The Siege (15 page)

The air in Tasha’s lungs felt like flames and her arm clasping the bag of groceries started to ache furiously, but she ran for all she was worth toward the alleyway beside the church. If the wailing siren wasn’t enough, a glance over her shoulder told her that the cop was close behind… and closing.

As she ran full speed down the alleyway, Tasha saw that the alley suddenly dead-ended!

“Oh, shit!
Shit!
” she shouted as she turned and stared as the cruiser, lights flashing like summer lightning, slowed and closed the distance between them.

Tasha’s shoulders sagged, and she looked down at the ground, letting her breath out in one long, heavy sigh. The only thought in her mind was,
This is it! I’m heading to jail!

The cruiser’s engine rumbled like a caged beast as it came closer until Tasha was practically pinned against the hurricane fence that separated her from the woods.
Hell
, she thought,
that might be Canada right there!

The cruiser stopped, and the siren gave one last, warbling wail before falling silent. The blue lights kept flashing as the policeman opened the car door and stepped out. His hand rested lightly on his service revolver, and there was a trace of a smile on his face as he approached her.

“Well, now, little girl,” the cop said. “Where might you be going in such a hurry?”

Tasha read his shield number and vowed that, every night, she would pray for this man’s gonads to dry up and blow away. The man’s eyes were bright blue and made her feel as though he could look right through her.

“None of your goddamned business,” Tasha said. She straightened up and met his gaze squarely.

The cop smiled and nodded. “When I see someone in town I don’t recognize, someone who looks for all the world like a runaway, and as soon as she sees me she runs. Well, I sort of think that makes it my business.”

“Fuck you!” Tasha shouted. She held the bag of groceries defensively to her chest, but with her free hand she flashed her middle finger at him. He looked tough, but she didn’t think he was going to slug her.

Winfield laughed as he approached the girl. Either he was just getting old, or kids these days were really turning into wiseguy smart-asses. Either way, he had heard and seen it all before. It seemed as though young girls, especially, thought he would be shocked by their foul language and then, for whatever reason, let them off.

“If you’d please step over to the cruiser, I’d like to see some identification,” he said, standing in front of her, his arms folded across his chest. Between him and his cruiser, the alleyway was pretty well covered. He could snag her easily if she decided to run.

Tasha scowled, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
This is going badly
, she thought. Her mind raced through her options and came up blank.

“It’s in my backpack,” she said. She bent down and placed her bag of groceries on the ground. She started to stand up, turning as she did. Then she struck out.

Winfield realized later that thinking he had seen it all before was his first mistake, but it was mistake enough. Tasha came up out of her crouch, twisting her body to one side. Before he could react, her left foot flashed out at him. The heel of her sneaker caught him squarely in the balls.

Pain shot up his spine, all the way to the base of his skull. Pinpoints of yellow light spun like fireworks through his field of vision, and the air left his lungs in a single, painful
whoosh!
Clutching his groin, the source of all his pain, he fell to his knees. The sound was like a bull moose in rut when he sucked enough air into his lungs to groan.

When he looked up, he understood the rattling sounds he heard. Tasha had snatched her bag of groceries and tossed it over the fence. Now she was scrambling up over the ten-foot-high fence, her arms and legs a blur of motion.

At the top of the fence, she paused, one leg on either side, and looked down at the kneeling man. He coughed and sputtered while he held his groin, but she knew she had it made. It would take him a few minutes to crawl to his radio and call for help
. If he doesn’t draw his gun and shoot
, she thought,
there will be time enough to get to the woods and back to Hocker
.

“Eat shit and die, pig!” she said, loud enough for the cop to hear her. Again, she extended her middle finger and jabbed it skyward.

The cop opened his mouth and tried to say something, but all that came out was a high-pitched grunt. He didn’t reach for his gun and, in his blinding pain, hadn’t even thought of it.

Tasha swung her other foot over onto the side of freedom and then, kicking back, dropped to the ground. Her legs hurt when she landed, but, not as bad as the cop was hurting! She collected the groceries that spilled from the bag and then, without another backward glance, turned and dashed into the woods, expecting to hear the sharp report of gunfire behind her.

Until she was well-concealed by the foliage, she was careful to avoid the place where Hocker was waiting. Only after she was deep in the woods did she turn and start backtracking. She intended to circle around town, find Hocker, and tell him they had to pack up their gear and run away.

What was the name of the town?
she wondered as she ran.
Dyer?
It didn’t matter. They had to be miles from here by evening!

“Night falls like fire; the heavy lights run low,

And as they drop, my blood and body so

Shake as the flame shakes…”

—Swinburne

“A Visit to the Home”

I

“I
noticed you were limping coming up the walkway,” Dale said as he swung open the front door. He stepped back, and Winfield forced a thin smile as he entered Mrs. Appleby’s house.

“Aww—nothing serious,” Winfield said gruffly. “Just bumped into the edge of my desk. Hurt my leg a bit—that’s all.” To add weight to his lie, he rubbed the top of his thigh.

Lil poked her head out from the kitchen and waved. “Good afternoon, Jeff. The two of you make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right in with coffee and a little something to eat.

Winfield looked at Dale and said, under his breath, “If I know Lillian Appleby, her little something will be fresh, apple pie topped with homemade vanilla ice cream.”

“She fed us a supper last night that would put to shame most people’s Thanksgiving meals,” Dale said.

Winfield grunted as he limped painfully into the library and lowered himself into the chair nearest the fireplace. He let out a sigh of relief, grateful that those yellow spots had finally stopped spiraling in front of his eyes. It had been a while since he had been in this house, but it was exactly as he remembered it: clean, warm, homey and secure.

An awkward silence descended, broken only by the throaty
tick-tock
of the grandfather clock in the entryway, but that sounded natural in such a quiet room. Dale was yearning to ask Winfield what he had found out from Rodgers at the funeral home, but he bided his time, realizing he had just met Winfield that morning, and there was no reason for either of them to implicitly trust the other. What he wanted to overcome was the edge of suspicion he felt from Winfield whenever Winfield looked at him.

While Dale considered ways to gain Winfield’s trust, Lillian arrived with a large serving tray loaded with goodies. Winfield had been wrong about the apple pie, though: it was blueberry. But he had bit it right with the homemade ice cream, and there were fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and raisin bars to make up for any disappointment he might feel about not getting apple pie.

“Some things never change,” Winfield said as he snatched up one of the raisin bars. “I swear, you’re trying to fatten me up for the kill, Lillian. You should see the treats she comes up with for the Congregational Church Fair.” He looked at Dale and shook his head. “She practically sends the whole town into a sugar coma.”

Lillian chuckled, almost spilling the coffee as she poured. “That’s not true at all, Jeff,” she said. “Lately I’ve been trying all sorts of desserts with less sugar.”

Dale took the cup Lillian was holding out to him, then picked up a plate with a wedge of pie. Thick, purple juice ran from the edges as soon as he cut into it with his fork. He popped the pie into his mouth and closed his eyes with pleasure at the burst of flavor.

“I’ve got no complaints,” he said. “We’ll be leaving day after tomorrow, right after the funeral,” he added, hoping mention of the funeral would prompt Winfield to fill him in on what he had found out.

Lillian sensed something was up. After all, Jeff Winfield didn’t make a habit of dropping in for social calls. She put the coffee pot down on the tray and sat down. She was burning to know what was going on, but she reassured herself with the knowledge that, in a town like Dyer, word would get around soon enough.

Winfield revealed nothing the whole time they sat pleasantly chatting in the living room. He and Lillian caught up on the latest local gossip, and Dale had a chance to tell them about himself. At one point, Winfield asked where Lisa was. Dale told him she had gone downtown with his daughter Angie. The policeman stiffened.

“You have a teenage daughter?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair. His first thought was,
I wonder if that’s the girl I met earlier today? The one who gave me the shot to the balls!

“Yeah. Her name’s Angie. She and Larry were pretty close,” Dale said. “I thought it would be important for her to come to the funeral, too. You see, when her mother died, she was only four years old. I don’t think she knew what was going on. I mean, all of a sudden, Mommy wasn’t there anymore, but she wasn’t old enough to experience real grief. I talked with a psychologist about it at the time, but he said I shouldn’t worry unless she started showing any unusual behavior. You know, really morbid thoughts or whatever. Anyway, I think she still has some… I guess you’d call them hang-ups about death and feeling deserted and all. It’s nothing serious, but I wanted to make sure she worked through those feelings this time.”

“I can understand why,” Winfield said, nodding his head. “It must he terrible, losing your mother at such a young age.” His voice softened, but he kept an intense gaze focused on Dale, as though he was measuring him.

“It’s terrible at any age,” Lillian said. “But from what I’ve seen of her, she’s a perfectly wonderful girl. It’s obvious you’ve done a marvelous job raising her, Dale.”

She had been avoiding the temptation of her own treats for the better part of half an hour, but now she snatched up a chocolate chip cookie and took a bite.

Dale shrugged, feeling uncomfortable under Winfield’s scrutiny. “It hasn’t been easy.”

“Do you happen to have a picture of her?” Winfield asked. The question popped out of him, and its suddenness seemed as disruptive as a gunshot.

“What kind of father would I be if I didn’t have a picture of my kid?” Dale said. He punctuated his question with a small laugh, but his hand was trembling as he hiked forward, fished his wallet from his hip pocket, and flipped it open. “This is her class picture from last year. Her hair’s a lot longer now.”

Winfield took the photo from Dale and looked at it for a second before handing it back to him. For all the interest he had suddenly shown in Angie, he didn’t seem to care much once he saw the photo. Dale slid the picture back between the credit cards in his wallet, wondering what the hell was going on.

Winfield’s mood changed after that. He and Lillian batted gossip back and forth, commenting on a dozen different situations and incidents around town. But as he sipped his coffee and ate his pie, Dale felt on edge. He was poised in his chair, leaning forward, as though waiting for a starting gun to go off. He just wanted to go with Winfield to the funeral home and, ask the funeral director if he could view the body. Nothing wrong with that! A bit morbid to consider, but not wrong!

So why
, he wondered,
do I feel this wound-up?
His stomach felt like the coil in a mattress, twisted up, ready to go
sproing
and shoot out through the tatting. Winfield’s sudden shifts in mood didn’t help either.

“Well, I’d better get things cleaned up in the kitchen,” Lillian said. She stood up and started collecting the now-empty pie plates on the tray. In a clatter of cups, plates, and silverware, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone.

“Did you get a chance to talk with Rodgers?” Dale asked. He hoped that by speaking honestly about what was bothering him, he could diffuse the tension he sensed building between him and Winfield.

Winfield nodded and got up, rubbing his hands over his bulging stomach. Then he shifted his gun belt into place. Not wanting to let Harmon know too much, he decided to bend the truth a bit and not say that he had spoken with Rodgers. “I talked with his receptionist and made it clear we’d be by this afternoon. Maybe a little later than I’d wanted to, but I ’spect he’ll still be there.”

“Did you?” Dale started to say, then paused, unsure exactly how to phrase his question. “Did you tell her why we’ll be stopping by?”

Winfield snorted a short laugh. “Why? Hell, no! Larry ain’t going anywhere.” He limped as he walked over to the kitchen door and, leaning through the doorway, called out his thanks to Mrs. Appleby.

“Don’t make yourself such a stranger,” Lillian said, her voice muffled by distance and the loud clatter of dishes as she loaded the dishwasher. “It doesn’t take an official visit for you to be welcome here.”

Winfield laughed again, louder. “I’m gonna have to punch a new hole in my belt tonight ’cause of what I just ate,” he replied. But his eyes weren’t smiling when he glanced back at Dale. As they went out the door and down the walkway to Winfield’s cruiser, they were both wondering how much Lillian Appleby knew about how official his visit had been. In the backs of their minds, they both wondered how much either of them knew what in the hell was going on!

II

R
odgers’ Funeral Home sat on a gently rising hill well back from the road, its spacious lawn and wide circular driveway—
wide enough to get quite a funeral cortege lined up
, Dale thought with a shiver—embraced on both sides by curving arms of deep forest. The funeral home itself was palatial by Aroostook County—or any—standards. Its white pillared front with black door and shutters made it look more like the home of a successful politician than a funeral home. Sunlight slanted through the trees, etching the eaves with a golden warmth.

The theme song from
Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood
sprang into Dale’s mind, but he didn’t allow himself even the slightest of chuckles when it registered that the
next
cortege was going to be Larry Cole’s!

As Winfield pulled to a stop and cut the cruiser’s engine, Dale realized that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a long, whistling sigh. Several tiny specks of white light zigzagged across his vision, and he forced himself to breathe evenly.

“Funeral homes always give me the willies,” he said, glancing at Winfield.

Winfield opened his door and, stepping out onto the driveway, shook his head. “Can’t say they’re exactly my favorite place, either.”

They went up the stairway to the business entrance at the side, rang the bell, and stepped into the entryway. Soft organ music floated through the too-warm room, thick with the cloying smell of flowers. The furniture in the waiting room was a collection of beautifully refinished Victorian antiques: no industrial cloth and metal frames here. Everything was perfectly restored, and Dale had the fleeting thought that maybe Rodgers jacked the furniture up with embalming fluid to make it look so well-preserved.

Margaret Sprague, the receptionist, looked up and stiffened when she saw Winfield. She was a middle-aged woman with graying hair and dull brown eyes. Her complexion was pale and pasty, and Dale’s first thought was that she needed to spend more time outside.

“Afternoon, Maggie,” Winfield said, giving her a half-hearted salute as he strode over to her desk with Dale in tow. “I’d like you to meet Dale Harmon. He’s up from Augusta for Larry Cole’s funeral.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Maggie said, standing up and extending her hand over her desk for Dale to shake. It was surprisingly warm and firm. “I’ll page Mr. Rodgers and tell him you’re here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” a voice, deep and resonant said from behind. Maggie and Dale both were startled, but Winfield calmly turned around as the funeral director came over to them from the hallway door.

He was at least six feet tall and dressed in a beautifully tailored blue suit with matching dotted tie and handkerchief. His light brown hair was combed straight back, exposing a wide, pale forehead. When he spoke, his teeth appeared to be slightly too large for his mouth, and his thin lips added to the illusion.

“Nice to see you, Jeff,” Rodgers said, extending his hand to the policeman. Then turning to Dale, he said, “I’m Franklin Rodgers.”

“Dale Harmon,” Dale managed to say, even though his throat felt lined with sandpaper.

His first impression of Rodgers was that his handshake was just what a funeral director’s should be: cool and moist, a gentle grip, but with a hint of restrained strength that made his fingers vibrate with energy.
Hell!
Dale thought, trying desperately to keep at bay the memories of the last time he had dealt with a funeral director when Natalie had died. You’d have to be strong to work with corpses every day.

“Officer Winfield spoke with me earlier and said you’d be coming over,” Rodgers said, his voice low and soothing.

Dale glanced at Winfield. His raised eyebrows silently asked, “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I must tell you how sorry I am about Larry’s untimely death,” Rodgers said. “I’ve been in this business for… going on ten years, now, and I still can’t accept it when the young die. So tragic… so tragic.”

Then Dale got his second clear impression of Franklin Rodgers. It hit him so fast and so hard, he was surprised it didn’t register like a flashing neon sign on his face. Right from the moment Dale had first seen Rodgers, walking toward them from the darkened hall doorway, there had been something… something
weird
about his looks. It wasn’t just his pale, thin face, or the shadows from the dimly lit room, or the atmosphere of gloom and mourning that wrapped around him like a dark cloak. It was something about his eyes.

… His
eyes!

It was damned near impossible for Dale to focus on Rodgers’ face until he realized what it was: the man’s right eye was absolutely normal, a perfectly average brown eye, but his left eye looked damaged. The white had a sickly yellowish tinge; the iris was pale blue, like a chip of ice and the pupil was almost fully dilated, a swelling black hole that glistened so brightly, Dale was convinced that, up close, it would reflect the room like highly polished onyx.