The Maine Nemesis

by R Scott Wallis

  “Or in jail.”

  Porter’s face dropped.

  “Oh, geez, I’m so sorry, honey,” Brenda said. “I was trying to be funny.”

  “It’s okay, really. I was in jail. But I’m out now. I didn’t kill the alpaca, by the way. I’m surprised you didn’t ask”

  “I thought it was a llama.”

  “Alpaca. But it doesn’t matter.”

  “Anyway, Skyler already told me that you said you didn’t kill it. And I believe you. Why would anyone kill a llama…I mean, an alpaca…anyway? It’s just silly.”

  “Well, someone did it, but it wasn’t me. Someone in Wabanaki doesn’t like alpacas, I guess.”

  “Hey, I have an idea. Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow night at Skyler’s cottage? I’m cooking. I need to try out a few dishes on unsuspecting friends before I do a segment on CBS This Morning later in the summer. Game?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “I should really be at work.”

  “Work will always be there. I know restaurants, remember? And they pretty much run by themselves once they get going. They can spare you for one more night.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “I am. So, you’ll come?”

  “I’ll come, if you think whoever else will be there can handle this,” he said sheepishly as he gestured towards his face.

  “Fucking please,” Brenda spit. “Everyone around here knows, everyone has seen you, and it’s really not that bad anyway. So there. Drinks at 6:30 at Skyler’s. Come as you are.” And she was off.

  He wasn’t sure what just happened, but a very well-known celebrity invited him to a dinner party and that hadn’t happened…ever. Porter smiled and shuffled off toward the soft pretzel stand.

  * * *

  Leonard helped a pair of young boys ignite their sparklers with his lighter then lit his thirtieth cigarette of the day and leaned against a large tree. He was dressed in well-worn jeans, filthy sneakers, and a white tank top with a faded American flag screen printed on the front. He couldn’t remember where he’d gotten it. He thought maybe it was from the Gap or Lucky Brand or something; it was a shirt he’d had for close to two decades—all of his adult life. He was officially off duty for the next week while he ‘mourned the loss of his wife,’ and he was ignoring his “boss” who had told him to keep a low profile. Leonard had had enough of hanging around the big old empty house with the dog.

  Of course, it was the house, not the dog that he was sick of, for the elderly Great Dane lay at his feet, sound asleep despite all the commotion of the holiday revelers around them.

  “Hey, you,” Skyler said as she approached with two large plastic cups full of beer. “I got you something.”

  “You got that for Brenda, but you can’t find her,” Leonard said. He exhaled some smoke and flicked the butt into the street. “I’ve been watching you over there.”

  “I guess once a cop always a cop. Keeping your eyes peeled.” She extended the beer. “Take it.”

  And he did. “She has her own, anyway. She’s over there, coming this way.”

  Skyler turned to see her friend waddling toward them.

  “She’s getting bigger,” Leonard said.

  “Shhh. But, yeah, I know. But how many skinny chefs do you know?”

  “Finally,” Brenda said, joining the two of them. “I’ve been all over this damned park looking for you.”

  “Same,” Skyler said. “But here I am.”

  Brenda eased herself down on the ground next to the dog. “Leonard, I am so very sorry for your loss. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay,” he said. He took a long gulp from his beer then sat down on the other side of the massive beast who was now snoring. “I had to get out of the house.”

  “Being with people is good at a time like this,” Brenda said.

  Skyler knelt down and started petting the dog. “I agree. And I know I probably shouldn’t ask, but is there any new news today?”

  “Nothing yet,” he said. “It’s a Sunday and a holiday, so the autopsy won’t be done until tomorrow. But it does look like she died from blunt force trauma to the head. There’s a sick bastard out there somewhere. I just really want to know why he did it.”

  “You’re assuming it was a he?” Brenda asked.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s not quite kosher of me, is it? My father would have corrected me, too. It was the ladies’ room, so, yeah, I guess it could have been a woman. But I kind of doubt that. Patty wasn’t a frail little flower, you know.” He took a second as he pictured things in his head that he wished weren’t there. “But why? No one can tell me why.”

  “What’s going to be most important, is finding out where Patty was the last three weeks,” Skyler said. “That will probably answer some questions.”

  “You have no idea where she may have been?” Brenda asked Leonard.

  “One of the other deputies is searching her laptop and phone. My dad has called the credit card companies. They’re on it. They may even know by now. But I’ve been told to stay out of it for the time being. I’m not even allowed to touch any of her stuff in the house. They’re going to comb through the place tomorrow. I’ve been sleeping on the couch, against the advice of my dad. He thinks I should be staying at his place, you know, if we were doing this the right way. Whatever that is.”

  Brenda bit the inside of her cheek; she hoped she’d never need to personally rely on the ‘top-notch’ local criminal justice system.

  “I’m sorry,” Skyler said softly. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow at the cottage? Brenda is cooking and we’re going to have a very small group. You’ll know everyone and we will make it a rule that no one will talk about Patty.”

  “I can do that. I haven’t had a decent meal in a while. What can I bring?”

  “Nothing,” Brenda and Skyler said in unison.

  “You owe me a Coke!” they both screamed.

  “You two have not changed one bit.”

  “I’m fatter,” Brenda said with a hearty chuckle. “And richer. Fat, rich, and happy.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Leonard said. He lit another cigarette.

  “I’m certainly not Brenda-rich, but I’m happy, too. And totally okay that I am single again.” Skyler instantly flushed with embarrassment. “Geez, Leonard, I didn’t mean to be so thoughtless.”

  “No, it’s cool,” he said, “I’m happy to be single again, too.” He instantly cringed when he realized how crass he sounded. But the ladies just exchanged a knowing look and rolled their eyes. Leonard was just being Leonard.

  TEN

  The apartment above Lois’ three-car garage was very spacious and decorated in an upscale shabby chic that wasn’t at all Porter Maddox’s style. He preferred worn pleather barcaloungers, racing car posters, and collapsible TV tables, but he could hardly complain about living in the lap of luxury that was priced well below market value. Lois had a top designer from New York City create the space he now called home, complete with a king-sized canopy bed, white slipcovered, overstuffed sofas, and old wooden oars hanging above the fireplace. His widescreen television received every channel known to man and when it was turned off, it slid down into a large antique pie safe on a fancy motorized system. There was another TV mounted behind the mirror in his bathroom, and a third tucked into an armoire in his bedroom. His walk-in closet was larger than his first apartment.

  He knew she let him have the apartment for a song because she felt sorry for him. Lois certainly didn’t need the income; also, she just wanted someone else on the property for safety reasons. And that was all okay with him.

  Porter wouldn’t admit it to his colleagues at the Lobster Shanty or to his sister, but he was beginning to feel at home in the space and he didn’t want to imagine leaving. He had unlimited hot water, lightening fast internet, and the exclusive use of Lois’ hot tub, since she hated the thing.

  What he didn’t have, was anyone to share any of it with, and that wa
s beginning to feel like it would be a permanent, lifelong predicament.

  At half past eleven, Porter closed the window blinds then changed into a pair of black sweatpants, a black pullover hoodie, and black sneakers. He pulled the hood up over his head and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He was still unnerved by the image that looked back at him; the scars reminded him that he wasn’t the man he felt like on the inside.

  He slipped down the stairs and stepped out into the pitch darkness. The exterior lighting in Lois’ backyard was on a timer system and they turned off at 11:15pm each night. That had always bothered him, since she knew he worked most nights until well after midnight, but he’d gotten used to navigating in the dark. The stars were extra bright and there was a typical Maine nip in the air. Porter stood motionless for a few moments, listening carefully to make sure no one was around, and then he made his way through the yard, out through the gate in the picket fence, and turned to start walking down the street towards Gerald Gains’ house. That’s when he saw a pair of headlights in the distance coming his way. He rolled into the shallow ditch beside the road and flattened himself to the ground. He was all but invisible in his jet black attire.

  When the car was out of sight, Porter continued down the road. He nervously fondled the handle of the kitchen steak knife in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie.

  When he reached Gerald Gains’ property, he hopped the split-rail fence and walked along the perimeter, steering clear of the main house. He could see a single light on upstairs, in what he assumed was the master bedroom. He slowed his pace, careful not to make any noise. He came to the fence that surrounded the alpaca pen and easily scaled it. Determined to get in and out as fast as possible, he sprinted across the open meadow and found the door to the barn unlocked. He let himself in, closed the door behind him, and scanned the cavernous room. It was built for horses with six paddocks on each side. Now they held two to three alpacas each, most of which were fast asleep in the hay.

  But one guy was staring at him from the second paddock on the right. He approached the animal and began petting it. It purred thankfully.

  And when he was sure the animal was comfortable with the late-night intrusion by a kind, hooded intruder, he slit the animal’s throat. He stepped back, watched horror flash across the animal’s face, then quickly turned away before he heard the thud of the beast falling to the ground.

  * * *

  Maynard Little dozed off in the shower again; the last few days had been long ones, not something he was used to. When the hot water ran out, he was jarred awake and quickly turned off the faucets. After drying himself off and pulling on a pair of shorts, he stepped out into the kitchen and scanned the refrigerator for a snack. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in the last two days and his stomach was making noises.

  He settled on an apple and a piece of cheddar cheese and plopped himself down onto the couch. That’s when he noticed the white envelope lying on the floor near the front door. He retrieved it and, back on the couch, looked carefully at the typewritten lettering on the front. It was addressed, “SHERIFF LITTLE.”

  Inside were two pieces of paper. One was a sheet of white copy paper with the same typewritten letters, “PATTY WAS IN MIAMI.” The other was a receipt for a latte purchased at the Miami International Airport early in the morning on the day that Patty’s body was found at the Chowder House in Wabanaki, Maine.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. He jumped up and found a gallon-sized ziplock bag in a kitchen drawer. He placed the papers and envelope carefully inside and placed it on the counter. The Sheriff quickly dressed but reluctantly drove back to the Court House with the new evidence; he was just so tired and this was completely foreign to him.

  At the station, a young deputy named Kristin was on duty. She was asleep in a chair, her feet propped up on the reception desk, when the Sheriff unlocked the front door with his key fob and pushed his way inside. The deputy still didn’t stir.

  “Deputy!”

  She leaped to her feet and knocked her head into the bottom of a shelf holding arrest binders and various dusty criminal justice books that hadn’t been cracked in years. “Sheriff. You scared me to death,” she said as she rubbed her head.

  “Good. We don’t pay you to sleep, young lady. We pay you to listen for calls on the radio and to answer any 911 calls transferred to us. How can you do that if you’re asleep?”

  She stammered for an answer.

  “Go in the back and get me a medium evidence envelope. I’ll be in my office.”

  The Sheriff sat down at his desk and considered calling Leonard, but then he realized the time and thought better of it. The boy would be passed out in his own filth at this hour. He looked up the number of the state police evidence unit. Another sleepy young woman answered after half a dozen rings.

  “This is Sheriff Maynard Little of the Wabanaki Police Department down here in Wabanaki. I have a letter and envelope that need immediate analysis for finger prints and unfortunately, we don’t have document capabilities here. How can I get this to you?”

  “The closest field office is Portland,” she said. “That’s where I am. You can messenger it up here or send a deputy. We’re always open. Rush turnaround is about three hours. We’re connected to both the state and the federal systems. FBI and everything. If they are documented prints, we’ll be able to identify them. No problem.” She gave him the address as well as a case number. She said they’d bill the Wabanaki Police Department at the end of the month.

  “Alright. I’ll have a man bring it up first thing in the morning.”

  “We’re open now, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I don’t have a man right now.”

  “Just make sure he has an ID when he drops it off. Have a good night, sir.”

  The Sheriff took the paper evidence envelope from the deputy who’d come rushing back in, struggled to pull on a pair of latex gloves, then made photocopies of the papers before sealing them inside the envelope. With a Sharpie he entered the date, Wabanaki’s case number, and the words, ‘Exhibit 12.’ He didn’t have exhibits one through 11, but he didn’t want to come across as too green.

  He handed the copy of the Starbucks receipt to Kristin. “I’m going home to get a few hours of sleep and you’ve just been promoted to detective for the rest of your shift. Authenticate this, find out if they have security cameras, and if they do, figure out if Patty Little bought this cup of coffee.”

  Kristin gave him a blank look but took the paper.

  “If you can’t figure out how to get that done,” the Sheriff said, “you’re fired.”

  He drove home and was asleep in bed three minutes after turning off his truck.

  * * *

  An emergency pee break had Leonard standing on his back patio at 3 o’clock in the morning. Naked. While he waited for the Great Dane to do his business, he decided he might as well take care of his own and he let a stream begin that was ending up in the heavily weed-filled flowerbed below. The stream came to a sudden stop when he heard an ear shattering scream come from the direction of his grandfather’s tool shed.

  The dog—too old and too deaf to notice—headed back into the house and Leonard quickly followed. He jumped into his jeans, grabbed a large metal flashlight, and rooted around in his desk drawer for the gun.

  The gun his father didn’t know he had.

  He was back in the yard and half way to the shed when he heard another scream, this time, coming from the cellar stairs. He pulled up the heavy metal door and directed the light down into the pit.

  “What the heck took you so long, honey?”

  Leonard stumbled backwards and tripped over the garden hose, sending him ass-first onto the dew covered grass.

  “Honey?”

  He crawled forward on all fours and shined the flashlight back down the cellar stairs. At the bottom, lying in a puddle of dark molasses-colored blood, was his wife Patty. Her hair was plastered to her forehead. One of her eyes was bulging out of i
ts socket. But she was talking. Patty was alive!

  “What are you doing down there in the cellar, Patty?”

  “Waiting for you to rescue me.”

  “But you died at the Chowder House.”

  “Did I?”

  “They took you away in a body bag. I watched it all happen. I was the first on the scene.”

  “You weren’t the first.”

  “Who was first, Patty? Who killed you?”

  She laughed. He hated that laugh, because she was usually laughing at him or something stupid that he did or said. “Honey, I can’t tell you that. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Goddamn it, Patty,” he yelled, “just tell me.”

  “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Mr. Little.”

  “Fuck, Mrs. Little, this is just really unfortunate.”

  “No more Mrs. Little. You’re a free man now.”

  He still didn’t feel bad about that—even though he’d tried—but he feigned, “Oh, don’t talk that way. You’ll always be my wife.”

  She was quiet for a few moments and then she lay her head down in the puddle of blood on the cellar floor. “You won’t feel that way when you find out what happened, Leonard.”

  “What happened? What happened, Patty? Where were you? Where did you go?! Patty, please!”

  Leonard woke up to the dog licking his face. He was covered in sweat, even though he always kept the room at a very comfortable 68 degrees when he slept. The windows were open and the sun was just peeking through the trees outside. He rubbed the dog’s large head and made a mental note to never, ever go down to the cellar as long as he lived. In fact, he would start looking for a new place to live just as soon as possible.

  ELEVEN

  ​Early Monday morning, Brenda did something she hated delegating to her assistants: she stopped at two different farm stands and the meat market to get all the ingredients for the dinner party. She didn’t really need to test any recipes, but it seemed like a good excuse when she invited Porter to dinner. She drove back to Skyler’s cottage and dragged everything inside. She mixed a dry rub for the steaks, put them in the refrigerator, and set off for a walk on the beach with Mulder and Scully.