“Fair enough,” Mike said. “So, what do you have for us?”
“It’s in the back storage room,” Rose said, turning toward the rear of the shop and the small doorway she had walked through upon their arrival.
They followed her as she retraced her steps around all of the display merchandise. Sharon said, “Rose, you look so much livelier than when I saw you this afternoon. Are you feeling better?”
“Oh, yes dear, much better. I took a short nap and although I doubted I would be able to fall asleep with the thought of that young man lurking outside my house somewhere, I slept like a baby and when I awoke, I felt like a new woman. Also, the idea that I’m helping in some small way to get to the bottom of this mystery gives me a tremendous boost. I hate feeling helpless, do you know what I mean?”
Sharon smiled and nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. Doing something to fight back is enough to make most crime victims feel immensely better.”
By now they had reached the back wall of the shop, where Rose stepped through a small opening leading to a short hallway. At the end of the hallway was another door, which she opened and walked through. Sharon entered behind her, with Mike bringing up the rear.
The storage room was much bigger than Mike would have expected, and more chaotic as well. Sturdy cardboard boxes, some sealed and some opened, were stacked haphazardly in one corner. Mike assumed they were filled with merchandise that had yet to be inventoried and stocked. Shelves lined the walls, mostly covered with delicate-looking collectible figurines. He tried to recall whether he had seen any of the collectibles on the sales floor and could not.
Along the far wall a long table had been set up and was apparently being used as a makeshift workspace. A computer and laser printer held down one end of the table, with boxes of supplies – computer paper, printer ink, toner, etc. – placed on the floor directly beneath. To the left of the office equipment, stacked neatly, lay a small pile of yellowed newspapers.
Rose walked to the newspapers and gestured at them like a television game-show model introducing the prize behind Door Number One.
The papers looked dried-out and brittle, and Mike imagined them breaking apart and turning to dust if they were opened. They were clearly very old, and he glanced between Rose and the newspapers and said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What am I looking at?”
“A few years ago,” Rose said, “the Portland Public Library was forced to dispose of many older items they had been storing in the basement. The library underwent extensive renovations, and the city fathers determined it would be too expensive to put those items in rented storage for an extended period of time, only to return them to the basement upon the building’s reopening.”
“So you attended an auction, or something similar, and purchased these newspapers,” Sharon said, gesturing at the pile on the table.
“Among other things, yes,” Rose said, nodding. “I bought decades worth of old Portland Journal newspapers, not having any idea what in the world I was going to do with them. I just knew I couldn’t sit by and see them thrown into a furnace like common trash.”
Mike stroked his chin. “You mean the city was just going to dump all of this? What about the historical value?”
“All of these newspapers have been scanned into the library’s computer network,” Rose said, “so the information contained in them is readily available to anyone who visits the Portland Public Library. But, still, the thought of these beautiful old relics being disposed of without so much as a second thought was more than I could bear. So I bought them.”
Sharon said, “I don’t come into Needful Things very often, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen any of these items on display in the store. Have you ever tried to sell them?”
The elderly woman shook her head. “These aren’t the sorts of things my customers would be interested in. I didn’t buy them to resell; it was really more of a sentimental purchase. I had the cartons stacked in here when I bought them, and this is where they’ve stayed ever since.”
“Until now,” Mike said.
“Yes, until now,” Rose agreed. “I mentioned to Officer Dupont on the phone that the man who attacked me is quite convinced he is living in the year 1858.”
Mike nodded. “So she said.”
“Well, I’ve been fascinated with local history for as long as I can remember, which is one reason why I was so reluctant to let those old copies of the Portland Journal be destroyed. When my attacker mentioned that particular year, it rang a bell in my head. I seemed to recall that something quite significant had happened in our little town in 1858; I just couldn’t put my finger on what it might have been.”
“So you came down to your shop and looked it up,” Sharon said with a smile.
“Yes,” Rose said. “It seemed like the thing to do, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” Mike said. “And the fact that you called us down here means you found something. What was it?”
Rose picked up the top newspaper and turned it over for their inspection. It didn’t break apart and turn to dust as Mike had feared would happen, it simply flattened out on the surface of the table.
A bold banner headline ran in faded black newsprint under the Portland Journal logo, proclaiming, PASKAGANKEE TAVERN BURNS TO GROUND. Underneath the headline, in slightly smaller print, a second headline proclaimed, ONE DEAD, TWO MISSING AS AUTHORITIES SEEK ANSWERS.
Mike leaned closer and checked the newspaper’s publication date. The print was even more faded than the headline copy, but remained legible: June 20, 1858. He shared a glance with Sharon and then turned to Rose. “The Paskagankee Tavern. I don’t suppose that would be…”
She began nodding and answered before he could even finish the question. “Yes,” she said. “The Paskagankee Tavern was the precursor to the modern-day Ridge Runner, which as you know is now owned by my brother, Bo. The structure that burned to the ground in 1858 was eventually rebuilt using the existing granite-block foundation, which survived the fire with virtually no damage.
“Now,” she continued, “I’m going to go make you folks a cup of tea. You read the story and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She turned and retraced her steps out of the storage room.
Mike and Sharon leaned over the table, moving in almost perfect synchronization, straining to read the story:
In an intense blaze, thus far of unknown origin, the Paskagankee Tavern burned to the ground sometime in the overnight hours of June 18-19. Nothing but smoking embers remain of the popular drinking establishment, the only one located in this isolated village just south of the Canadian border.
A search of the ruined tavern – delayed for nearly a full day as investigators were forced to wait for the embers to cool enough to enter – revealed the remains of a single victim, whose body was found in the basement and is believed to be the building’s owner, Lucas Crosby, age 33.
Still missing are Crosby’s wife, Sarah, age 28, and liquor distributor Matthew Fulton, age 39. Authorities have thus far refused to speculate on the cause of the blaze, and have as well refused to rule out the possibility of foul play in the death of Mr. Crosby.
Anyone with information regarding the Paskagankee Tavern fire, or the whereabouts of Mr. Fulton and Mrs. Crosby, is strongly encouraged to contact the Sheriff’s Department at the earliest possible convenience. More details as they become available.
Mike picked up the paper gingerly and turned the page, looking for any related stories, but found none. He stood up straight, stretching his back, and ran a hand through his hair absently. He could feel Sharon staring at him with those laser-beam eyes, and she said, “Well? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about coincidences,” he said, “and how little stock I put in them. We have a bizarre underground room uncovered next to the Ridge Runner, where two sets of human remains are uncovered. We have the guy who dug up the room swearing there was a third body present, a body that up and disappeared into thin air when no one was looking.
/> “Then we have a stranger who shows up out of nowhere and brutally murders two people, one of them an experienced law enforcement professional. We have the same stranger assaulting an elderly woman the following day and then disappearing again, but not before making wild statements about the year being 1858.
“Now we have newspaper evidence of a horrific tragedy – and possibly a criminal event – that took place in exactly that year.
“What am I thinking? I’m thinking that every one of these events revolves around the Ridge Runner. I just can’t put together how.”
The clanking of ceramic cups signaled Rose Pellerin’s return. She stepped expertly around the boxes of paraphernalia, handing Mike and Sharon each a steaming mug, then said, “Quite a story, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” Mike agreed. “Timely, too, given the discovery Dan Melton made next to the Ridge Runner yesterday morning. Any idea how it ended?”
“There are follow-up stories in a few issues of the Journal over the next several weeks. I’ve placed them all in the pile next to my computer,” Rose said, nodding at the small stack of equally yellowed newspapers. “Feel free to peruse them at your leisure. But according to the paper there was never any solid evidence uncovered that would explain what really happened in the Paskagankee Tavern that night. The liquor distributor’s delivery wagon was discovered hidden in the forest the next day, horse and all.
“No trace of the distributor, Matt Fulton, was ever found, nor of the tavern-owner’s wife, Sarah Crosby. The prevailing theory at the time seemed to be that Fulton and Sarah Crosby had been having an affair, and that the pair murdered Lucas Crosby, then set fire to the tavern to cover their tracks. After that they rode off into the sunset together.”
Mike thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Makes sense,” he said.
“There was only one problem with that theory,” Rose said. “Sarah Crosby’s sister Emma said she would swear on the bible that Sarah had never met Matt Fulton and certainly hadn’t been having any affair. She claimed, in a Journal interview conducted a few months later, that she was as close to her sister as was humanly possible, and there was no way Sarah could have carried on an illicit affair without her knowledge. She claimed Sarah was utterly devoted to her husband, Lucas, and that she would not rest until the story of what really happened to her sister and brother-in-law was brought to light.”
Mike glanced at Sharon, one eyebrow raised, and then turned back to Rose. “And?”
“And as far as I know, nothing ever came of it. As I said, no trace of Fulton or of Sarah Crosby was ever found. But Crosby’s sister did mention one other thing during her interview that you might be interested in.”
Mike nodded and sipped his tea, waiting for the elderly woman to continue.
“Emma claimed Lucas Crosby had been heavily involved in the Underground Railroad movement, the loose affiliation of people sympathetic to the plight of escaping black American slaves that worked to provide shelter for the fleeing escapees as they made their way to Canada and freedom. She said Crosby had modified the tavern somehow, in order to hide escaping slaves, and that she feared some harm had come to her sister and brother-in-law as retaliation for their participation in the Underground Railroad movement.”
Mike stopped drinking, his tea lifted hallway to his lips, as he digested Rose Pellerin’s statement. He thought about the potential implications of that information from a law enforcement standpoint. Finally he said, “I assume nothing ever came of this claim?”
“Not that I could find,” Rose said. “The way the claim was reported leads me to believe even the reporter wasn’t taking it seriously. No reference to it was ever made again, at least not in any of the Portland Journal articles I found on the subject.”
“Hmm,” Mike said, finishing his tea and glancing at his watch. It was nearly one a.m., and while he knew he should have been exhausted, he felt wide-awake and invigorated. He smiled at Rose. “I must say you’ve been extremely busy. Great work digging all of this information up.”
“Was it worth getting out of bed and coming over here for?” she asked timidly. Mike couldn’t help thinking what a difference there was between this lovely old lady and her unfriendly, obstinate brother.
“Oh, absolutely,” he answered. “This is extremely helpful, but I think at this point we should all get home and get some sleep. Daybreak will be here before you know it.”
The small group began strolling through Needful Things, retracing their steps toward the front entrance and the parking lot. Mike and Sharon saw Rose to her car, the two women chatting comfortably about mutual friends and acquaintances in the tight-knit community.
Mike studied Sharon’s face as she interacted with the older woman. She looked engaged and happy, and he thought about how she had lost her own mother at a young age, and how she hadn’t had a mother figure since she was twelve years old.
Rose started her car and drove slowly toward the road. They watched as her taillights turned right and disappeared. “She’ll be okay at this time of night going home alone, won’t she?” Sharon asked anxiously.
“I asked Phil Shankman to spend most of his overnight patrol time on Route 28, concentrating on the area between the Ridge Runner and Rose’s home. She’s as safe driving home as she would be inside her house with the doors and windows locked,” he said confidently.
They slipped into Mike’s car and he turned the key, pretending not to notice Sharon eyeing him intensely. When it became clear she had no intention of turning away, he gave in. “Yes?”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
She spread her hands impatiently. “What do you think about everything that just happened back there?”
“There’s one thing I know with complete certainty.”
Sharon now rotated her hands in a circular motion, telling him to get on with it, and he grinned. “I can say for sure that Rose Pellerin makes the best cup of tea I’ve ever had. Man, that was good!”
He ducked, laughing, as Sharon tossed a backhand his way and said, “You know what I mean.”
Mike eased down on the gas and watched the pavement roll beneath the car. There was no moon and the night was as black as coal. “I think that underground room dug up by Dan Melton now makes perfect sense, given the story Sarah Crosby’s sister told.”
“You think Crosby was running slaves out of the country?”
“It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? If you’re a northern Maine tavern owner and you’re smuggling slaves out of the country in the 1850’s, you had better have a rock-solid place to hide them, because black faces would stick out like a sore thumb around here. A secret underground bunker would have been fit the bill perfectly.”
“But what about the liquor distributor who disappeared along with Sarah Crosby?”
“Think about it,” Mike said, working it through in his head. “The distributor was probably involved. What better way to sneak the slaves into Paskagankee than in a beer wagon? Nobody would have paid any attention to the thing, and a regular delivery schedule would have given them plenty of opportunities to smuggle freedom seekers into and then through the town.”
“So you think it’s possible someone discovered the whole thing and killed Crosby in retaliation?”
“Again, it makes sense, don’t you think? Especially given the fact that two sets of human remains were discovered inside the room. The murderer locks Fulton and Crosby’s wife in the underground room, then kills Crosby. The room’s a well-guarded secret, so Sarah Crosby and Matt Fulton slowly starve to death, dying in agony right under the noses of a whole town full of people searching for them.”
“But why not just lock Crosby in the secret room as well?”
“Who knows? Maybe he put up a fight and was killed before he could be herded inside the room. The theory’s not perfect, I’ll admit, but it fits the evidence pretty well.”
Sharon was quiet as she considered the possibility. “What a horrible way to go,” s
he said, her voice a whisper.
Mike nodded. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, though.”
“What’s that?”
“What the hell does any of this have to do with a double murder that took place one hundred fifty-five years later?”
24
Jackson rose slowly and brushed the twigs and dirt of the forest floor off his already filthy clothing. He had barely slept overnight. Between his concern about the town organizing a posse to come after the man who had murdered their sheriff, and the fact that even in the summer the temperatures got damned cold at night up here in the North Woods, Jackson had tossed and turned until the first hint of light insinuated itself into the sky. Then he just admitted defeat and got up.
But lack of sleep and deep-forest solitude had given Jackson plenty of time to think, which was something he sorely needed to do. It was also something he had not had much time to do since waking up two days ago at the bottom of that muddy hole.
Something was very wrong; he knew that without a doubt. Jackson Healy was many things, including cold, calculating, disloyal and greedy, but he was not stupid. And the world he had observed since climbing to freedom through the ceiling of that underground room barely resembled the world he knew based upon a lifetime of experience.
He had sprinted out of the old lady’s house yesterday afternoon with no plan and no destination in mind. He just ran, leaving the house in a panic after the lady’s two simple words – “It’s 2013” – simultaneously confirmed his worst fears and sent a chill of terror shooting through his body like a lightning bolt striking the Texas plains.
Nothing he had seen of this cursed town since awakening the day before yesterday resembled the tiny village he had ridden into in a desperate attempt to flee to Canada ahead of the pursuing Krupp brothers. The bizarre self-propelled buggies everyone seemed to ride around in, the strange-looking clothing everyone seemed to wear, all of the impossible, futuristic gadgets inside the old lady’s home yesterday, all of it indicated to Jackson a shift in reality that he could not explain.
Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3) Page 17