by DB Carpenter
What he wanted to talk to Bert about would certainly liven up their night.
"Is there someplace we can talk in private?"
Bert furrowed his brow, rubbed his hands down his face and slapped them together before saying, "Sure, let's go out onto the porch."
As Chris shut the outside door the conversation inside started up again. He was surely the main topic.
"So, what's going on, Chris?" Bert asked as he sat down in one of the well-used bentwood chairs lined up on the large rectangular porch. Before he could reply, Bert said, "You're from Massachusetts."
He followed Bert's gaze, which was directed at his new Toyota Prius. One thing he'd learned over the years was that people in Maine, particularly this part of the state, didn't hold people from Massachusetts in the highest regards. They thought all people from Massachusetts lived in downtown Boston and when not fighting off marauding gangs of ethnically diverse murderers and rapists, they were generally overpaid, arrogant asses – also known as, Mass-holes.
"Yes," Chris replied, not wanting to get caught in that trap. "I inherited a small camp up on the St. Croix fifteen years ago from my grandfather. I usually spend two weeks a year up here fishing and unwinding."
"How far up the river is it?"
"About eight miles."
"Rust-colored?"
"Yeah, you've been that far up the river?" Chris asked. In all of his years coming here, he had only seen a handful of people actually that far up the river. It was a long haul. The water was usually too low to use a motor and sometimes even paddling was difficult. He preferred to pole – that was the best way to make good time in a river such as the St. Croix.
Bert nodded. "Nice little place. Good fishin' up the other side of that creek."
"It certainly is," Chris replied, happy that Bert not only knew but appreciated what it was. "I've pulled a lot of trout out of that water."
"Well, if you want to get away from it all, you're not going to find a better spot than that."
"If I couldn't get up here for a couple weeks a year, I'd lose my mind."
"That one of them hybrids?" Bert asked, nodding toward the car.
Chris looked over at the shiny white car. Up until four months ago he had driven a Jeep Wrangler but Karen had nagged him into going green. He had finally caved in, sold the Jeep and bought a Prius but had felt emasculated ever since. The self-righteous piousness he thought was exhibited by most hybrid owners eluded him. Maybe because he understood that the manufacturing process to make the batteries for them created more greenhouse gases then driving a traditional car for a hundred thousand miles and the metals and chemicals leftover after the batteries died were a toxic nightmare, or maybe because he truly loved the environment at a spiritual level, not at a "look at me, I care" one. That's actually why he liked coming up here - to commune with nature, to reconnect.
"Yeah, the wife made me buy it," Chris said. "Frankly, I hate the thing but it does get good mileage and it shut her up."
Bert snorted as he pulled a pouch of Bugler tobacco out of his pocket and started rolling a cigarette. His meaty fingers nimbly performed the delicate task.
"The reason that I needed to talk to you privately is actually kind of incredible. I'm not sure I'd believe it myself if I didn't see it with my own eyes"
Bert licked the paper and gave the cigarette a final spin. He looked up as he struck a blue-tip match on the arm of his chair.
Chris glanced inside and saw that the other men had returned to what they had been doing. The bartender was on the phone.
"So let's hear it?" Bert asked.
Chris paused for a moment and stared at Mt. Katahdin looming majestically in the distance. The setting sun illuminated its jagged, mile-high stone edge, giving it the breathtaking appearance of a massive stone temple.
When he turned back, he saw that Bert was looking inside the lodge and he followed his stare. As he did so, the bartender turned his back to them. Bert dragged on his cigarette, coolly turning his gaze to Chris. His deep set, brown eyes sparkled as he said, "Go on."
In the lodge the bartender was hanging up the phone. Considering the events of the day, Chris was naturally on edge. He reflected on everything that had happened and whether or not he should just blurt the whole story out. Partly because he didn't want to come across as a lunatic but he was also starting to consider who he could trust. Bullet riddled pilots, people in planes with machine guns, viruses and this woman, Sarah Burns, were the unnerving makings of a great movie but as David Rose's death proved, it was deadly real.
If they had killed David, they certainly wouldn't think twice about doing the same to Chris. But who were they? Northern Maine was a vast wilderness but a small world and he had no idea who in that small world was wrapped up in whatever the hell was going on. He decided to test the water first without necessarily revealing the entire conversation or what had happened afterward.
"Well, this morning I was fishing a few yards above that little stream that you were just talking about..."
He paced the porch as he told Bert about the plane crash but didn't mention the bullet wounds, the pursuing plane opening fire or David's incredible words.
"Hot damn," Bert said. "What happened to the pilot?"
"When I got to the plane and looked inside I thought he was dead, but it turned out that he was alive."
"Really?"
"He was a mess," Chris replied. "Covered in blood, the engine was pushed into the cockpit and it was crushing him but he was still breathing. I tried to get him to talk to me. He managed to tell me that his name was David something. I couldn't understand exactly what he said. He was in rough shape. It sounded like Roll, or something like that."
"Did he say anything else?"
"No, not really. He was babbling about something that I couldn't understand. He kept on saying someone was after him. And then he died. Blood was pouring out of his mouth the whole time. I can't believe he was even alive." He clenched his teeth as he recalled David's last moments.
"That's it?" Bert asked.
Chris nodded.
"The body's still in the plane?"
"It is."
"Well. It's too late to go up there and get it tonight. I'll make some calls. See if any planes are missing."
"I just wanted to tell the law about it because I have to be getting back home tonight."
"You ain't going no place. Not tonight at least. You need to give a statement to the FAA, or the NTSB or whoever ultimately has jurisdiction about this tomorrow morning after we go up to the crash site."
"I wish I could but I can't. I have to be back in Boston for an important meeting tomorrow afternoon at three."
"Sorry, plane crashes are federal jurisdiction. If you leave without the proper people interviewing you, it's going to be my ass. I like my ass just the way it is, comprendé?"
"You've got to be kidding me," Chris said, briefly wishing he had just driven straight home and forgotten all about the plane crash and David Rose. But how could he do that after having experienced the ultimate results of a violent murder which left a man lying dead in a plane up the river. He was the lone witness and, granted he didn't owe David anything, someone had to represent the dead man, to give him a living voice in the search for justice.
"I'm not," Bert replied as he pinched the end of the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, held it for a second to make sure it was fully extinguished and then flicked it over the railing.
Chris took a deep breath and slowly cracked each knuckle. Maybe it was the crazy events of the morning making him paranoid but Chris couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to be careful who he trusted around here. Going to the state police had seemed like the most sensible thing to do, but now that he was here, he couldn't help thinking perhaps Bert wasn't the right person to be investigating this type of crime.
He was probably a fine cop, just doing his job, and clearly enjoying the fact that he had a Mass-hole in a bind and wasn't going to bend the rules the l
east bit. In and of itself, that wasn't really that strange for people up here. But the gooseflesh on Chris' arms and the nervy twisting in his gut was keeping him on edge.
"You tell anyone else about this?" Bert asked as he hoisted his bulk out of the chair and stood next to him.
Chris shook his head.
"Come on inside. I'll get Stu to set you up with a room, and you can make some calls if you have to. Your cell phone isn't going to work up here."
Chris glanced at his phone and sure enough, no signal. He grudgingly followed Bert. Fleeting thoughts of making a break for his car, escaping this fucked up situation and heading back home to forget the whole incident raced through his mind, but only one road led out of the woods and Bert would surely be able to catch him - his cruiser undoubtedly a little faster than the Prius. Now that he had involved the authorities, he was caught in their machine and he, unfortunately, had to comply.
Once inside, Bert said to the bartender, "Stu, set Chris here up with a room for tonight. Bill me for it."
"No problem, Bert," Stu replied. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. He saw a plane crash up the St. Croix. Let me use the phone, will you?"
Stu slid the phone across the bar to Bert, who started to make calls to see if anyone knew about missing planes.
"So what happened?" Stu asked as soon as Bert started to dial the first number.
"It's a long story," Chris said. "Could I get a beer and some food first?"
"Sure." Stu said. "About all we got for food is some of my wife's rabbit stew, or I could get her to do a burger for you." He was already popping the top off a Bud. To men like Stu there was only one beer, and Chris would be willing to bet that the refrigerator was Budweiser only, particularly at this time of year.
"I'll try some rabbit stew, Stu," Chris said, smiling at the sound of it.
"You won't be disappointed," he replied, not looking nearly as grumpy for some reason.
As he ate, the other men finished their game of pool and congregated around him as if he was a preacher come to town to deliver the sermon that was going to save their souls.
Chris wiped the last of the rabbit stew from his lips and said, "Your wife's a real catch, Stu. Anyone who can make a rabbit taste that good ought to be anointed."
Stu smiled proudly. "We've owned this place for twenty years and not one person's stayed here who didn't compliment her cooking. So what's with this plane crash?"
Chris regurgitated the slightly modified story once again.
Just as he finished, Bert said from the other side of the bar, "I think I found it."
"Really?" Chris replied.
"The plane was old and yellow, right?"
Chris nodded, "Yes."
Bert spoke into the handset of the phone, "Yeah, that sounds like the one all right."
As he listened, he nodded while rolling his eyes and making a hurry-up-already motion with his hand. "Okay. We'll be there about eight tomorrow morning. See you then."
He hung up the phone and slid it across the bar to Stu. Then ran his fingers through his wavy black hair and slowly shook his head as he said, "It sounds like a plane from Great Northern. It was supposed to bring some supplies in to a crew up in the Allagash but never showed up."
"How about that," Stu said as he cleared away the dishes and fastidiously wiped the shiny wooden bar. "If you hadn't seen him go down, it could have been years before they found him, if ever."
"That's for sure," Bert said. "We'll meet the FAA guys up in Ashland tomorrow morning. They'll have a chopper, and we'll fly in to the crash site."
Chris's mind raced as he, drank and ate. Why would a lumber camp delivery plane and pilot be shot up? And why would it have been pursued and riddled with bullets again? David's final word echoed in Chris' mind, "Run!" There was nothing more he would have liked to do right now. But how?
"Sounds good," Chris said. "I'm spent. Where's my room, Stu?"
Stu walked out from the other side of the bar, glanced at Bert and said, "Follow me."
They crossed the great room and climbed the stairs. At the top was a corridor lined with three doors on each side.
"We're empty this time of year, so I'll put you up in the Guide Room."
"Sounds great," Chris replied, suddenly exhausted. He didn't care if Stu put him in the attic on the floor. He needed some sleep.
Stu opened the door to a small but comfortable room.
"Bathroom's at the end of the hall," he said. "You need anything, just dial 0 on that phone and either me or Annie'll pick up."
"Thanks."
"Enjoy it. Ain't often the State picks up the tab. The only thing they ever give me is a big fat tax bill."
Stu left the room and shut the door. His footsteps faded down the hall. Chris lay down on the bed, trying to force himself to sleep. He was certainly physically and emotionally tired enough after the long day but his mind was racing uncontrollably. He stood up and paced the small room, reliving the events of the day, trying to rationalize everything that had happened. Replaying David's words over and over again, trying to think if he had missed anything and most importantly, trying to decide if David had been telling the truth. That was the real wildcard. Not that it had been a particularly coherent or lucid conversation, snippets, words, only a few actual phrases but when he put them all together, they painted an ominous picture. But no matter how many times he turned the words over in his mind, he came back to the hard fact that David had been shot. That was an indisputable reality.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. He'd been driving himself crazy for the better part of two hours and no matter how he looked at it, nothing lined up. He needed to get out of the room and get some fresh air to try to clear his mind.
The door opened silently and he slipped out into the dark hall and listened. The lodge was quiet. Walking to the top of the stairs he peered down through the balusters at the dimly lit bar where Stu sat alone, drinking a beer. The phone rang and he snatched it up before the first ring was complete.
As Chris started down the stairs, he could hear Stu speaking, his voice soft and low. The words of the very short conversation essentially indecipherable except for two that made Chris' heart skip a beat and his knees buckle. "…Sarah Burns …"
Day 2 – Monday, June 29
1:34 am Route 11, Aroostook County, Maine
The rusty old IH Scout rattled to a stop in the rest area next to the shiny Crown Victoria. The driver's side doors next to each other, windows down so Bert and Seth could talk.
"Evening, Bert," Seth said.
"How do?" Bert replied.
"This is a mess."
"You got that right."
"So what do you think? Did David tell this guy anything?"
"Hard to tell."
"So who is he?"
"Name's Chris Foster. From down around Boston. He's got a camp up the St. Croix. He was out fishing and the plane damn near killed him when it crashed."
Seth shook his head, "What are the fucking odds?"
"Very slim I'd say but that don't matter, does it?"
"Nope," Seth replied as he squeezed the steering wheel tightly in his hands. "So what do you think? Gut feel?"
"He seemed real skittish. Five'll get you ten David told him a lot more than he was telling me."
"Did he mention anything about seeing anyone shooting at the plane after it crashed?" Seth asked.
Bert shook his head, "Nope. Just said it crashed and the pilot died from his injuries shortly thereafter."
Seth sighed as he stared out the front windshield at the swath of dirt and woods that his headlights illuminated. Obviously, Chris Foster wasn't telling Bert everything. It was no more than fifteen minutes from when David crashed to when the plane was strafed. Chris would have undoubtedly heard and, more than likely, seen that.
"Son of a bitch," Seth said. "Stu's got him locked up?"
"He does. Go in the back, he's waiting for you," Bert replied.
"Good job, Bert," S
eth said as he ground the stick shift into reverse and backed out of the rest area.
"Well, it seems like we lucked out," said the woman in the rear seat who sat up as Seth headed south in the direction of the Wild Bear Inn.
"It would appear so," Seth replied.
"I should have trusted my instincts about David," Sarah said through a sigh. She had loved David, but two years ago decided that there was no room for love in what they were doing. It was too distracting, and, now that they were on the brink of achieving their goal, she knew she had made the right choice even though it had been a painful one. David had been special. More than just a lover. More than just a friend. He was someone she could have envisioned herself settling down with for the duration. They had connected so well – good in bed and good in the head, she had always said. But a part of her would forever regret it. She looked at Seth who returned her stare briefly in the rear view mirror.
"Don't say that," he said. "We all missed it. You'd think that after eighteen years we would have known him well enough to see that he'd lost his commitment, but we didn't. Hell, if we were to act on every suspicion we had, it'd be just you and me. And we'd be a long way from where we are today."
"You're right. It's just not a good time – not when we're trying to tie up all the loose ends."
"I know, but that's all it is, another loose end. Jerry and the guys rented a chopper and are up at the crash site right now cleaning up. When they get done, there'll be no traces of a crash, and in a few minutes we'll have the only witness."
"Speaking of loose ends, you're going to have to pay Bert a visit soon," she said as she undid the tight bun that frequently knotted her long brown hair.
"I know," he replied as he stared intensely at her in the mirror. He knew that Sarah enjoyed but also resented his infatuation with her as she looked away dismissively. He couldn't help it. He had made passes at her over the years, particularly after her and David broke up but they were all rebuked, some respectfully, others not so much so. But for some reason he couldn't stop himself from trying. He considered her to be the perfect woman. Out of his league for sure but why not aim high? As the lottery commercials said, "You can't win if you don't play."