Dead Down East (35 page)

At 2:31 his flashlight shined directly on the camera
in the living room, and within fifteen seconds the video image went
blank. At 2:35 the image from the camera in back stopped working as
well.

I went to my bedroom and took my .38 Special from the
nightstand. Angele was still sleeping. I slipped out the back door
and circled the house quickly to look for possible intruders. I
looked in the barn and down the driveway. Everything seemed normal,
so I went back inside.

I must have woken Cynthia because she was in the
kitchen. When I came in through the back door with a gun in my
hand, she gasped.

“What’s the problem?” she asked excitedly.

I took a breath and said, “Unfortunately, your home
has been ransacked. A man with a gun broke in at 2:20 this morning.
He searched your entire house. Your bedroom is a mess. Two of the
four security cameras have been knocked out.”

Her face went pale.

“They know who I am!” she exclaimed.

Angele joined us moments later.

“Maybe we should call the police,” Cynthia
suggested.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’d rather go on the
offensive. If we go to the authorities, we’ll have to explain
everything. That will put us in the position we discussed last
night. We’ll be forced into hiding while the authorities try to
resolve the case.”

I gave her a little time to consider that, and then I
added, “But it’s up to you. You can ask for protection, and I’m
sure the FBI or the Maine State Police will provide it. However, we
will almost certainly lose the element of surprise that I am
counting on. I can’t promise that my plan will work, but there’s an
excellent chance it will. I suggest that we move to Camp Billy as
soon as we can, and discuss our options with Eric, Billy and Brock.
If my plan doesn’t work, we can call the FBI.”

Cynthia stared at me for a while and finally said,
“OK.”

“Wait here,” I said.

I went to the barn and found my dad’s hunting rifle
in a cabinet. It had not been fired in twenty years. I brought it
into the house and opened the case.

Cynthia and Angele eyed each other cautiously. Then
Angele said, “Show me how it works.”

The Winchester 30-30 was in remarkably good
condition, and there was a box of ammunition in the case. I checked
the chamber and the magazine to make sure it was not loaded. Both
were empty. I tried the lever action; it worked smoothly. I handed
the rifle to Angele and asked her to pump the lever, aim and pull
the trigger. She did it several times. Then Cynthia did the
same.

“OK. I’m going to fill the magazine with cartridges.
It holds seven bullets. Once the magazine is full, we won’t pump
the lever unless we intend to point the gun at a live target. Is
that clear?” I asked.

“Yes,” they said in unison.

I loaded the magazine and placed the rifle on the
kitchen table.

“I will probably be going to the Kennebec County Jail
sometime this morning to see Travis. I should be away for a couple
of hours. You’ll have the rifle here while I’m gone. I’ll be
carrying my handgun with me at all times from now on. Eric and
Billy are coming over at one o’clock. We’ll leave for Camp Billy as
soon as we get organized.”

• • •

Cynthia made breakfast, Angele sat at the table with
the rifle, and I went to my office. I had not yet found a
photograph of Mark Prichard to confirm he was Justin Cook. His
picture did not appear on the Keystone State Natural Gas website.
After searching the web for about fifteen minutes, I came across a
four-year-old news story in the
Mansfield Weekly
. Mansfield
is a town fifteen miles west of Troy, Pennsylvania. The story
featured Keystone’s natural gas operation and had a picture of all
three owners, Susan, Aaron and Mark. I enlarged the image. There
was no doubt about it. Justin Cook and Mark Prichard were one and
the same.

After breakfast, I went to Keystone’s web page and
extracted the phone number and address of their office. Then I
called Brock.

“Kennebec County Jail, Sergeant Brock Powell
speaking.”

“Brock, this is Jesse. I need another favor.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I need the home address and phone number of a Mark
Prichard who lives in or near Troy, Pennsylvania. He is one of the
primary owners of Keystone State Natural Gas and Pipeline
Company.”

“Hold on,” Brock said. “What was the name again?”

“Mark Prichard.” I spelled it out for him and
repeated the company name.

“I should be able to get that for you, Jesse,” he
said.

“Bring that information with you when you come to the
lake. We’ll be leaving here before you get off work, so drive
directly to Billy’s cabin.”

I gave him the address and told him to call my cell
if he had trouble finding the place.

As soon as I hung up, I got a call from Randall
Bradford. He had set up the meeting with Travis for
nine-thirty.

I got there on time, and we went right in.

“Travis, I have some interesting news to share with
you, but first I have a question,” I said.

“What is it?” Travis asked.

“What is Susan’s last name?”

Travis knitted his brow and asked, “My girlfriend?
Why do you ask?”

“Travis, it’s a simple question, and I would like to
know. Is it ‘St. Claire’?”

“Yes,” he said tentatively. “What about her?”

“She arranged to have William Lavoilette murdered,” I
said.

Travis slumped in his chair. Then he glared at me and
asked, “How do you know that?”

I proceeded to tell him the full story. When I was
finished, I asked, “Did you tell Susan that Cynthia was having an
affair with the governor?”

“Oh my God,” he said. “I thought she was interested
in me, but all the time she was plying me for information.”

He sat back and then said, “She set me up. Call in
the detectives. Let’s tell them the full story so I can get out of
here.”

“Not so fast, Travis,” I cautioned. “It’s your word
against hers. The facts still point to you. Mark Prichard’s DNA on
your shirt proves nothing.”

I turned to Randall and asked, “What do you
think?”

“Jesse’s right. We couldn’t get you out of here based
on the information we currently have. All of this may prove
important if we go to trial, but we need solid evidence to get you
released.”

“Travis, sit tight for now. I may be able to get the
proof we need, but it will take a little time and a trip to
Pennsylvania. I also need to get into your home. Can I do
that?”

I addressed that question to both Randall and
Travis.

“I have a key,” Travis said, “but I don’t know if the
FBI will allow anyone inside.”

“I can arrange that,” Randall said. “You won’t need
the key. The FBI will open the door for us. When do you need to go
there?”

“One-thirty this afternoon,” I replied.

“I’ll make a call. It should be no problem. The
defense has a right to search the premises once the FBI has
gathered its evidence. What are you looking for?”

“I need to take a few pictures,” I said.

“That’s fine,” Randall replied.

“I would like to know a few more specific things,
Travis,” I said. “First, when Mark Prichard returned to your house
alone on Saturday morning, while you were sitting in the car, did
he have his denim jacket on? Was he wearing a hat of any kind? I
need to know exactly how he was dressed as he went in and came
out.”

“Let’s see… He had his jacket on; it was chilly. But
he wasn’t wearing a hat. He looked the same going in and coming
out.”

“Like this?” I asked, as I showed him one of the
fishing pictures.

“Yes. Just like that,” Travis replied.

“Secondly,” I said, “Exactly where in your home did
you keep your .45 caliber Glock?”

“I kept it at the far right end of the upper right
drawer of my dresser,” Travis said.

“Did he take your holster or only your gun?”

“Only the gun. The holster was still in the drawer
when I got home. Why do you need to know all this? What’s your
plan?”

“I’d rather put it in motion without talking about
it. Loose lips sink battleships, you know. If it works, you might
be free in a week. If it doesn’t, we’ll pursue other
possibilities,” I said.

“All right,” Travis said pensively. He then added,
“Susan St. Claire—she is a piece of work.”

I resisted the urge to laugh at his choice of
words.

• • •

Billy and Alonso arrived at my house promptly at
twelve-thirty. The thought of having a guard dog boosted my morale.
He handed me the envelope from Dennis and Michelle Jackson. Inside
was a check for two thousand dollars and a short note expressing
their apologies for Dennis’ aggressive behavior.

“Let’s see, Billy, I gave you a hundred dollar
advance on the three-fifty finder’s fee. I owe you two
hundred-fifty dollars. Right?”

“I believe that’s correct, Jesse.”

I handed him two more of Dennis Jackson’s fresh
C-notes and another fifty I had tucked away in my wallet.

“Do you have your laptop, Billy?” I asked.

“I never leave home without it, Jesse.”

“I assume you have a printer at the lake house,
right?”

“Yeah.”

Eric arrived at one-fifteen.

“Eric, where is your Glock?” I asked.

“It’s right here,” he said and pulled it out of his
backpack.

“We’re all set then,” I said. “Billy, you and I have
to go for a short ride and take some pictures. But first I need to
change.”

I went into my bedroom and put on a pair of jeans and
a denim jacket.

When I returned, Billy said, “It’s a little warm for
that coat isn’t it, Jesse?”

“It can’t be helped,” I replied. “Bring your camera,
but leave Alonso here. Eric, please stay with Angele and Cynthia.
There’s been some trouble at Cynthia’s place, so stay on full
alert. The Winchester in the kitchen is loaded.”

Billy and I drove over to Travis Perkins’ home.
Randall had arranged with the FBI for me to take some pictures at
one-thirty. An agent greeted us as we arrived. I showed him the
Glock right away to preclude any misunderstanding. I explained that
we would be taking some pictures for a possible trial.

He asked to check the weapon for bullets. When he saw
that it was not loaded, he unlocked the door and followed us
in.

Billy and I recreated Mark Prichard’s theft of
Travis’ gun. Billy took pictures of me entering the house, removing
the weapon from the bureau drawer, leaving the bedroom and exiting
the house. Billy took lots of shots from varying angles. After
fifteen minutes, we had what we needed.

I thanked the FBI agent, and we drove back to my
place.

I had an extra surveillance camera I could use for my
own home. I set it up with a view of the living room and the
hallway, and linked it to the same web page that I used for
Cynthia’s videos.

The five of us packed up our belongings, food, drinks
and weapons. There were five cars in the driveway. I left my
Forester home. We caravanned in the other four cars to Camp
Billy.

A slight breeze drifted over the lake from the south.
Horseshoe Island sat half a mile to the east. Camp Billy was
surrounded by maples and pines. We unpacked our gear and settled
in.

There were four bedrooms. Angele and I took the one
with the biggest bed. Cynthia’s room was next to ours. Eric and
Billy shared the third. Brock would be consigned to the small one
in the back. After we unpacked, we assembled in the living room.
Everyone was eager to discuss the plan.

I laid it out. Eric and Angele offered a number of
amendments. Billy grumbled about not going, but acknowledged that
he wasn’t about to cut his hair, which was absolutely necessary if
he were to play a role in Pennsylvania. Within half an hour, we
were all on the same page.

Billy went to work at his computer preparing
documents and photographs. Angele used my all-in-one grooming set
to transform Eric. Cynthia withdrew to the kitchen to survey our
options for supper. I went out on the porch and called my cousin,
Raymond, in Philadelphia.

“Hello.”

“Ray, this is Jesse,” I said.

“Hi, Jesse. What’s up?”

“I have a favor to ask you,” I said.

“Shoot,” he replied enthusiastically.

It took fifteen minutes to describe the situation.
Eventually, I got to the part that involved him.

“I need you to call Keystone State Natural Gas and
Pipeline Company and ask for Mark Prichard. All our phones have a
207 area code. If Prichard sees that on his caller ID, he’ll know
we’re calling from Maine. That might give him pause, and we don’t
want him to pause. Your phone has a Pennsylvania area code. It
won’t seem out of the ordinary,” I said.