Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 02 - Murder in the Maine Woods

by Bernadine Fagan

  “They won’t believe that.”

  “They will.”

  He had a laughing fit. When he stopped he said, “Just thought of something. Maybe the manual down there will help. ’Course it’ll be kinda dark for reading, but maybe you can get this baby started and drive out. I did some work on it. I’m a good mechanic. Not many people know that.”

  He grabbed the hanging light and unhooked it from the open hatch. The darkness was incredible. I began to cry.

  Suddenly the hatch slammed shut and I heard metal, probably chains, being dropped across it. I could hear him laughing as I stood in total darkness. I heard footsteps on the roof, knew he was leaving. I screamed, begged him to let me out. Promised him every cent I had in the world. He didn’t have to know how little that was.

  The last sound I heard was the garage door closing.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Hysteria replaced the sliver of hope I’d harbored. Tears flowed. I felt around in the dark. Cold metal everywhere. No way out. Locked. Confined. Darkness like I’d never known before. I wanted to see something, anything. I hated this darkness.

  Wave after wave of panic wormed through every pore as I stood in the middle of this Sherman tank wondering when I’d be found, if I’d be found. Desolation overwhelmed me. Never before had I felt so alone.

  Who would come? No one would know where to look.

  I thought of Uncle Walter who had seen the tank. He had no right to it or to he coins. He would realize that and give up his fight. If Rhonda spoke to him, she’d make it clear to him. So he wouldn’t come.

  Nick wouldn’t know where I was. My truck was parked by the side of the road but I knew clever and wily Stan would take care of that. I couldn’t guess where he’d leave it. The police would hunt in the area around the truck.

  I missed Nick already.

  I suspected that while everyone was hunting for me, Stan would steal my computer. Neat and tidy.

  Everyone would wonder where I was—the aunts, Nick, Mary Fran, Rhonda, Vivian. My brother Howie would miss me, maybe even my mother, but I was not certain about her. Lori would have to cancel my resumes. Whatshisname would never get my apartment. Good.

  But the aunts? Oh, God. Just thinking about them made the tears take over again and stream down my cheeks. The moisture would cause added rust in years to come.

  My hand rested on the back of a seat. I slipped around and sat on it. That’s when I felt the hard piece jabbing into my thigh. I stood quickly and touched the flat flashlight in my pocket. I’d forgotten about that. I sobbed like a baby. According to the advertisement, it was supposed to last indefinitely. God, I hoped they’d told the truth about that.

  I pressed the small button and there was light. It was amazingly bright. To keep it shining, I had to keep pressure on the button. I looked around for something that might help. As I examined my surroundings, possibly the place I would die, the words ‘what a dump’ came to mind.

  Everywhere I looked there were gauges, switches, pipes, chains, wires, levers and what I figured were gear shifts. On the floor in front of me I saw pedals. They looked a little like the pedals on Hannah’s car, gas and clutch. Some candy wrappers and a box of Wonka Gobstoppers cluttered a small ledge. Thinking the Gobstoppers would be my last meal made the tears flow again and gave panic a stronger foothold.

  After a few minutes, I protested. “No,” I said aloud, stamping my foot. “No. Somehow, I’ll get out of this. People will come looking for me. Nick won’t give up.”

  I decided to go with that instead of despair.

  I wedged my flashlight under a piece of pipe to keep it lit. That’s when I spotted the wrinkled manual jammed between the seat and what I figured was the gear shift. Something to read while I waited to be found, I thought. I’d think positive. I would be found.

  I yanked it out and flipped through the pages. The ones detailing the motor were dog-eared and decorated with multiple spots and smears. Stan must have spent a lot of time fixing the motor. I tossed it away.

  For a long time I sat in the quiet of my prison, thinking. I wondered what Stan was up to. It occurred to me that Lenny must have taken the flash drive from the refrigerator. At one point I thought maybe he and Stan were in this together, but maybe not. Lenny the gambler and computer nerd probably had a plan, and it didn’t seem to include Stan.

  I was restless.

  I wanted to scream, so I did. Then I screamed some more. I stamped my feet. I stopped suddenly, concerned about using up the air.

  Then I picked up the manual and began to read. The more I read, the more my panic subsided. I wondered whether it was possible for me to start the tank and get it moving. Stranger things happened. Didn’t someone once take over the controls of a plane and land it when the pilot died? Or was that only in a movie?

  It didn’t matter.

  I became certain that I would not molder away in this damn tank. I would not suffocate, or die of starvation either. Instead, I’d drive this sucker right through the door and into the road. I’d drive home, if I could find my way. Everybody would have to watch out for me, because I didn’t think I could watch out for them. I knew the tank pointed at the doors. I’d seen that.

  I checked the gauges first, only because they were on the next page I turned to in the manual. Gas gauge. I matched the drawing to the gauge in front of me and tapped it. If it was working, I had almost a full tank.

  Stan had been busy. Okay, the gas looked good. Now I needed to figure out how to turn this behemoth on.

  I looked at my watch. It was ten-twenty. Stan would have parked my truck by now. I wondered whether he bothered with a note. He probably took my bag with the cell phone. It’s what I’d do. Ida and Nick would have called me. Ida would be alarmed and would call the aunts. She’d probably spoken to Nick, too.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Stan played this to perfection. He was a planner, a vicious and diabolical man.

  I would not go quietly. I would not cry another tear. I would fight in a way he would never expect.

  I spent the next few hours studying the running of the Sherman tank. I wanted to be sure that once I started it, I could take off. I was not sure how the gas supply would hold up so I had to know what I was doing.

  I was hungry. I wanted a cup of coffee. I never started my day without coffee. And of course I had to pee. He’d left a bucket in here. I used it. Oh, yuck.

  I continued reading. I looked from the manual to the controls and practiced by simulating the actions I’d have to take. I was grateful Hannah had insisted I learn to drive her GTO with the clutch and stick shift. This had both and I understood how to coordinate them. Two levers replaced the steering wheel. Whose dumb idea was that?

  I wondered what was happening at home. It was now after one o’clock. Ida must be frantic. The entire sheriff’s department must know and be out looking. But there was no way any of them would be able to guess where I was. Stan chose the site of his second murder well. I wondered if the note he planted would throw them off the track for long.

  My life was forfeit if I failed.

  To prevent failure, I memorized sections of the manual the way I’d memorized text sections when I was studying computer science. My concentration was complete.

  Above the driver’s seat was the small sealed viewing hatch. I tried to open it without success. I took a piece of pipe from the floor and pounded on the hatch. The pipe slipped and sliced my hand. My hands were bloody by the time it gave a tiny bit. I peeked into the darkened garage. I’d see better when I was through those doors.

  I took off my jacket and sweater to get to the white long-sleeved shirt. I removed it, ripped it into strips and wrapped my bloody hands.

  It was two-fifteen. I was as ready as I could be.

  First I released the parking brake, and then I hit the starter switch. The engine turned over. There was no time to cheer, but I was conscious of an internal rush. I quickly pulled the choke lever back all the way. The engine caught a
nd I pushed in the clutch pedal. The noise was horrific, multiplied a hundred times as it bounced off cinderblock walls.

  My heart soared. With great care, I partially closed the choke.

  I let the engine warm up while I watched the gauges. The oil pressure finally hit forty pounds, the temperature one-sixty. I was ready to take off.

  Down on the clutch. With both hands on the gear shift, which was so stiff I thought I’d never get this tank into gear, I pulled with all my might until it dropped into place. Easy on the gas. Easy. Up on the clutch. Feel for the friction point. Gas.

  In a rush of power that about took my breath away, I crashed through the garage door.

  Light. I could see light through the sliver of open hatch in front of me. I plowed out toward the road, crashing into trees and branches and anything in my way. The power was incredible. Wonderful.

  Steering was not so wonderful. Using levers was different than using a wheel. Why didn’t they do wheels in this contraption? Everyone was used to wheels. Even though I’d practiced the movements in the garage, the difficulty quotient doubled when the engine was engaged.

  I aimed for the road. I wished I could see better, but that wasn’t possible. I should have made the hatch opening larger. Too late for that. But all in all, this was going well.

  It was time to shift.

  If I could have seen better, I would not have chosen this particular moment to shift. Several large trees loomed ahead. Bumpy doesn’t begin to describe the ride when a tank is in lurching mode. I think there are some crazy amusement park rides that were designed by former tank drivers.

  My foot slipped off the gas pedal. Without enough gas to the motor, it would stall. I risked a glance down. I banged my head on the gauge panel, but found the gas pedal and pressed it as far as it would go.

  The tank lurched forward. I kept the pedal pressed to the floor. I was moving well, but a little faster than my ability to control.

  Seconds later I saw Buster’s house dead ahead. How on earth?

  It was like a second entity took control. Its name was Panic.

  I yanked the levers this way and that in an effort to straighten out and avoid crashing into the house. I overcompensated on the left. I considered using the brake, but I couldn’t chance it.

  I finally yanked the steering stick so hard in the opposite direction that the tank swung around. However, the turn wasn’t sharp enough to keep it from plowing into Buster’s old truck that still sat in the driveway. The tank went over it, smashed that truck like it was a pile of tin cans. Metal on metal. The noise was incredible.

  As it rolled over the truck, it lifted on the right side. I slid left. To avoid tumbling off my seat I braced against the left steering stick.

  That was a mistake. Without meaning to, I turned the tank left.

  “Too far,” I yelled.

  Next thing I knew the Sherman was making toothpicks out of the deck that bordered one side of the house. Omigod. I pulled the stick to compensate. Wrong stick. This was so hard to keep straight. Why not a wheel? What was the designer thinking?

  I clipped a back corner section of wall. I heard a loud noise but couldn’t see what happened. It sounded like part of the house collapsed.

  I had to get down to the road. Had to. Attempting a 180, I pulled the right stick as far as it would go. Success. I could see the road at the end of the driveway.

  I timed the next lever pull.

  Almost.

  I crossed the road and was in the woods on the far side. I worked the levers like a mad woman. Finally I was back at the road and I straightened out.

  I headed home, I think. I figured I was traveling about fifteen miles per hour. In a few hours, I’d be home. I prayed the gas would hold out or someone I knew would come along.

  I was driving a tank. Who would have thought.

  Finally, this was going well.

  I’d gone a few miles when I spotted a green, dumpy SUV through the hatch slit. Stan? He must have gotten rid of my truck. He was heading toward me. If he managed to maneuver around me, or alongside me, he might be able to climb on the tank. I’d seen it in the movies. It might be possible in real life. He’d unhook the chain, open the hatch and I’d be road kill.

  No and no. I would not die like this, not after all my work. With a quick lever pull to the left—practice makes perfect, or at least better—I caught the edge of his vehicle. I couldn’t see, but I thought I’d knocked it off the road. Instead of continuing, I made another 180 and faced him and his damaged truck. He was trying to start it. Lenny was in the front seat beside him. He must have followed Stan so he could drive him back.

  This time I aimed directly for them, slowed and pushed the vehicle into a boulder. Seeing him working furiously at the door, I knew I had to push harder. Had to trap him.

  I eased forward. Stan felt the full might of the Sherman M4A3 tank ramming his SUV into the woods until it was flush against a boulder. His eyes went wide. I stopped. There was no way he could escape. I would sit here until someone came along.

  The murderer was trapped between a rock and a hard place, that hard place being the mighty Sherman and the five-foot-five woman he’d tried to murder in the Maine woods.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I heard the sirens but couldn’t see the police cars. The crashing feet on the top of the tank were music to my ears.

  “Are you all right in there?” Nick called.

  “Nick, I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

  “Nora?”

  “You were expecting someone else?”

  “Thank God. Oh, thank God you’re alive.”

  The relief in his tone penetrated the steel hull.

  It took about ten minutes for the chain to be severed and the hatch opened. He dropped down and hugged me with strong arms that said more than words. I began to tremble and couldn’t stop.

  Minutes later I was free and in the open air. It smelled wonderful. Two sheriffs’ vehicles pulled up, followed by a fire truck and an ambulance. As I stood on the tank, they formed a semi-circle around the Sherman and broke into applause. I recognized Miller, Trimble and a few others, some firemen and EMTs. The cheering continued until I was lifted off the tank and someone called, “Atten-hut!”

  Stunned, I looked around. They all stood at attention, forming a path between the tank and Nick’s SUV, like an honor guard. Maybe I was mistaken. This couldn’t be. As Nick lowered me down, they saluted. I was more than taken aback. I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to say or how to respond. I got teary-eyed. And then I was embarrassed. I have to stop reacting like this whenever people show kindness.

  “I have something in my eye,” I said to Nick. “Maybe someone has a cat around here. I’m allergic, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling, as we headed for his vehicle. When I got in he handed me a tissue.

  Sporting a soft cast on his leg, Miller hobbled over and said, “We salute you, Nora Lassiter. We were at Buster’s place earlier. You really wrecked it. Good for you for catching this creep. Great job. I don’t think I could have driven that tank.”

  “We’re mighty impressed with you,” some other guy called.

  “Thank you,” I said. I gave a wave and a shaky smile. Inside I was still trembling from the ordeal and their reaction. Nick understood my distress and reached for my hand.

  “No, thank you,” another man said.

  I waved at him.

  “Vivian called to report an invasion,” Nick said. “She was hysterical. She said the area was under siege by an invading army. The deputy she spoke to got her to hold off on her other calls, told her we’d handle them.”

  “Other calls? I’m afraid to ask.”

  “The FBI, the president, the marines.”

  My mouth dropped. “She didn’t manage—“

  “No. We’ve already spoken to her. Everything’s good.”

  After a few minutes when the trembling lessened, I said, “I want to talk to Stan.”

  He was still
stuck in the crushed green SUV. Several men were working to cut him out.

  His head was bleeding, his eye swelling and his nose was crooked. From the way he was holding his arm, I guessed it was broken. Pain was etched on his chubby face.

  “I took your advice,” I said when the man using the loud cutting tool stopped to move to another section. “I read the manual and got that baby started. Drove right through the door. Hit a few things along the way. Don’t worry. You’ll have a place to live. I think it comes with bars.”

  Stan tried to speak but his mouth was too swollen. Lenny yelled, “I had nothing to do with this.”

  The man doing the cutting started up again so Nick and I left and got in his sheriff’s SUV. He gave me his phone so I could call Ida.

  On the way home I told him everything Stan told me before he slammed the hatch.

  “We were able to make two arrests today. Some of the stolen goods were recovered, but Lenny sold most of them. Thank you for your good work, detective.”

  Before we arrived home, he pulled over and stopped. “I have to tell you how amazing I think you are,” he said, facing me. “Driving a tank. Catching a murderer. It’s too much for words. I think you are wonderful. You are one of the most incredible woman I know.”

  He kissed me and he held me and I got weepy.

  When we arrived home Hannah and Agnes were there, along with Aunt Ellie and other family members. After hugs all around, I explained what happened. Lots of oohing and aahing took place.

  Before I came downstairs for breakfast the next morning, I looked at the suitcase I’d been packing off and on all week. Today might be my last day in Maine. If I left quickly it would be less painful, like ripping off a bandage instead of peeling it. Keeping the tears at bay was more of a challenge than I expected, more of a challenge than driving the mighty Sherman. I let them flow when I was in the shower, which worked well since it kept me from thinking about how cold the water was.