Pineland Serenade

by Larry Millett

  I showed Arne the photo of young Phillip Gordon and sketched in the story of his mother and Peter and the adoption. “Phillip came to Pineland to get his revenge and he’s certainly gotten it. Cassandra Ellis is the last piece and he’ll kill her.”

  Arne whistled, grabbed the mic on his police radio and said, “Fucking A. I never would have thought it was him.”

  “Are you calling it in?”

  “Damn right. We’re half an hour away. There’ll be closer units on patrol in that area.”

  “I thought you’re supposed to be on a leave of absence.”

  “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean shit right now. I can still make some things happen.”

  “Okay, but we have to be very careful. If Phillip spots any squads he’ll put a bullet in Cassandra’s head and then he’ll move on to plan B.”

  “What are you, a mind reader? How do you know what his plan B is?”

  “I just know. You have to understand. This whole crazy business is his life. He’s stewed over it and planned for it for years. But he’s smart enough to know it was always a long shot and there were a million ways it could go wrong. He’s probably amazed by how far he’s managed to get. But if he figures out we’re onto him, he knows he’s done unless he can dispose of Cassandra immediately. That means your deputies can’t go barging in. Tell them no sirens and to stay out of sight of the house until we get there. And do me a big favor, will you? Don’t mention I’m with you.”

  “Afraid you’ll be arrested?”

  “No, but I don’t want a circus down there when I arrive. The focus has to be on finding Cassandra. You can arrest me anytime.”

  “All right,” Arne said and got on the radio. A deputy was on patrol less than five miles from the house and Arne gave him instructions. “He’ll pass all of this on to the acting sheriff and then it’ll go to the BCA, the state patrol and everybody else. We’ll have a crowd down there in no time.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Let’s see if we can get ahead of the pack.”

  Once we reached the interstate, Arne turned on his siren and flashers and pushed the truck up to ninety. Traffic was light and Arne handled the big pickup expertly.

  “Here’s a question, counselor. If this guy is Cassandra’s brother, why would he kill her? She hasn’t done anything to him, has she?”

  “No, but she’s in the way. Do you know how big Peter’s estate is?”

  “Millions, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve heard it’s worth at least twenty million. Plus, he didn’t leave a will, or so it’s rumored. That means Phillip could announce he’s Peter’s long lost son, take a DNA test to prove it, and then collect the bulk of the estate because Dewey is dead and Cassandra will be, too.”

  Arne wasn’t buying it. “He’d never get away with it.”

  “Well, speaking strictly as a prosecuting attorney, I beg to differ. Think about it. There’s nothing at the moment to prove he committed any of the crimes. If you asked me to charge him with something, my reply would be: ‘With what?’ Murder? No evidence. Arson? No evidence. Kidnapping? Only if we can find Cassandra. Otherwise—”

  I felt a rising sense of desperation. I’d come to care deeply about Cassandra—as a friend and as a brave and powerful woman—and the thought of something happening to her filled me with dread. Still, I knew she wouldn’t go easily. She’d keep Phillip talking as long as she could and she’d never stop fighting.

  I glanced at the truck’s speedometer. The needle hovered just above ninety.

  “How about trying for a hundred?” I suggested.

  Arne grinned. “No problem. Good thing we’re not in your fucking Prius. That’s a pussy car if there ever was one.”

  I ignored the insult and watched the road ahead. The speed didn’t bother Arne, and he became unusually talkative as we roared past one vehicle after another. He didn’t have much to say about Cassandra. Instead, Phillip was on his mind.

  “That fucker really did a number on me,” he said. “I didn’t do a goddamn thing to Jill Lorrimer.”

  “So what did happen?”

  “What happened is that, yeah, she sat in my lap once. Okay, so I’m a lousy husband. Alice will tell you that.”

  I didn’t mention she already had.

  “But here’s the deal: that little scene with Jill took place weeks before she died. I didn’t cover up a fucking thing. All I know is that she was found dead in her car. We did an investigation. You were part of it. And we concluded it was an accidental overdose. That’s all there was to it.”

  “I think there was more,” I said. I told Arne about my suspicions after looking closely at the autopsy report and photos. “Her boots were on the wrong feet and that tells me she didn’t put them on herself. I think she was out celebrating that night at Peter’s mansion and overdosed on booze and cocaine he provided. After that, somebody dressed her, put her in her car and drove it back to her apartment.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. And who’s to say it went down that way? You don’t have any proof.”

  “Sad but true. By the way, who took that photo of you with Jill?”

  “Peter, probably, but it could have been anybody. It was a big party and I was wasted. I couldn’t even tell you who all was there. I’ve been thinking about it and it’s time for me to stop drinking.”

  “Wise choice,” I said. “Maybe I’ll have to give it a try myself.” Then I said, casually, “What about Marty?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, you know Jason is looking into where you were the night Marty was shot. Apparently, you don’t have an alibi.”

  For once, I’d caught Arne by surprise. His eyes burned a hole in my forehead. “That’s interesting. Yeah, very interesting. So, how did you know about that?”

  “Alice told me.”

  “Did she, now? Are the two of you friends? She’s left me. I suppose you know that.”

  I could tell where he was going. “Listen, Arne, she came to me out of the blue. She was worried about lying to the BCA to cover for you. She was also worried you might harm her if she told the truth.”

  “That’s crap. I never laid a hand on her in my life. I was out that night. So what? I sure as shit didn’t kill Marty. Why would I?”

  “I have no reason to believe you did,” I said. “Phillip has been sowing chaos. He wants to ruin you, just like he’s trying to ruin me.”

  “What the fuck did I ever do to him?”

  “It’s the sins of the fathers, Arne, and we’re the sons. It’s almost Biblical. Phillip got screwed by his father and he thinks we should be screwed, too, because of what our fathers did. I suspect your father helped cover up Peter’s activities with Patricia Gordon. She just vanished after supposedly leaving the baby behind, and I don’t think anybody from law enforcement ever bothered to look into her disappearance.”

  “What do you think happened to her?” Arne said, as we roared past a big rig.

  “I have an idea about that,” I said. “We may know if I’m right soon enough.”

  By the time we took the turnoff to Fortune Lake, the rain had morphed into a thick, dripping fog. With his siren blaring, Arne roared through the fog until he came up so fast on an old woman in a Buick that he nearly rear-ended her. He swerved at the last second to avoid disaster.

  “It would really be nice if we could get where we’re going alive,” I observed.

  “Life is a chance, counselor,” Arne said as he gunned the truck back up to eighty. “We’ll get there even if I can’t see a goddamn thing.”

  He got back on his radio and learned a sheriff’s deputy and a state trooper had already reached the vicinity of the house. More law was on the way. When we reached Fortune Lake Road, I directed Arne toward Arlen Sandquist’s house.

  “Should we assume he’s in the house, too?” Arne asked.

  “I
don’t think so. When Cassandra and I talked to him last week, he said he was planning to spend some time with his daughter down in Maple Grove. Phillip may even have known that. He doesn’t leave anything to chance.”

  We came over a little rise and saw two squads parked near the entrance to Sandquist’s driveway. Arne pulled up behind them and we got out to talk. A young state trooper I didn’t recognize emerged from one of the squads. Billy Hawkins, a long-time deputy sheriff, was standing by the other unit.

  “So you’ve found the fugitive,” Billy said when he saw me step out with Arne. “How come he’s not in cuffs?”

  “I don’t think he’s a threat to public safety,” Arne said.

  Billy was dubious. “Christ, Arne, he’s wanted for three murders. You’d better cuff him before Jack comes. He’ll be here in ten or so to take command. Until then, he said to hold tight.”

  Jack Brown was the acting sheriff and no friend of Arne.

  “We can’t wait,” I said.

  Billy, a heavyset man who I’d once skewered in court over some mishandled evidence, glared at me and said, “Like I said, you should be in cuffs. In fact my orders—”

  “Fuck your orders,” Arne said and grabbed me by the arm. “Me and the bright boy fugitive here are going to have a look at that house. If you want to stop us, you’ll have to shoot me.”

  The state trooper, who looked fresh out of the academy and more than a little confused by the situation, said, “Should I go with you?”

  Arne said, “No, son, you stay here and babysit Billy. We’ll just have a look and let you know what we find.”

  Billy was obviously pissed but didn’t say anything.

  “All right, let’s go,” Arne said, and we started down the drive toward Sandquist’s house.

  44

  The house wasn’t immediately visible in the fog and growing darkness.

  “How far is it?” Arne asked. He’d unholstered his Glock and held it by his side.

  “A hundred yards, maybe.”

  “Okay. Stop once we can see the place.”

  A perfect silence prevailed. No birds singing. No animals scurrying through the woods. No wind. Even our footsteps were muted by a layer of decayed leaves. My heart was a metronome beating presto time and my breaths came out fast and hard.

  The house, a gray specter, finally came into view. We inched forward, keeping to the side of the driveway, where a row of pine trees provided some cover. It dawned on me we had no real plan, other than to try to find Phillip and Cassandra. After that, it would all be improvisation.

  The driveway ended at a detached, two-car garage behind the house. A long white van with rusted wheel wells was parked in front of the garage. Arne whispered, “Looks like you’re right. I’ve seen him driving that van around town.”

  I’d seen him in it, too, a familiar figure in Pineland, an upstanding community member, or so we believed. Only he wasn’t and never had been. Phillip Gordon was a walking epic of deception and guile, revealed only to himself. Our scary, secret man, a poison in our midst. And now, maybe, Arne and I were about to see him as he really was, all the makeup of his phony life removed. It was a daunting prospect, and I was glad to be with Arne and his Glock.

  We could see one side and the back of the house, which consisted of a series of additions to the cabin Peter Swindell had once owned. A concrete patio at the rear was furnished with two rusted metal chairs and a charcoal grill protected by a plastic cover. The patio’s location was odd. People who live on a lake usually have a porch or deck or patio at the front of their house to take in the view. Why have a large patio at the back, where there wasn’t much to see? I also noticed that a bright bouquet of flowers rested on one of the patio chairs. I was pretty sure who’d put it there.

  A rear door opened onto the patio, but it looked to be shut tight. Only one window was visible, near the front of the house. Dim light leaked from it, creating a ghostly glow in the fog.

  “Somebody’s in there all right,” Arne said.

  I stared at the window, trying to unstrap myself from the burden of fear we all carry around with us. Whatever happened next, I had to be ready to act. My old life of doubt was gone for the moment. I was in a new place.

  “That’s a living-room window,” I told Arne. “Let’s go have a look inside.”

  “Hold on, Tarzan. If they’re in there and he spots you, he’s the kind of guy who might want to go out in a blaze of glory. Then all bets are off.”

  “What do you suggest? Just standing around and waiting for something to happen? I’m not up for that.”

  “No, let’s get some reinforcements first and we’ll go from there.”

  Reinforcements were already arriving. I heard whispering behind us and saw Jack Brown, Billy Hawkins and two state troopers emerge from the mist.

  Jack, a big bear of a man with a touchy disposition, came up to us and said, “I’ll take it from here, Arne. You’re under arrest, Mister Zweifel. I have a warrant.”

  He reached for his handcuffs, but Arne grabbed his wrists and said, “Don’t be a fucking moron. We’ve got a hostage situation here. You can arrest him later. Let’s figure out first what we’re going to do about the hostage and the guy who’s in there with her.”

  “You have no authority here,” Jack said, pulling away from Arne’s grip. “None. Period, end of story. And how do you even know there’s a hostage in there? Is that what Zweifel claims? It could be pure bullshit. Now get out of my way or I’ll arrest you, too.”

  “Just try it,” Arne said. “See that goddamn van? It belongs to the guy we’re looking for, and he’s inside the house with Cassandra Ellis as his hostage.”

  Well, screw it, I thought. Let the lawmen argue. I started moving, quickly, toward the lighted window. None of the lawmen stopped me, probably because they knew a disturbance of any kind might give away our presence. I reached the window and crouched beside it, listening for voices or any other sounds. Nothing. I peeked inside.

  The living room was empty but showed signs of a recent struggle. A table lamp was overturned, magazines and papers littered the floor, and a row of Arlen Sandquist’s tchotchkes— ceramic chipmunks, little winged angels, wooden elves and gnomes and sprites—had been knocked from their shelves. A dark stain—blood?—decorated one of the fallen gnomes.

  I glanced at the ratty beige couch where Cassandra and I had sat a week or so earlier, drinking coffee with Arlen and learning about a mysterious baby boy. Then my eyes caught something. On the floor between the couch and a coffee table lay a pair of loafers, sleek and black and decorated with brass buckles. Cassandra’s Guccis. Across from the couch the front door was halfway open, its window glass shattered.

  “See anything?” Arne whispered. He’d come up behind me so soundlessly I was startled.

  “I see Cassandra’s shoes but there’s no sign of her or Phillip. Looks like there’s been a fight in there. Maybe they’re in the back room. We need to go in right now.”

  “No, not yet,” Arne cautioned. “Jack’s got more people coming even if he doesn’t know what the hell is going on. We can have this place surrounded in five minutes and—”

  An old quotation from Albert Camus suddenly jammed like an arrow into my skull. “Those who lack courage will always find a philosophy to justify it,” said the wise man.

  Maybe that had been my story, a life of justifications, the easy escape of the bottle, clever talk and small sport. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a mortal chance. Now was the moment.

  “Not going to happen,” I said, and went toward the front door. Arne whispered a curse and followed. I’m a planner, a thinker, a careful man in my own way. Now I was just a guy about to rush through a door and see what happened. Except I didn’t get that chance. Arne shoved me aside and went into the living room, his Glock aimed at whatever lay ahead.

  That’s when I h
eard a man’s voice coming out of the fog behind me. “Cassandra, Cassandra,” the man called out. “Where are you, sister dearest?” Then I heard a gunshot. I turned around and started running for the lake.

  In Minnesota “ice-out” is a spring ritual, the day when a lake finally gives up its winter mantle. In Paradise County lakes are typically open by mid-April. But winter isn’t always eager to leave, even in May, and when I reached the lake I discovered it was still coated with a treacherous sheet of ice and slushy water. I remembered what had happened to my uncle Jack— dead with his snowmobile at the bottom of an icy lake—but I couldn’t stop myself. I ran out on the ice, cold slush splashing up against my ankles, and peered into the fog for any sign of Cassandra.

  The ice crackled under my feet, a delicate scrim separating me from the frigid waters below. I was dressed for chilly weather—a jacket, a wool shirt, and corduroy pants—and if I went through the ice I’d be about as buoyant as a chunk of lead. I slowed to a walk and then one foot started to break through the scrim. I thought I’d go under, but my other foot held firm. I sensed that another step might be my last, so I got down on all fours, trying to spread out my weight, and started crawling. My shins and knees were soon dripping wet and my hands grew numb from the cold. I lost sight of the shore and then there was nothing but gray ice and gray fog and gray light.

  I crawled until I saw a dark shape looming up ahead in the fog. I knew who it was. Phillip was all in black, as he’d been at Pembroke Woods. Like me, he was on all fours, inching along the ice. He was moving away from me at an angle, and I could see a pistol tucked in the small of his back. A frozen river of blood stained the right side of this head. Cassandra had obviously put up a fight.

  “You can’t hide!” he shouted. “I’ll find you, Cassandra. Yes, I will.”

  Then, I saw another figure farther out on the ice. It had to be Cassandra. She was crawling, too, trying to escape into the sanctuary of the fog. But Phillip had spotted her, and he let out a kind of war whoop.

  “There you are!” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”