KILLING MAINE

by Mike Bond

  What he did next blew my mind.

  He approached the first turbine till maybe seventy yards away and knelt down next to a pile of shattered trees. Holding the rifle barrel against a thick near-horizontal root he aimed at the turbine housing fifty-five stories above, using the upended root as a brace.

  The gun’s barrel flamed, its blast racked the night. On the turbine high above came a bright flash. Holy shit, he was using incendiary rounds, a high-powered rifle with a fast, flat trajectory that would drive the bullet deep into the turbine mechanism.

  There was a clik-click as he opened the breech, then click-clik as he chambered the next round. Silhouetted against the snow, he was visible enough to see him pocket the ejected empty cartridge.

  Another great wham as he fired again, the round blazing off the turbine nacelle. He fired again, dead on, straight into the gear box, then three times more, all incendiaries. From another pocket he took more bullets and reloaded and emptied the magazine into the generator in the back of the turbine.

  After the last round he bent over, feeling the ground and snow around him. For a moment I couldn’t figure what he was doing then realized he’d lost an ejected cartridge. He got down on one knee and really began to search. Finally he stood, slung the rifle and jogged along the blasted ridgetop road toward the next tower. He fired two magazines into the second turbine then turned back down the mountain toward home.

  I waited fifteen minutes then crossed to where he’d shot at the first turbine. There was a wide swath where he’d dug in the snow looking for the missing cartridge. As I hadn’t seen him pocket it I hoped it might still be there. Using my phone light I scanned the area seeing nothing but churned-up snow and sodden leaves. Like Titus I knelt and felt around in the snow but still found nothing.

  Standing I glanced at the tree roots. It was a big pine that had been cut then the roots had been dynamited. I turned the phone light on the root mass and there in the midst of dirt and rootlets was a glimmer.

  I wiped my gloves clean and pulled out the cartridge. A 30-06, not from Bucky’s lost gun.

  And not a .308 ASYM like Bucky’s or a .270 Fiocchi like the guy who shot at me.

  I found a good boot print and shot a pix with my phone. A few small flames were licking up the side of the further turbine. The closer, maybe a hundred yards from me, was leaking a waterfall of oil that the wind flayed into a wide stain on the snow.

  As I headed back to Lexie’s the forest grew silent and I realized all nine turbines had stopped, though their strobes were flashing madly.

  If Titus shot at me why was he also shooting out turbines? Actually, shooting out the turbines made sense: now he and his family could sleep.

  Had he shot the four other turbines the cops tried to blame on me?

  But why shoot at me?

  Was someone paying him to kill me?

  Or was my shooter maybe not on the Missalonkee Hard Riders list at all? Maybe my shooter was, as the Mainers say, from away? From one of these Texas energy combines trying to build thousands of turbines in Maine?

  Titus must know if they caught him for shooting out the turbines he’d probably do time. Same as Bucky, but then Bucky had the murder rap too. I realized I was feeling responsible for Bucky and told myself not to. For Lexie too, and Abigail bless her heart and even Mildred Pierce, and for all the people in Maine who were losing their lovely mountains.

  Felt responsible for the whole human race. That was my damn problem.

  In fifteen days the Tahiti Tsunami. I wasn’t going to make it.

  SIRENS WERE WAILING in the distance. From Lexie’s front window I watched two fire engines pass, then a cop car then two more cops, all flashing madly. I went out on the front porch.

  Up on the mountain the second of the turbines Titus had shot was blazing merrily; the other emitting a volcano of black smoke. But with all the snow on the access roads there was no way those fire engines would make the climb.

  The cops and firemen were standing in the field between Lexie’s place and Jane’s watching the turbines burn. The cops backed two snowmobiles off a trailer and with a fireman on the back of each headed up the mountain.

  Meanwhile I checked the pix I’d taken of Titus McKee’s boot print to compare it with the Red Wing boot print left by the guy who’d shot at me. No match. The boots Titus was wearing were worn, the sole markings nearly illegible. Two sizes bigger.

  If Titus had been my shooter he’d been wearing different boots and scrimping his toes.

  That’s when Mitchell calls. “You won’t believe,” I says, “what Titus did last night.”

  “I’m very sorry, man, to tell you. I think I found Abigail.”

  Setting Bail

  IS SHE OKAY?” I almost begged him.

  He was speaking slowly as he always does, driving me crazy. “Don’t know. You need to check.”

  “Where? Where is she?”

  “I started thinking this through,” Mitchell answered steadily, “if Abigail’s missing, what are the options? And one of the options was she’d had an accident somewhere, or she’d parked the car where no one could see it –”

  “The cops’ve looked everywhere. Accidents get reported.”

  “So I was thinking could there be an accident they didn’t see? Like under a bridge or something, or could the car be parked at the end of an old logging road, under a snow-covered tarp somewhere?”

  “We already checked that, Clarence and me.” I sat back, waiting for the truth. “Tell me.”

  “There’s a vehicle upside down under a bridge not too far from Augusta, got it off real time. Probably impossible to see from the bridge. On the satpix it’s hard to tell, but may be a Saab. From the angle and distance I can’t make out the plate or if anybody’s inside it. Need you go check.”

  “Tell me where.”

  IT WAS A WHITE SAAB upside down in the water at the bottom of a gully where the back road from Augusta to Belgrade cuts over Hawkins Brook. Not ten miles from where Clarence and I had seen the white Audi. A place I knew well as it had once belonged to my Maine ancestors, as a lot of Maine acres had once belonged to them.

  Hawkins Brook is a steep hundred-foot canyon of white flashing rapids, bare trees, ice and frozen granite. The Saab was almost under the bridge, impossible to see from the highway. From the snow on the chassis it looked like it had been there several days.

  Oh Jesus Abigail, I prayed aloud as I tumbled and slithered down the near-vertical canyon. Please don’t be you.

  Frosted windows with smears of black blood inside. Scratching at the icy glass I could make out a dark-haired head hanging down above the steering wheel, still in the safety belt.

  Looking up you could see where it had gone off the road’s shoulder just before the bridge rail began, had spun over when it hit a tree, landed in the brook on its nose, and fell back on its roof.

  I wanted so badly to yank open the door, hold her, warm her. But I’d seen enough bodies to know she was dead, this lovely woman I’d made such happy love with, and now if I left one fingerprint or DNA or messed up even one clue the cops would get me. For tampering with evidence. For pretending to find my own victim.

  I’d have to call in an anonymous tip. Then I’d no longer be a suspect in her death. Or would I, I wondered, glancing up the canyon to where the Saab had run off the road. What if she was already dead inside it?

  Anyway they’d still suspect me of killing Don and Viv, and whatever else they could find.

  With a pine bough I brushed where I’d wiped the glass. Swearing, half-crying, I climbed out of the canyon and stumbled back Hawkins Brook Road to Bucky’s 150, only remembering later the State Police cruiser that passed, and the flash of his camera.

  DON’T KNOW HOW I made it back to Lexie’s. All I was seeing was Abigail’s lovely face, hearing her deep contralto, her tangle of brilliant thoughts and ironic empathetic mind.

  What I do remember is when I came round the last curve before Lexie’s farm both turbines were bla
zing and Lexie’s pasture was full of fire trucks, cop cars, news vans and assorted gawkers.

  There to greet me was C. Hart, all bundled up in a flak jacket and parka, a fur cap whose earflaps hung down like a disheartened rabbit’s. “We been looking for you,” he smiled, pulling open my door.

  Still stunned by Abigail’s crushed Saab and the body inside I thought that’s what he meant – that they knew she was dead and I was no longer a suspect. “I was going to call it in,” I mumbled, getting out.

  “You were, were you?” Hemingway said, coming up beside Hart. “So who was your fellow perp?”

  “Nobody,” I said dumbly, not understanding.

  “We’ve got you now.” He pointed to the flaming turbines.

  I stared up at them, blazing against the pure blue sky. “What the hell…”

  “You come nicely,” Hemingway said, “and we won’t cuff you.”

  “Come where?” Now I was really dumbfounded.

  “You think we don’t know?”

  “Know what, for Chrissake?”

  “You’re just like your buddy Franklin, shooting out these turbines. After you do time for arson you’re going to be working the rest of your life to pay WindPower back. Millions of bucks, buddy.”

  Now I was pissed. “I didn’t shoot out those damn things.”

  “So who did, sweetheart?”

  I wasn’t going to say it. If Titus had shot them out he’d had to have a reason. And apparently unlike me he’d covered his tracks. So he was also probably not the guy who’d shot at me, and in any case I wasn’t going to turn him in. I stared Hemingway down. “You try to pin this on me you’re nuts.”

  “Pin it on you? No way. We’re not pinning, we’re arresting you. We know you did it.”

  “How?”

  “We tracked you back here.” He glanced down at Bucky’s boots on my feet. “And you’re still wearing the evidence.”

  I WAS SOON BACK in the same Augusta jail cell. It was no worse for wear but I was. This time I might never get out.

  And this time they didn’t forget to read me my rights.

  Not that I really had any. Being between a rock and a hard place, because the only way I could get out was by fingering Titus, and no way I was doing that. And no way I could claim to the cops I wasn’t there when the turbines got shot out.

  My one call, to Erica, did nothing to improve my day, and I won’t mention the language she used when I told her where I was. Though I must say that given my sorrow over Abigail’s death I didn’t much care what anybody said.

  My mind stumbled over whether to tell the cops I’d found Abigail. There were several problems with that, the major one being how did I know? I couldn’t tell them about Mitchell given his position with Naval Intelligence, and I couldn’t imagine a way of explaining how I found her otherwise.

  Arraignment was for nine next morning so I was in for the night. My adjacent companions included two drunk drivers, a kid with a nose ring who was high on crystal meth and kept pacing and yelling, a slob who’d hit his wife (may he rot in here forever), and a guy in a button-down shirt and blazer who’d accumulated too many parking tickets.

  “So you shot out those damn turbines?” one of the drunks called.

  “No,” I yelled back.

  “Well you shoulda,” he grunted, which was scarce consolation.

  “Damn things,” button-down said. “They’re going to ruin Maine.”

  “Oh yeah?” the other drunk said. “They already have.”

  I couldn’t stand another night Inside so I made a decision which however could further complicate my life. C. Hart was about to go off shift when I yelled for him.

  “No,” he snickered. “You don’t get another phone call.”

  “I don’t need one,” I snapped. “I found Abigail.”

  His eyes widened. “Bullshit.”

  “She’s dead.”

  I got around how I found her by saying I’d driven over the bridge and saw the old tire marks that had swerved off the edge, and stopped to look over the rail. He left in a hurry, talking into his shoulder mike, and suddenly the world got very quiet, as if a soft snow were falling, and all life had died.

  ERICA WAS IN A PREDICTABLY fiery mood next morning for the arraignment. “Look,” she whispered, “this is the last goddamn time I’m driving up here to save your ass.”

  “I didn’t do it,” I said. “Shoot out those turbines.”

  “Don’t you understand that doesn’t matter? What do you think the law is, some fairness process? You are going to be blamed for every crime in Maine so if I can get you out of this one you’re going to get your ass the hell back to Hawaii and never return.” She eyed me ferociously. “Do you understand?”

  Getting the hell out of Maine seemed like a very good idea but I was damned if I was leaving Bucky and Lexie in the lurch and not making sure Abigail hadn’t been murdered when her car when over the bridge. I took a deep, sad breath. “I won’t ever bother you again.”

  Shockingly she took my hand, squeezed it gently. “I’m sorry about Abigail.”

  It made tears sting my eyes. All I could do was nod. I guess I’d been too many years away from combat and I’d lost the hardness you gain from seeing your friends die.

  “I DIDN’T DO IT,” I told the same tall balding skinny judge. The only other folks in court this early were Erica, C. Hart, Hemingway, and Cruella, the nasty attorney from WindPower LLC.

  The judge stared out at me from under his thick black eyebrows. “What is it with you? Are you paid to get in trouble?”

  “No sir,” I added earnestly. “If I done it I’d be the first to say so. I don’t believe in lying. But I didn’t do it.”

  He scowled as if the whole process gave him indigestion. “Look, I can’t let you walk out of here… I owe these guys,” he nodded at the cops, “the chance to make their case. I can’t release you on your own recognizance as your counsel has requested,” he eyed Erica darkly, “so I’m setting bail at fifty thousand dollars dollars –”

  “That’s not enough,” snapped Cruella. “He’s a terrorist and you need to keep him in custody. My clients can’t afford another fire.”

  I turned to her. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Shut up,” Erica said.

  It was a crushing amount of money, as I had maybe a hundred seventy-five dollars left in my checking account, and only one outstanding payment of five hundred due from Surfer News. I glanced randomly at Cruella the WindPower virago, then at C. Hart, who smirked happily.

  “We’re posting bail immediately,” Erica said.

  I stared at her. “With what?”

  “Shut up.”

  I swear the judge smiled.

  “Your Honor,” Cruella snapped, “he is still a suspect in the fire that killed Mr. and Mrs. Woodridge and also destroyed my client’s property.”

  The judge scratched his bald pate. “I thought that was accidental?”

  “We’re not sure, your Honor,” C. Hart said. “We’re ordering more tests.”

  “Well, until you do…”

  “And,” Hemingway said, “he’s still a suspect in the Abigail Dalt disappearance.”

  “But she’s dead!” I interjected, nearly choking on it.

  “The accused,” C. Hart nodded at me, “identified her as dead from a car he supposedly found under the Hawkins Brook Bridge –”

  “I saw where tire tracks had gone off the road,” I added hastily.

  “But it wasn’t her. It’s some woman from South Portland. Been missing since February nineteen.”

  “It’s not Abigail?” I almost fell to me knees in relief and joy. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I turned to the judge. “Abigail was my friend. She is my friend –”

  “She’s still missing, your Honor,” Hart said crankily. “And we think this guy knows where she is… Or what he may have done with her.”

  The Bird Cemetery

  THAT ABIGAIL HADN’T DIED in that Saab under the Hawkins Brook Bridge
seemed an impossible gift. I felt rapturous yet terrified: there was no guarantee she wasn’t dead, just that she hadn’t yet been found.

  And it was sickening to feel grateful that the poor woman from South Portland had died and not Abigail. I followed Erica out of the Kennebec County courthouse. “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I do.”

  Now I was angry. “I’m not taking your money.”

  She pinched my chin. “It’s only bail, honey. I just guarantee it.”

  “You’re incredible,” I added, a wave of gratitude and guilt washing over me.

  “Just show up at the hearing.”

  “You told me I should leave and never come back.”

  “Yeah, when this is water over the dam.”

  “I have to go see Titus McKee.”

  “Who’s that?”

  I explained her about following Titus up the mountain and how he’d shot out the two turbines. “Damn it, why didn’t you tell me!” she seethed, turning on her heel toward the parking lot not waiting for an answer.

  “I’m not turning him in!” I said.

  “Of course not!” she yelled back. “Just put yourself in jail forever!”

  “Would you?” I asked.

  She turned on me. “For shooting out a turbine? No, I wouldn’t.” She paused. “But how are we going to prove you didn’t? When it’s your boot tracks in the snow?”

  “DAMN TURBINES DRIVE my family crazy,” Titus McKee said, sitting at his kitchen table with his massive forearms cradling his little daughter. “Rosie here, sometimes she cries all night.” He grimaced. “So like Bucky I took them out.”

  “I would have too. But I didn’t, and now I’m getting blamed for it.” I’d decided direct confrontation was the best approach, so had driven up his driveway, knocked on his door, and told him I’d seen him do it.

  “What the fuck were you doing up there?” he’d said.

  “I was following you.”

  He’d glowered at me. “Why?”

  “I thought you’d shot at me, the other night.”