“Well,” Willock said finally in reply to David Scone, “if Lester Carlson wants to vote you be sure to send him some of your campaign literature, David. You need some help this year, I hear.” Willock boomed his hearty laugh and David Scone eked out a thin smile.
“Are you going to write about the ceremony today for your newspaper?” David Scone asked politely turning toward Hudson Richardson.
“Just a short piece,” Hudson replied. “I’ll cover it all later. When he talks on Memorial Day at the Quabbin Park ceremony. He’ll probably mention Vietnam.”
“Forget the goddamn thing,” Willock said. “It’s over and it was all so goddamn long ago.”
“How did the soldier die?” Hudson asked.
“Shot a couple of times,” Willock said. “They sent some papers with the body from this lab over in Hawaii where they identify the bodies. Kind of an autopsy.”
Hudson had been slowly surveying the room. He had come over here really just to get a sense of the scene so he could write a pre-Memorial Day piece--the bones arriving home after a quarter century, the old funeral home in the middle of town, the sparsely attended prayer service, the people who remembered or didn’t remember the boy who was now the dead soldier. But Ralph Willock’s words stopped him. He had a good memory for former stories and he remembered this one.
About 10 years ago when he had first come to the Hampshire County Daily News he had done a story on the soldiers in the paper’s circulation district who were still missing from the Vietnam War. There had been three of them. Kevin Flanagan had been the longest missing. He had been a helicopter pilot in some sort of Marine forward rescue unit.
“Shot?” Hudson repeated the word and looked at Willock.
“That’s what the death certificate said. They send that along to the funeral home. Gotta by state law.”
Hudson tapped his index finger against his mustache and upper lip. “But he was a helicopter pilot?” he said more to himself than to Ralph Willock. “Helicopter pilots die in crashes. They don’t get shot.”
“Maybe he got shot trying to escape?” Willock offered.
“But he was never a prisoner,” Hudson said. “I wrote a story about him and a couple other MIAs years ago. He was flying his helicopter on a forward reconnaissance mission. The chopper went down. Kevin Flanagan died in the crash, presumably.”
Willock had lost interest. “It’s all so long ago,” he said to Hudson. “Let it be. Who knows or cares now? It doesn’t matter.”
Hudson Richardson looked out across the Town Common, splendid with a mix of tall maples canopied with recent new green leaves and shorter pin cherry trees, their slender branches drooping with clusters of white flowers. “I don’t know, Ralph. It always matters to somebody. I just like to know the real story.”
Willock pointed across to the far end of the Town Common where a gray colonial house stood. “Now there’s a story for you. Lester Carlson moving here. Hell, a former assistant Secretary of State or something decides to retire right here in Belton.”
“Not really an assistant Secretary of State,” David Scone said. “He was Undersecretary of State for Asian affairs.”
“Well, good Christ,” Willock boomed a laugh. “Whatever. Hudson, you get the story. That’s why you’re a newspaper reporter and I’m not. Right?”
“Right,” Hudson said.
* * *
Chapter 22
Puzzling. Very, puzzling.
Hudson Richardson sat in his car in the center of Belton and looked over at the old gray house on the Common. Something had happened to Lester Carlson moments ago in that very house, something upsetting. “Fucking downright puzzling,” he said it out loud just to give the thought added weight and perhaps enhanced validity.
After the prayer service for the dead Marine at Willock’s Funeral Home, Hudson and Larry Barrad, from the rival newspaper, The Amherst Daily News, had trudged over to the big gray house on the Common and knocked on the front door. Lester Carlson answered the door himself and invited them into his parlor, a book-lined room off the dining room, and served them a Spanish sherry.
The interviews had been routine, Hudson and Barrad pitching questions right down the center of the plate, and Lester Carlson stroking back answers with the ease of a Hall-of-Fame slugger taking batting practice with the local high school squad. A warm up exercise for Lester Carlson. Hudson always felt slightly embarrassed by these interviews—the “mandatory famous-person-moves-to-town interview,” as his ex-wife Linda once described them. Lester Carlson seemed to be enjoying the interview, though—perhaps in the same way that a major league baseball player might enjoy a pick-up game of softball at a company outing.
Lester Carlson had smiled and sipped sherry while he answered their questions. He loved Belton. He’d been born nearby in the old Swift River Valley town of Enfield, now under the waters of the reservoir, and had often visited Belton over the years. He had worked for the state many years ago and helped build Quabbin Reservoir. He’d chosen to return to Belton because this house had been in his family for many years, and now that he was retired from public life he wanted a quiet, peaceful town like Belton. And yes, he would be active in local politics, and probably write his memoirs too.
A final question though had thrown him for a moment. “What do you plan to speak about at the Quabbin Memorial Day ceremony?” Hudson had asked.
Lester Carlson had paused and looked hard at the two reporters before carefully replying. He would be talking briefly about his own perspective on the Vietnam War, trying to share a few thoughts on what had been for the country, as well as for him personally, a heartbreaking time.
Hudson looked closely at Lester Carlson. Now decades since the fall of Saigon and the evacuation of the last American troops, how did one of the men who had helped send troops there feel about it?
Lester Carlson was a tall, slender man with thin, straight gray hair. His voice was mild, but he spoke in brisk sentences that sounded like quiet commands, a habit acquired from his years at the top. All the qualifiers that Hudson was so used to hearing when he interviewed state and local politicians were absent in the speech of Lester Carlson. The words “maybe,” “perhaps,” “possibly,” and “probably” didn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. The man was incredibly self-assured, Hudson thought. So self-assured and so crisp in his language that he immediately tended to dominate and intimidate. But Hudson could see Lester Carlson was making an effort to be agreeable, trying hard to back off a bit, to turn down the wattage of his own personality. When he had offered sherry, Hudson had hesitated momentarily, and for a brief instant a quick shadow of impatience had flickered across Lester Carlson’s face. Come on, hurry up, make up your mind, I’ve got no time for indecision, the look had said. But then Lester Carlson had caught himself and smiled at Hudson.
“It’s never too early for some of this Amontillado. It’s a very mild sherry. Quite light.”
Hudson had covered the rich and famous before, but he found himself a bit awed by Lester Carlson. Lester Carlson had charm. And not the phony charm worn like an expensive raincoat by so many politicians. When Lester Carlson smiled, his eyes lit up and his even white teeth sparkled. He seemed youthful and vibrant, not at all the cold, calculating automaton the newspapers had once portrayed.
It was later, after the interview that something happened. Lester Carlson had ushered the two reporters out onto the front porch and was standing with them chatting amiably. Hudson had fumbled in his pocket and produced a business card. Larry Barrad had also fumbled in his pocket but had no card. Lester Carlson held Hudson’s business card. “Stay in touch,” he said to both reporters.
It was late afternoon and the wind was brisk from the southwest, but Lester Carlson seemed in no hurry, though he stood there without a coat. He was gesturing, pointing at the cherry trees on the Town Common, remarking that they were a paltry lot compared to the trees in Washington, D.C., when the hearse carrying the remains of Kevin Flanagan appeared in the driveway
of Willock’s Funeral Home, perhaps a hundred yards away. The hearse stopped and sat idling in the drive, while Ralph Willock emerged from the funeral home and began talking with the driver. Lester Carlson paused in his discourse on cherry trees in mid-sentence. His face turned a chalky white.
“Why are they taking him away?” Lester Carlson said with an uncharacteristic stammer.
“How do you know he’s in the hearse?” Hudson asked, and then stopped. He didn’t want to sound like he was contradicting Lester Carlson.
Larry Barrad laughed loudly to cover his own unease. “No, no, you’re right Mr. Carlson. They have a prayer service at the funeral home and then store the bodies away until it’s time for burial. I guess they want to bury that soldier on Memorial Day.”
Lester Carlson stood still, fighting to regain his composure, his face drained of blood and his hands gripping the oak porch deck rail. Larry Barrad continued to talk, trying to cover the awkward moment with a barrage of chatter. “Of course, you probably knew that anyhow. Just a prayer ceremony today. They’ll bury him later. They put all the bodies waiting for burial during the winter down at the old storage hut in the Quabbin. Right down by the Enfield Road gate. They’re gonna store that soldier’s body there, too, until Memorial Day. That’s where they’re going now”
Lester Carlson stood absolutely still as Larry Barrad spoke. Just as Hudson was about to move forward thinking Lester Carlson was having a stroke or maybe a heart attack, the man snapped out of it. He raised his head and shook it slowly as if clearing cobwebs; glanced briefly again at Hudson’s business card and put it in his pocket. The color returned to his face, his hands unclenched from the wooded railing, and he turned and spoke firmly.
“Yes, of course. It’s a remembrance ceremony today, but not a burial. We bury him on Memorial Day. Very good, gentlemen. Have a good day.” He had turned and without haste gone back into his house.
After they were out of sight of the house, Larry Barrad turned to Hudson. “Shit, Hudson,” Barrad said as they crossed the Town Common to their cars. “Did you see that? Did you fucking see that? I thought the old boy was gonna have a heart attack or something.”
Hudson nodded. Something had happened to Lester Carlson back there, but he wasn’t sure what.
“Hudson, I mean it. Goddamn. I wonder if Carlson is a boozer. I thought the old boy was going to drop right there. Shit.”
“Hey, Larry, no big deal. Right? You know CPR, right?” They both laughed to cover the feeling that they had inadvertently wandered into a very private room in which they did not belong.
On Park Street, in the center of Belton, the hearse carrying the remains of Kevin Flanagan, killed in Vietnam in 1969, returned to the United States for burial in 1994, passed them as they reached their cars.
Hudson watched as the hearse swung left and then right onto the main road leading down and away from the Town Common to Quabbin Reservoir. In a moment, it disappeared out of sight, a long black beetle scuttling across the tundra of New England at twilight.
* * *
Chapter 23
In May, night falls rapidly at Quabbin Reservoir. The waters of the reservoir, free of the thick crusts of ice that cover it in January, reflect the last light of the setting sun. The pine and oak covered hills rim the reservoir with their own dark reflections. The sky turns a fleecy pink, then orange and finally deep purple before the light cedes to the darkness enveloping the woods.
The air is cold here in early spring; a strong wind blows steadily across the open parts of the reservoir steering in and out of the 60 islands that dot the open waters. As the light fades, crows by the hundreds head to roost for the night, cawing and bickering, dark shapes winging across the purple sky. But otherwise there is silence. An eagle may glide overhead, a sight still rare in most parts of New England, but common at Quabbin. The eagle will flap its great wings slowly and silently. There are no horns honking, cars coughing, trucks huffing, people bustling, or dogs braying. It is quiet.
Old Enfield Road in Quabbin Reservoir was once the main road connecting the four Quabbin towns with the cities of Athol to the northeast and Springfield to the southwest. That road, along with a railroad called the Rabbit Run, carried most of the commerce in and out of the Swift River Valley. But that was before the reservoir. Before the people who lived here were asked to sacrifice their homes for the water needs of Boston. Now most of Old Enfield Road lies under the waters of Quabbin except for a short one-lane section connected to Route 9 in Belton. Trees, brush, and water from a nearby beaver dam keep encroaching on this access road.
A single metal gate stands at the end of Old Enfield Road where the lands of Quabbin end and the town line of Belton begins. Hikers park their vehicles outside this gate and then walk a mile down Old Enfield Road to the shore of Quabbin Reservoir.
Halfway down the road stands a stone hut, used now by the town of Belton as a storage shed.
* * *
A brisk and chilling wind rose and swept through Belton after the prayer and remembrance ceremony for the soldier from Vietnam—the MIA, as everybody called the valuable bones he now needed to harvest and protect. Cold winds in May were not that unusual here in the western reaches of Massachusetts. It was probably just his imagination, but for a moment as the winds rose and whipped through the tall maples and oaks on Belton Common, he sensed the presence of the entity riding on the winds. That would be unusual, though he knew from his reading that at some point the entity would attempt a return to human form.
For now, the entity came to him as a powerful, vivid, detailed vision that filled his mind with pictures and dialog--sometimes from the past. And often that vision brought him to see, understand, and perform assignments that the entity deemed necessary.
The bones of the MIA named Flanagan were now his assignment. And he couldn’t fail. The entity desired these bones; indeed was in absolute need of them. And there were only a couple of people in the entire universe who would care one way or another if the bones were never properly buried. He’d disposed of the gimpy old vet in the trailer as a precaution, as called for by the entity. But now there were complications--a former soldier out to assure himself that his friend’s body had a proper burial.
The assignment at the crummy trailer had been easy--the sodden old vet deep into a beer-induced slumber. But his last attempt—inside a house—hadn’t worked out. The entity had shown him clearly that if he eliminated the man’s wife, the man himself would withdraw in grief and confusion back to his home and leave the bones alone.
He’d never had a failure when the entity was with him. But things had gone wrong. He’d found and entered the house that night; but then the luck and timing that he so counted on had inexplicably deserted him. And he’d had to flee into the darkness like some common night stalker. That had never happened before. A few seconds made such a difference in this business. Another 20, maybe 30 seconds inside that house and he could have ascended the stairs and done his job. But she had heard him, and he’d escaped into the night badly shaken.
But that was past and his assignment was here and now. He had taken a rowboat from the administration building at the main Quabbin gate in Belton--nobody ever locked up the rowboats--and rowed near silently through the darkness over to the spot where Old Enfield Road vanished into the waters of the reservoir. He had pulled the rowboat out of the water and then started up Old Enfield Road. He walked the half-mile up the road listening as his footsteps crunched on the gravel and echoed back to him from the dark woods that fringed the road. He stayed on the road, keeping to the side in the shadows cast by the gaunt red pines--a strange alien species here in New England brought from the cold woods of Minnesota in the early days of the reservoir in the 1950s and planted throughout the Quabbin Reservation in the hope that red pine would provide a good ground cover for a watershed. It hadn’t worked. Red pine was an alien species in New England, disliked by many for the barren, dark landscape it fostered under its boughs.
It was before midnig
ht and the sky was clear. The clouds that had whipped in behind the high wind had rolled on. He moved without haste until he reached the town storage hut, squat and dark and lonely under the shadow of a large hemlock, a native to the region unlike the forsaken red pine.
They had brought the body of Kevin Flanagan here shortly after the prayer service for him in Belton Center. Tire tracks left by the hearse shone on the gravel-covered road in the light from a pale quarter moon.
His shadow danced in the darkness at the side of the road as he crunched through the mud and gravel to stand beside the storage hut. He had brought a long crow bar that now caught a glint of light from the thin moon as he positioned it on the door of the storage hut. He worked the crowbar back and forth under the door lock with a steady motion, and then he pulled hard on the crowbar. The sound of tearing wood and wrenching metal signaled success. With a loud pop, the door to the storage hut broke free of its hinges and swung open. A great-horned owl disturbed by the noise, hooted nearby, and then drifted on soft wings into the darkness, its shadow briefly passing over the road by the hut.
He moved inside and swept a pencil-size beam of light from his flashlight along the walls. On the far side of the stone floor lay three coffins placed side by side. All three were scheduled for burial when the last frost seeped out of the ground in the coming weeks. That must not happen to the bones from Vietnam.
He moved closer and stopped by the coffin nearest the door. He groped in the pocket of his woolen jacket and pulled out a six-foot length of rope. Squatting now, he carefully examined the coffin. There was a nameplate on the side. Flanagan. That was it. It wouldn’t do to lose the remains of Kevin Flanagan to burial. He tied the rope to the handle of the coffin, shut off his flashlight and rose. He tugged the coffin along the rough stone floor with some difficulty. But once outside it was easier. The ground was hard and firm and the coffin slid along on the gravel road like a large sled. He turned and started back down Old Enfield Road toward the reservoir and his rowboat, dragging the coffin behind.
Faces in the Night Page 9