  So when Gordie’s call came in, Sharon responded to it immediately. She had never visited Rose Pellerin’s home, but was well familiar with its location. Rose lived only about a mile-and-a-half east of the Ridge Runner, not far from her brother Bo’s house.

  On Route 28.

  The only information Gordie had passed along was that Rose hadn’t shown up for work today, and when her young assistant called to check on her, she said Rose had seemed preoccupied and frightened.

  Another disturbing incident in roughly the same geographical area as the disappearing body and the two murders.

  Sharon goosed the powerful Police Interceptor engine and the cruiser barreled along the mostly deserted road. She would arrive at Rose’s home within minutes, and although the nature of the call couldn’t have been more routine, she felt a nervous tension begin to fill her gut and unfocused dread begin to worm through her.

  She wasn’t a friend of Rose, but having grown up in Paskagankee, she had known the woman – at least to smile and wave hello to – for as long as she could remember. Rose was the polar opposite of her brother Bo: where he was suspicious and taciturn, she was open and friendly. With all that had happened recently along this lonely stretch of Route 28, Sharon felt her concern was justified.

  She spun the wheel in her hands with practiced ease, whipping around hairpin turns and cresting hills with barely any reduction in speed. After nearly a lifetime spent in the little town, Sharon felt she could probably drive even its most remote roads with her eyes closed.

  Another sharp turn and a rare quarter-mile straightaway and Rose Pellerin’s saltbox-style home rose in the distance. It was surrounded by a neatly maintained yard, with acres of gently waving field grass beyond, and Paskagankee’s ubiquitous massive, hulking forest looming in the distance.

  Sharon slowed just enough to make the turn, then accelerated up the long dirt driveway. A rooster tail of dust rose from behind the vehicle, eliminating any possibility of a quiet entrance, but there was no way to avoid alerting potential lawbreakers to her arrival. The only alternative would be to park the cruiser at the end of the driveway and hike the several hundred feet to Rose’s front door, but the sick feeling in Sharon’s gut was telling her she couldn’t afford to waste that much time.

  She jerked the cruiser to a stop and leapt out while the car was still rocking on its springs. Jogging up the walkway, she scanned the front of the house, particularly the downstairs windows, looking for any signs of life, but there was nothing. The house stood silent.

  She took the steps two at a time, lifting her hand to rap on the door, and was surprised when it swung open before she could knock. In the foyer stood Rose Pellerin, white-faced and shaken but very much alive. “He left maybe ten minutes ago,” she said before Sharon could speak.

  “Is anyone else here?” she said, placing a hand on the gun holstered at her hip.

  “No,” Rose answered. “It was just the one man and he’s gone. I watched him disappear into the woods the same way he came.”

  Sharon looked closely at the older woman. A mottled purple bruise had formed on the right side of her face along the jawline. “Are you alright? What happened here, Rose?”

  “I’m okay,” she said quietly. “I don’t know who he was. A man, maybe mid to late thirties, with long stringy hair. And filthy. It was like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. He walked out of the woods while I was hanging up my laundry, appeared out of nowhere. He was on me before I even noticed him.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Food,” Rose said, surprising Sharon. “He wanted food, said he was ravenously hungry.”

  “All he wanted was a meal?”

  “Apparently,” Rose said. “He ate the omelet I made him even though it was burned almost beyond recognition. He had a cup of coffee with it and then just walked out the door.”

  “Did you recognize him? Maybe seen him around town, or in your shop?”

  Rose shook her head firmly. “No. I’m certain I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Oh, yes. I spent over an hour staring at his face in my kitchen.”

  Sharon pulled a neatly folded piece of paper out of her breast pocket. Jodie Miller, the girlfriend of the murdered Bronson Choate and the woman who had somehow survived her face-to-face encounter with the killer, had spent the previous evening with a police sketch artist developing an image of the murderer. A copy of the sketch had been handed out to each patrol officer as well as faxed to law enforcement agencies around the state. Sharon smoothed her copy on a nearby table and watched as Rose glanced at it.

  She nodded immediately. “That’s him.”

  “Take a good look. Are you sure?” Sharon asked.

  “Oh yes, dear, I’m sure. That’s the man who was eating at my table not twenty minutes ago.”

  Sharon pursed her lips and blew out forcefully. “Then you’re extremely lucky. We have a witness who watched as this man murdered a Paskagankee resident in his home last night, and he’s also the onl
y suspect in last night’s murder of Chief Kendall.”

  Rose gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Pete Kendall is dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I assumed you would have heard. It’s been all over the news, both locally and nationally.”

  “I haven’t turned on the television or the radio today.”

  “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, Rose. Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment I’ll call an ambulance to transport you to the hospital in Portland.”

  Rose waved her hand impatiently. “I don’t need to go to the hospital,” she said. “I’m feeling much stronger already, despite the horrible news about Chief Kendall. A good night’s sleep is all I need, and then I’ll be right as rain.”

  Sharon narrowed her eyes and gazed at the older woman closely. Her preference was for Rose Pellerin to get checked out, but she couldn’t force the issue if the woman refused. Finally she nodded. “Okay. But listen, it’s very important you keep all your doors and windows locked until we catch this guy. And we will get him. He should have run like a rabbit last night, but he’s staying right in this area for some reason. And while we don’t know what that reason is – yet – it gives us a leg up on locating him.”

  She refolded the sketch and slid it back into her pocket. “If you see or hear anything suspicious – and I mean anything – call the station and we’ll have someone here in minutes.” She jotted her number down on a slip of paper and handed it to the woman. “This is my home number. Call it any time you think you need to.”

  Rose folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. “In the meantime,” Sharon said, “I’m going to call this in. You can expect to see an increased law enforcement presence in the area, as well as searchers canvassing the forest behind your house. Don’t be surprised if you see or hear them working later on today, okay?”

  “I understand,” Rose said. “And I know you’re in a hurry. But there’s something you need to know about this man.”

  Sharon waited impatiently. The more time she spent here, the harder it would be to pick up the killer’s trail.

  “There’s something…off…about him, even above and beyond the fact that he’s a murderer. When my telephone rang, it was like he had never heard the sound before. He was like a spooked animal. Same thing with my coffeemaker. He was scared to death of the damned thing. My coffeemaker,” she repeated for emphasis.

  Sharon chewed on her lower lip, thinking. “Sounds like maybe he was high on something.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rose said. “He was jumpy and nervous and almost as scared as I was, but he wasn’t slurring his words and his eyes weren’t bloodshot or anything. He stunk to high heaven, but he didn’t strike me as being impaired by drugs or alcohol.”

  “Okay,” Sharon said, shrugging. “I admit, that sounds a little odd, but the guy killed two people last night. He’s probably not thinking too clearly right now.”

  Rose said, “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He thinks it’s June, 1858.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The man thinks we’re living more than one hundred-fifty years ago.”

  Sharon stared at Rose without speaking. She had absolutely no idea what to say.

  22

  Mike looked at Sharon quizzically. “1858? What are you talking about?”

  She smiled at his obvious confusion and the sight dazzled him just as much now, nearly two years into their relationship, as it had the very first time he had experienced it. “That was my reaction, too,” she said. “But Rose swears the man who killed Bronson Choate and Pete Kendall thinks we’re in the middle of the year 1858.”

  The couple was finally home. In what had become a nightly ritual, Mike lay on the bed watching Sharon brush her hair before bed. Mike tried to remember the last time he had been this tired and couldn’t.

  The remainder of the afternoon had been an exercise in frustration. After getting word from Sharon that Rose had positively identified the man who had accosted her in her home as the killer, he had organized a massive search of the woods behind the Pellerin house. Dozens of Paskagankee residents, fearful and angry about the murder of their police chief, had taken part.

  As Mike had suspected, the FBI agents, Ferriss and Cooper, must have been hanging around town monitoring their police-band scanner, because they had shown up a few minutes into the search and been pressed into service as well.

  Mike had done his best to stay out of the pair’s way, not wanting to take the focus off the search for the fugitive by getting into another confrontation. But the feds had – surprisingly – been reasonably cooperative, at least compared to earlier in the day, and Mike was surprised how at-home they seemed in the vast wilderness north of Paskagankee, Maine.

  Despite their best efforts, however, the search had turned up nothing, and when the sun disappeared below the horizon and darkness fell shortly thereafter, the search was suspended.

  With all that had happened between the attack on Rose and the intense forest search, Sharon had neglected to mention the fugitive’s bizarre conviction that he was living more than a century and a half ago to Mike until now. He gazed at her, trying to absorb the information, distracted by the sight of his beautiful fiancé in her short silk nightgown. “1858,” he muttered.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, the smile returning.

  Mike chuckled. “I imagine you do,” he said. “It’s the same thing I’m thinking every time I see you in that nightie.”

  She playfully swatted him on the arm. “I mean I know what you’re thinking about the whole 1858 thing.”

  “Is that so?” he challenged. “Let’s find out. Give it your best shot, sweetheart.”

  She locked eyes with him, smiling playfully but speaking confidently. “You’re thinking about the condition of the rotted wooden furniture in that underground room next to the Ridge Runner. You’re trying to figure out if there’s a connection somehow, if it’s possible that furniture has been down there – along with those human remains – for the last one hundred and fifty-five years. That’s what you’re thinking.”

  Mike laughed out loud despite his exhaustion and the disappointments of the day. “Why do I ever doubt you?” he asked. “I wish I knew how the hell you do that.”

  She blew him a raspberry. “You’re not that hard to figure out, dude.”

  “Really?” he countered, reaching out and encircling her waist with his arm. He pulled her down to the bed next to him and she snuggled close. “And what am I thinking now?’

  “The same thing I’m thinking.”

  And then the phone rang.

  ***

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “But you said I should call at any time if I remembered something.”

  “Of course, Rose,” Sharon said. “It’s not a problem. You’re not bothering me at all, I was just…getting ready for bed.”

  “Oh Lord,” the older woman exclaimed. “Just forget I called, and we can talk about this tomorrow.”

  “No, I insist. It’s really no bother. What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” Rose Pellerin said. “You remember I told you my attacker was convinced the year was 1858?”

  “Yes,” Sharon said with a chuckle. “That’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

  “Well, as you might imagine, after you left it was all I could think about. Something about his mention of that particular year bothered me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was, but it was niggling around in my brain. So I did a little research and I finally figured it out.”

  “Okay…” Sharon said, waiting for her to continue.

  “Well, this isn’t the sort of thing we can really do over the phone,” Rose said. “I think you might want to come out here and see for yourself.”

  Sharon thought about Mike’s exhaustion, and how she was nearly as tired as he, but when she glanced over at him, he retur
ned her look with an alert stare. “Alright,” she said. “We’ll be right over.”

  “Thank you so much,” Rose replied. “But I’m not at home. Come see me at Needful Things.”

  23

  The roads of Paskagankee were even quieter than usual at this time of night, and Mike and Sharon made good time getting from Sharon’s house on the outskirts of town into the small strip mall housing Needful Things. Rose Pellerin’s curio shop was located on the south end of the concrete block structure next to a pizza/sub shop that had closed its doors for the evening by the time their car rolled into the lot.

  In fact, all of the storefronts were dark with the exception of Rose’s. The interior of Needful Things was brightly lit, although the proprietor was nowhere to be seen through the plate-glass window.

  As they stepped out of the vehicle Sharon murmured, “I hope to hell she didn’t leave the place unlocked for us. I told her to be extra careful this afternoon.”

  They crossed the lot and Mike tried the door, Sharon nodding with satisfaction when it refused to budge. There was no bell, so he rapped his knuckles sharply on the glass, and a moment later Rose came bustling around a corner at the rear of the store. She moved carefully around rows of greeting cards, knickknacks, stuffed animals and scented candles before unlocking the door and throwing it open.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said with a bright smile. “Again, I’m very sorry for calling you at such a late hour.”

  Mike shook Rose’s hand and said, “Put any worries out of your mind. If you’ve got any information that can help us get to the bottom of whatever is going on here, this will be time very well spent, believe me.”

  Rose’s smile flickered uncertainly and she said, “Well, I’m not sure that what I have to show you will be of any use whatsoever. In fact, it might serve to muddy the waters further. But I thought you should see it, anyway, and make up your own minds about what it may or may not mean.”