Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set

by S. W. Hubbard

  "Your father had, er, problems?”

  “You might say that. Maybe you’ve heard of him. James Renfew—he made his Carnegie Hall debut playing Paganini’s Violin Concerto at seventeen. He went on to earn a PhD in mathematics at Princeton. He froze to death on a subway grating in New York City when he was thirty-two. Paranoid schizophrenic. Psychotic. Auditory delusions. My mother left him when Tristan was two and I was an infant. She remarried a year later. Phil Greffe was the only father Tristan and I ever knew.” Oliver shifted position slightly, maybe to be able to see Frank’s reaction to his story. “He did everything for us that a father is supposed to do for his sons—coached Little League, led our Boy Scout troop, took us to football games. Except we never really were his sons. He couldn't stand those arty names our father gave us: Tristan James and Oliver James. He made us T.J. and O.J. He hated that we were both musical, not athletic although he tolerated my organ playing because it impressed the pastor of our church.” Oliver gave a bitter laugh.

  “How did Tristan end up at the Langley Wilderness School?”

  “When T.J. was fifteen, he started to act out. He insisted on being called Tristan, he spent all of his time in his room, listening to music and singing. His grades went to hell.”

  "Typical teenage rebellion,” Frank said.

  "That’s what my parents thought. But then he got weirder. I could hear him in his room at night, talking to himself. It seemed like he never slept. He told me he had enemies; that people were watching him. It scared me—I knew something was wrong with him.”

  “But your parents ... ?”

  “They refused to acknowledge it. My mother watched my father fall apart. She had to know what was happening to Tristan, but I guess she couldn't bear for history to repeat itself. And my stepfather—he just wouldn’t allow Tristan to be schizophrenic. For him, it was all pure willpower. He decided all T.J. needed was a change of scenery, in a place no one would indulge him like our mother did. So they sent him to the Langley Wilderness School. To straighten him out.”

  Silence descended on the church. Frank didn’t need to hear more to know how this story ended. The program at Langley Wilderness School obviously had exacerbated Tristan Renfew’s budding schizophrenia. Frank shuddered to think of the effect Costello’s mind-control tapes, played over and over, must have on a person who was suffering from auditory hallucinations to begin with. Payne, with his scorn for traditional psychiatry, had completely overlooked Tristan Renfew’s serious mental illness, and as a result, the boy had killed himself.

  He could understand why Oliver hated Payne, but why had he killed Jake Reiger and poor Heather? Surely she had been a victim of Payne’s treatment as much as Tristan had been. He didn’t want Oliver to get more agitated, but he had to keep him talking and try to steer the conversation in a direction that would send a signal to Earl over the radio that Payne should be intercepted.

  “What about Jake Reiger, Oliver? Was he involved in your brother's treatment in Utah?”

  “Reiger was the person who drove my brother over the edge. I got a long, rambling letter from T.J. a month before he died, saying Reiger was after him. Later, I learned more from the mother of the boy who heard T.J. kill himself.”

  “Greta Karsten? You spoke to her?”

  “No. I listened on the extension when she told my mother that Reiger played into TJ.’s paranoia. Told him he was always watching him and could see everything T.J. did, even when he was alone. Could read T.J.’s thoughts. Instead of helping my brother, he made his delusions seem even more real. I hated him for what he did to T.J.”

  “So you sabotaged his sleeping bag with bacon grease?”

  Oliver laughed, an unpleasant sound that trickled down from the organ loft like felling plaster.

  “I didn’t know that the bear would kill him; I wasn’t even positive there would be a bear around the area. But I wanted Jake to be terrified, just like my poor brother was. I knew even if he woke up in the morning safe and found that bacon grease, he’d know someone was after him.

  “I got the grease from the kitchen the day before. I was always hanging around there, looking for a snack. I noticed Mrs. Pershing saved up the grease in a coffee can in the freezer. I took it and hid it in my car.”

  That information hit Frank with the force of a punch in the gut. He’d meant to talk to Helen Pershing again, but never had. If he had followed up, got her talking, he might have learned about the coffee can... found out that Oliver frequently visited the kitchen... and prevented Heather’s death.

  “The night they camped out,” Oliver continued, “I hiked in to their site using a different trail and poured the grease on Jake’s bag. No one suspected me, because I always made a big deal about not doing anything outdoors that could injure my hands. But hey, I was a Boy Scout. I know all about backpacking.”

  “And Heather? Why did she have to die?”

  Oliver hung his head. “Heather was a mistake. I feel very bad about that.”

  A mistake? Backing your car into a pole was a mistake to feel bad about. Murdering someone was in an entirely different league. He was beginning to see how truly unstable Oliver was. But he was careful not to let his voice betray that.

  "How did it happen with Heather?” Frank asked. Oliver let out an impatient huff. “Heather was so unpredictable. One minute she’d be willing to do anything for you; the next minute she’d turn on you.”

  He didn’t seem to sense the irony in his statement. Frank jollied him along. “What did she agree to help you with?”

  “The isolation room. I wanted to call attention to how they tortured kids in there—you know, for Dawn’s story—and Heather agreed to help. But after she made the mess with the blood, it all went wrong.”

  Oliver turned his back and his voice drifted into an unintelligible murmur.

  “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

  Oliver whirled around. “She started screaming. She screamed and screamed and wouldn’t shut up. She screamed because I was late letting her out of the room, and being alone with the blood freaked her out.” His voice rose. “I had to make her stop! I put my arm around her neck. Then finally she was quiet.”

  Oliver began to pace in front of the organ pipes. Every time he turned in the narrow space, his gun clanked against a pipe. What had he meant about Dawn’s story? But now was not the time to press for answers. Clearly Oliver was getting more agitated.

  Had Earl heard all this? Had he understood what was going on? At least he hadn’t come charging across the green on his own, but had he called the state police for assistance? Everyone was up in Ray Brook, waiting for Morton Levine. Was there a patrol car out on the road somewhere closer to Trout Run?

  “Why is MacArthur Payne meeting you here at the church, Oliver? Does he know Tristan was your brother?”

  "No, the fool still hasn’t figured it out. He’s so sure that his ex-partner Costello is behind all the problems he’s been having here, he doesn’t even suspect me. I invited him to come here for a private recital—Bach played just for him. He doesn’t know the only piece on the program is a requiem.”

  Unless requiem had been one of Earl’s vocabulary words, Frank didn’t think the significance of that remark would hit home. He needed to make sure Earl knew Oliver was armed and dangerous.

  “Why don’t you put down the gun, Oliver? You and I can talk to Payne together when he gets here."

  “I have one thing left to do before I go.” Oliver spoke in the voice of a person making a to-do list before vacation. “I have to kill MacArthur Payne. Where is he? Why hasn’t he come yet? Did you tell him not to come?"

  Without warning, Oliver spun and fired off another shot. Frank, who had let his head peek above the pew as he talked, felt the slug whistle by his left ear. He dove for the floor.

  “Steady, now, Oliver. Why don’t you put that gun down?” He couldn’t afford for Oliver to start shooting wildly; the side walls of the church were fifty percent glass. Hadn’t anyone heard
this gunfire? But if they had, they probably just thought it was hunters.

  “You warned him not to come!” Oliver shrieked, and the gun discharged again. The shot went high this time, embedding in the oak beam that supported the arched ceiling. A few inches in either direction and it would have gone through the window.

  “I didn’t warn him, Oliver.” Frank needed his full concentration to keep his voice low and soothing. “You’ve been right here with me all along. I never called anyone.”

  But he prayed that Earl was watching for Payne, because if the headmaster came walking through that door, Oliver would see him first. He could shoot before Frank had a chance to bring Oliver down. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to shoot the boy now, even as a precaution; it would be like killing in cold blood.

  “Oliver, I want you to do something for me, okay?”

  “What?”

  “While we’re waiting for MacArthur Payne, let’s sing.”

  "Sing?”

  “Yeah, it would make the time go a little faster. Besides, we’re both a little jumpy, no? Let's sing—” He cast about for something they both would know the words to. “Let’s sing 'Amazing Grace.’ ”

  Frank started out, "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.”

  Soon he heard Oliver’s sweet, clear tenor drifting down to him. They continued in unison, “that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found...” Frank heard a door creak. Was it Payne, or had his backup finally arrived? Either way, he needed to keep Oliver singing. “Was blind but now I see,” he thundered, then started the second verse with barely a pause. “Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come.”

  A tall, broad-shouldered figure moved through the shadows in the narthex. Too big to be Earl. Was it Payne, or Meyerson? The figure moved forward without hesitation. Surely Meyerson would be more cautious.

  Frank’s gaze shot back to Oliver. He was singing with his eyes half shut, the gun dangling loosely in his right hand. If Frank called out a warning, would the person in the back of the church have time to take cover before Oliver snapped back to attention and started firing? If it was Meyerson, probably; he would be anticipating trouble. But Payne had no idea he was walking into danger. Besides, that man never followed commands without question.

  Frank kept singing as he skimmed though his options, the words to the old hymn so ingrained in his memory that they came reflexively. “ "It was grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fear relieved.” He would wait until the man just came into view under the organ loft, then wave him back, as long as Oliver appeared still lost in song.

  “Hey!” a loud voice rang out from the shadows. “You’re singing my favorite song!” The man stepped into the dim light of the sanctuary, and Frank’s C natural ended in a croak.

  It was Ernie Portman.

  Chapter 34

  Ernie’s brash greeting changed everything.

  Frank sprang up, but twenty rows of pews divided him from Ernie. “Ernie, get down!” he shouted.

  Ernie turned his broad, vacant face toward Frank and squinted. “Huh? Who’s there? Where’s Oliver?”

  “I’m here, Payne.”

  Frank looked up and saw Oliver, his face contorted with determination, his right arm fully extended, and the gun aimed straight down at the top of Ernie’s head.

  “I killed your school and now I'm going to kill you.”

  Ernie raised his sweet face up toward the organ loft and lifted his hand in a wave, as if to greet what was coming his way.

  Frank took aim and fired.

  Oliver’s slender body buckled, crumpled over the organ loft railing, and fell in a graceful somersault to the stone floor just a few feet from Ernie.

  “Oh, no! Oliver fell. I think he’s hurt.”

  Frank made his way through the pews and put his trembling arm around Ernie. “It’s okay, Ernie. I’ll take care of him.”

  Frank emerged from the church to find two state police squad cars zooming into town, lights flashing but sirens off. So, Earl had called for backup. Then why in God’s name had he let Ernie Portman wander into that church?

  Meyerson trotted across the green to meet him. “Frank, what’s going on? Where’s Oliver Greffe?”

  Frank waved a weary arm in the direction of the church. "He’s in there. He’s dead—I had to shoot him to save Ernie. Where the hell were you?"

  “We got the call from Earl fifteen minutes ago. I was in Ray Brook; Pauline was in Keene Valley. We came as fast as we could.”

  Frank glanced around. Where was Earl? He never passed up a chance to be in the middle of a big operation.

  Meyerson continued explaining. “Earl was clear over by Beech Pond. Someone called in a report of a bear wandering around. Since it was near Corkscrew, he thought it might be Reiger’s killer. He notified Rusty and went out there to keep an eye on it. It wasn’t until he got back in the patrol car after the DEC showed up that he heard your transmission and called us.”

  “Did you head off Payne? Is that why he never showed up?”

  “Yes, I caught up with him as he was pulling out of the school driveway. I had the dispatcher call the church to warn them to keep people away, but no one answered in the church office.”

  Frank felt an irrational rage welling within him. He wanted to blame someone, anyone, for this senseless death.

  Why had Ernie walked into the church at just that moment? Why had that damn bear, who had eluded them for so long, chosen this morning to reveal himself? Why the hell couldn’t Earl have been watching out the office window? He spent seventy-five percent of every other workday doing just that—why not today? Why couldn’t Augie Enright have been sitting in the church office chatting with Myrna when the state police had called, so he could run out like the busybody he was and direct everyone away from the church?

  The questions chased through his mind, a continuous round of recrimination: Why had he been forced to kill Oliver?

  Chapter 35

  The week that followed the shooting in the church was filled with steady activity.

  The state police and district attorney conducted a pro forma investigation and commended Frank for his handling of the crisis. The bear suspected of killing Jake Reiger was captured and relocated to a remote section of the Adirondack Park, far from the possibility of human interaction. Steve Vreeland was charged with being an accessory after the fact and obstructing justice. Paul Petrucci was released without being charged with any crime and he insisted on returning the money he’d received.

  The final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place when Dawn Klotz had been located back in Ohio. She revealed that it was Oliver, not Costello, who had financed her “research” into the North Country Academy. Using insurance money he’d received after his parents’ death, Oliver had paid Dawn to pursue the expose of tough-love schools, hoping to create enough scandal that the entire industry would be shut down. She had hoped to launch her own career as an investigative reporter with the story, but the plan had backfired on both of them.

  From the moment he awoke every morning, Frank was busy meeting or on the phone with the state police, the DA, the DEC, the county social worker, the press, and parents of academy students. All the action allowed him to fall into bed at night, exhausted, and sleep until the ringing phone woke him again in the morning.

  But by the end of the week, the workload lessened. He had time to walk across the green for a donut at the Store, to eat lunch at Malone’s, to drive the afternoon patrol.

  Time to think.

  He replayed that awful moment over and over: Ernie calling out a greeting, Oliver raising the gun, his threat to shoot, Ernie’s utter incomprehension of danger.

  Then Frank saw his own right hand raised, his view along the barrel of the gun as he took aim, the tremendous pressure required to squeeze the trigger, the moment of impact, the falling body.

  He had never killed a man before. He’d wounded a man once—a bad guy who’d shot at him first—and that had bee
n bad enough. The fact that he had been cleared of wrongdoing—commended, in fact—was absolutely no consolation.

  Every morning right before he opened his eyes, a voice in his head would murmur, “Something’s wrong with this day,” and in that moment he would remember: I killed Oliver Greffe. I killed a troubled, talented, very young man. I took his life and nothing will ever change that.

  The knowledge sat on him, a huge rock that crushed the joy out of every day. No joke was funny, no meal had flavor, no music was tuneful.

  “What’re you looking at? Don’t you have something to do?” he snapped when he felt Earl's watchful gaze on him.

  Earl’s reaction was neither hurt nor anger, but something much worse. “It’s okay, Frank.” He touched Frank’s shoulder lightly. “I understand.”

  But Earl didn’t understand because he'd never killed a man. And neither did the state police psychologist, whom Frank dutifully visited. The man said all the appropriate things, to which Frank made the appropriate responses. The doctor was satisfied; Frank left feeling worse than when he’d arrived.

  He ran into Edwin later that day. “You look like shit,” his friend said, eyeing him up and down. “You should talk to someone about this.”

  “I just talked to the state police shrink. He pronounced me cured.”

  Edwin scowled. "What kind of shrink goes to work for the police department? He probably graduated at the bottom of his class. Go see a real doctor.”

  “Like who? You can’t find a doctor to set a broken bone around here, let alone straighten out a cracked brain.”

  Edwin thought a moment. “You should talk to Bob. I think he could help.”

  “Bob who?” Then Frank took a step backward as understanding struck. “Bob Rush! That’s a laugh. The two of us are like oil and water.”

  “You underestimate Bob.” Edwin gave Frank a long look and his usual irony was missing when he spoke again. “And you’re wrong about his regard for you. Give him a chance. He could help you if you let him.”