Anything.
The story was unbelievable, preposterous, but Max had known immediately it was all true. He couldn’t say how he had known, exactly, but the important thing was that he had known. The implications of that knowledge were immediate as well. Everything he had achieved with the co-op in the desert—the beautiful home, the dedicated followers, the wealth and influence over his subjects—was a tiny drop in the bucket compared to what he would achieve if he could only gain possession of the mystical stone.
Max had begun planning and scheming to make the stone his own. He started by grilling Raven over the course of several weeks, learning everything she knew about the stone, every last detail, which was a lot. Her father had been very close to Don Running Bear, was his best friend, in fact, so close the young girl considered him almost an uncle, and her dad had confided all he knew to his only daughter.
Max had recognized immediately that he was destined to possess the stone and make use of its awesome power. That fact was as clear as day. Why else had he been led from the East Coast urban city of Boston, Massachusetts to the hot, dry western sands of Arizona if not for this? The co-op had been wonderful, he had thought until meeting Raven that it was his purpose in life, but the moment he learned of the existence of the Navajo stone, everything fell into place.
So he formulated a plan, using Raven’s extensive first-hand knowledge of the reservation and of the Running Bear family to acquire the stone and its beautiful wooden box. The plan had been both simple and effective—there was no need to get fancy when simple would do, that was a philosophy Max had developed years ago and which had always served him well—and he had walked off the reservation with the stone, and thus his future, securely in his grasp.
Now he waited patiently for Earl Manning and Earl’s undoubtedly terrified billionaire guest to come clomping out of the woods. There had been no need to wait here for the several hours it would take Manning to hike through the thick forest, disable whatever minimal security Brett Parker had brought with him, locate the software and then hike back to the road with his prisoner. Max had simply driven home after dropping off his revenant, confident that when the time was right, the special connection he now shared with Manning would serve to alert him when it was time to drive back and pick them up.
And that was exactly what had happened. Max had been lounging in bed, half asleep, recovering from a romp with Raven when he felt a psychic “Bump,” a tiny, almost imperceptible push in his mind, so slight it would be easy to miss if he weren’t waiting for it. The bump told him Manning had accomplished his mission and was now on his way back through the woods with software mogul Parker in tow.
The obvious problem was that Max had no way of knowing whether the software Manning recovered was the real Codebreaker or a clever fake designed to trick anyone somehow managing to accomplish what Max had just done. He was reasonably computer literate but certainly no kind of software expert and thus would have no way of verifying the authenticity of the program. This was the weak link in the entire scheme. Max would be forced to deliver the software to the North Koreans blind and hope it performed as advertised.
One thing Max had learned years ago, though, on the streets of Boston as a child, was always to have a backup plan. He was well aware of the expression, “Don’t take a knife to a gunfight,” but Max subscribed to the theory that just taking a gun to a gunfight wasn’t such a great idea, either. It was far preferable to bring lots of guns to the gunfight, so if you happened to drop one or it jammed or the other guy brought a bigger gun, you could still overwhelm him with superior firepower.
Thus, the most critical part of the plan, the part that would save Max from brutal Asian vengeance if it turned out they had been duped by Parker, was to keep Parker close. It would certainly have been much easier to instruct the revenant to kill Parker and bury him in a hole in the forest—the area surrounding Paskagankee, Maine was so thick and virtually impassable that he could have dug a grave fifteen feet into the great north woods and the body would never have been found—but Brett Parker would serve as Max’s bazooka should a gunfight break out with the North Koreans.
Manning would be rendered irrelevant—the irrelevant revenant, Max thought with a smile—once he had completed his designated assignment, and furthermore, Max had no idea how long the revenant’s deteriorating body would hold up. He wasn’t sure exactly how the mystical stone performed its magic, reanimating a corpse, but the fact of the matter was that Manning was still dead, and, being dead, would inevitably begin to decompose over time.
That was why he had been frozen after being killed. Max had wanted to be certain everything was ready to go before thawing him, cutting out his heart and putting him to work. Time was the enemy of the revenant.
But Max had another use for the now-empty freezer sitting in the basement of the wreck of a home he had rented in Paskagankee. He had unplugged it and hosed it out after reanimating Manning, but it would soon be humming away, storing another body—Brett Parker, the soon-to-be murdered software genius. Max would kill him and freeze him, exactly as he had done with Manning. If the North Koreans came back at Max after delivery of the software, angry and vowing revenge because they had been sold a worthless fake, Parker’s corpse would become Max’s backup plan.
Max would simply cut Parker’s heart out as he had done with Manning, thaw him out, and force him to duplicate the software. As a revenant he would be unable to refuse the command even if he wanted to. In fact, that had been Max’s original plan, but upon further reflection he had decided it would be much faster and more workable simply to steal the valuable software. He wasn’t sure how long it would take Parker to duplicate it if necessary and instead of risking a long, drawn-out process, Max figured once the man got a look at the shambling, terrifying sight that was the undead Earl Manning, he would in all probability comply and hand over the real Codebreaker without even considering any kind of double-cross.
And that was apparently what had happened, because as Max gazed into the thick northern Maine forest, Manning appeared, shambling directly into his line of sight, pushing a clearly terrified and now also exhausted Brett Parker, billionaire software developer and soon to be frozen dead guy, in front of him.
The pair stumbled to the minivan, Parker collapsing on the floor in back, too tired even to attempt sitting in a seat. Manning climbed in behind him, sliding the door closed, presumably to keep watch on their prisoner although it was clear the man didn’t have the energy even to think about escape.
Max could only imagine how difficult the hike had been through that virgin forest, but Manning didn’t even look winded. Apparently one of the few advantages of being reanimated—maybe the only one—was the inability to tire.
Looking at the hideous condition of Manning’s body, though, Max didn’t think many people would consider the trade-off to be worthwhile. Decomposition had begun, and although it was still in its early stages, Max could see his revenant’s skin beginning to sag, especially on his face, under his eyes and on his cheeks. It was turning waxy, with a sheen that made Manning look a little bit like a replica of himself, as if Madame Tussaud had been crazy enough to construct a statue of a drunken Maine hick loser.
No matter. Soon enough Earl Manning’s part in this project would be over—in fact, it was almost over already—and then he could go back to being dead. He could begin his journey to hell or whatever awaited him in the next phase of his non-existence.
No one said a word as Max turned the wheel and accelerated smoothly off the shoulder. He performed an expert three-point turn and headed off toward the crumbling, beaten-down rented home that seemed an apt metaphor for this whole miserable little town. But that didn’t matter, either. Soon Paskaganee, Maine would be nothing more than a bad memory. Better days were coming. They were almost here.
19
Mike and Sharon made it as far as the reinforced glass front door before being called back by dispatcher Gordie Rheaume. “Chief?” he called across the
nearly empty station house.
“What is it, Gordie?”
“I just took a 911 call from the new house out on Route 24. Someone there claimed there had been a break-in, seemed disoriented.”
Mike frowned at Sharon. “That’s Brett Parker’s brand-new retreat. I was up there this morning meeting with his security guy.” He hollered back across the station, “Who’s on patrol right now?”
“Hadfield,” came the dispatcher’s answer.
He leaned toward Sharon. “I don’t think I want Jimmy Hadfield representing the Paskagankee Police Department to someone like Brett Parker. I think we’re going to have to split up. You go check out the B and E complaint at Parker’s house and I’ll head up to the rental by myself. Radio me as soon as you know what’s going on over there.”
“Will do,” Sharon nodded, and pushed through the door into the warm Paskagankee afternoon.
Mike walked back to Gordie Rheaume’s desk so he wouldn’t have to shout. “Send an ambulance to the Depot Road address. Don’t bother radioing Jimmy. I’m going to let him continue his routine patrol; I sent Officer Dupont to the home instead.”
Rheaume smiled. “Good call, Chief. Oh, and the ambulance has already been dispatched. It should be on its way even as we speak.”
Mike nodded and walked toward the same door Sharon had just exited. He could smell her perfume, all musk and cinnamon and implied sexual energy, still hanging in the air. It made his heart ache despite, or maybe because of, the fact their breakup was less than a day old. He realized he felt worse right now than he did after his marriage had dissolved. Kate had been drifting away from him even before the accidental shooting of Sarah Melendez, and the change that tragedy had wrought in him simply represented the tipping point in their relationship.
The heat radiated off the pavement in the parking lot as Mike approached his cruiser. Some of the realities of life as a small-town police chief were still sinking in, even though it had been nearly a full year since he had taken the job. Back in Revere, dozens of officers manned every shift, so he would never have had to consider how best to allocate resources just because two situations had developed at the same time. Here, though, when only two or maybe three officers were on patrol at once, using officers in the most efficient way became a very real issue.
Fortunately there was no need to worry about Parker’s B and E. He would be in very capable hands with Sharon responding to the call. Mike was in love with the beautiful young woman but he was still quite capable of objective observation and it was clear to him that, given a little time and experience, she would develop into an outstanding law enforcement officer. The FBI had undoubtedly concluded the same thing, snapping her up and sending her to their academy in Virginia before she was forced to quit and return to care for her dying father last fall.
Mike mused about the vagaries of life as he swung onto Main Street and turned toward Route 24. If it hadn’t been for Sharon’s father dying—a man who had basically ignored his only daughter after the death of his wife when Sharon was in her early teens—she would certainly have been well into her career in the FBI, probably never returning to this tiny town. Mike would never have met her.
But Sharon’s father had fallen ill, and Sharon had returned home to the last place in the world she wanted to be. She had cared for the old bastard until he died and she had met Mike and fallen in love with him and nearly been killed by the vengeful spirit last winter.
And Mike McMahon had been foolish enough to give his heart to another woman after swearing he would never make that mistake again. He had been foolish enough to think this relationship would last, in spite of their more than ten year age difference, in spite of the fact that her career was just beginning and she had nowhere to go but up, whereas his was heading—plummeting, really—in the other direction.
He chuckled bitterly. It was true what they said. There really was no fool like an old fool. Mike forced his thoughts into the present and tried to decide how he wanted to approach the man and the woman who, he hoped, would be able to shed some light onto the mystery of Earl Manning’s disappearance.
20
Sharon was amazed at the sheer isolation of Brett Parker’s retreat. The county road leading to the property was lightly traveled, even in the summertime. In the winter it became impassable, closed from the first significant fall of snow until the last of the melting occurred in the spring. After finally reaching the access road, a nearly two-mile drive through some of the thickest and most imposing forest she had ever seen was required before eventually she burst out of the trees into a newly cleared lot with a massive log cabin set in the middle. Parker’s desire for privacy was legendary, but this seemed excessive, even for a noted hermit like him.
Sharon shut down the cruiser, parking well clear of the ambulance idling a few feet away from home’s front door. Its twin rear doors stood open and its warning lights were flashing busily, which seemed like a dramatic bit of overkill. There was nobody to warn of anything for miles in any direction. She wondered how badly Parker was injured, as she hoped to question him before the EMT’s hauled him away to the hospital, if that was necessary.
Shattered glass crunched under her shoes as Sharon crossed the threshold into the house. She paused a moment in the doorway, taking in the damage, which was extensive. It looked like a short but violent war had taken place in here. The heavy wooden front door was cracked nearly in half. A gaping hole had been punched into the wall, doorknob height. Tables were overturned, fine white drywall dust coated every surface, and blood had been splattered on the massive granite fireplace which took up most of the far wall.
In the middle of the room, EMT’s were in the process of strapping a man onto a gurney. Sharon took one look at the victim and knew immediately it was not Brett Parker. She had never met the billionaire software mogul, but had seen him on the news plenty of times, and this was definitely not him. Must be the security guy, the one Mike met with earlier this morning.
Sharon approached the two EMT’s, who were so caught up in their work they had yet to notice her arrival. She cleared her throat and one of the men jumped in surprise. They both glanced at her and then went back to work without uttering a word. The victim lay motionless on a backboard with his eyes closed. A bloody bandage had been wrapped around his head, ballooning out on the left side where they had wedged a thin ice bag underneath. The man was average height but blocky, built like a football lineman who had bulked up years ago, but had since gone to seed.
“Is he conscious?” she asked, not bothering to introduce herself.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” the man answered from the stretcher. He opened his bloodshot eyes and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Officer Sharon Dupont of the Paskagankee Police Department. And you are?”
“I’m Josh Parmalee, security for Mr. Parker. Where’s Chief McMahon?”
“He’s busy on another case. I’m here to assist you.”
Parmalee shook his head in disbelief, wincing from pain as he did so. “Are you fucking kidding me? Brett Parker gets kidnapped and McMahon sends some flunky? Mr. Parker isn’t important enough to warrant a visit from the actual chief of police in this crummy town? What’s he doing, rescuing a cat stuck in a tree, helping an old lady across the street? What?”
Sharon let the insults go and waited for the man to stop venting. He had said only one thing of any importance, but that one thing was a doozy. Finally he stopped to take a breath and she interrupted before he could start up again. “What do you mean, Brett Parker’s been kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped, you know; stolen, removed, taken away against his will. Kidnapped. Maybe you oughta look it up.”
“The only report we received was of a B and E. Nobody said anything about a kidnapping. Who made the call to the police?”
“I did,” Parmalee answered sourly.
“Well, then, why the hell didn’t you tell our dispatcher that someone had been kidnapped? Do you have any idea how much time has been
wasted?”
“Listen, sweetheart,” Parmalee shot back, “I was tossed into a granite fireplace by that fucking lunatic and knocked out. When I came to I was woozy and could barely think straight. So you’ll have to excuse me if my call for assistance wasn’t specific enough for you.”
Now Sharon was beginning to get the picture. This guy was supposed to provide security for one of the richest and most influential men in the world, and he had allowed his boss to be spirited away right out from under his nose. He was angry and humiliated and was taking it out on her. No problem; she could let him vent against the Paskagankee PD if he needed to. Pride was the least of their concerns if Brett Parker had actually been kidnapped.
She pulled her notebook and pen out of her breast pocket. Time was of the essence and she knew she needed to get as much useable information as possible out of this man. The EMT’s finished strapping Parmalee onto the gurney and began wheeling him toward the front door.
Wait,” Sharon said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the hospital,” the one in charge answered, looking at her like she had just farted in church.
“Not yet you’re not. I need to question this man and I need to do it now. Can you wait a couple of minutes?”
They looked at each other doubtfully and one said, “I suppose, but he took a nasty shot to the head when he hit those bricks, and—“
“Granite,” Parmalee interrupted.
“What?” the EMT said.
“It’s granite, not brick.”
“Whatever. The point is, this guy has a good-sized gash in the back of his skull that’s going to require sutures to close and he has probably suffered a pretty serious concussion. You can have three minutes, and then we’re outta here.”
“Fair enough,” Sharon answered, and turned toward the prone man. “Now, how many intruders were there?”
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