Paskagankee (25 page)

Taking a hesitant step or two in what she thought might be the right direction, Sharon aimed her heavy Maglite out into the mist, serving only to blind herself as the refracted beam struck her in the face like the oncoming headlights of a car. She cursed under her breath and snapped off the flashlight.

Another cracking sound made her skin crawl. This one was similar to the first but far softer. It seemed exactly like the kind of noise a person might make if he was trying to sneak quietly away but could not see the ground well enough to avoid all the downed branches.

Sharon reached for her radio to call Mike for help and then froze as the obvious problem occurred to her: she had no idea where in the hell she was. It might take forty-five minutes for backup to locate her and by then whoever was trying to sneak away would be long gone. She took a deep breath, not liking the way it caught in her throat, and said, “Who's out there? Stop right where you are,” trying to sound authoritative and sure of herself but feeling nothing of the sort.

Dead silence greeted her call and she took another halting step forward, then a few more, moving farther away from the bonfire than she intended. Reluctantly she reached for the service weapon at her hip, leaving it holstered for the time being with her palm resting on the grip. She stopped and listened intently, rewarded for her efforts only with the sound of the blood rushing in her ears.

Another step forward; still nothing but the ever-present grey-white fog filling her consciousness. A sudden flash of movement to her left caused Sharon to whirl on the balls of her feet, simultaneously drawing her weapon and barking, “Freeze, police!”

The movement ceased immediately and when she took another step forward, two figures materialized almost as if by magic in front of her, a boy and a girl, neither one more than sixteen years of age. Their faces registered shock and fear when they saw the gun leveled on them and Sharon quickly holstered it, demanding, “What the hell are you kids doing out here?” although it sounded stupid and lame as soon as she said it, even to her.

It was patently obvious what the kids were doing out here; it was the same thing she would have been doing on a date at that age—looking for a little privacy. Annoyed with herself for letting her imagination run wild, Sharon spoke sharply. “Get back to the fire. Do you want to get lost out here and wander around until morning?”

She gestured in the direction of the bonfire, which was no longer visible in the distance but the light from which would become apparent again as soon as they took three steps to Sharon's left. The young couple moved off toward the fire, the boy muttering something under his breath to his girlfriend as they passed in front of Sharon. Whatever he said caused her to giggle and then they disappeared, swallowed up again by the fog. Sharon stood quietly, angry and embarrassed. She waited a few moments and then started off in the same direction.

41

MIKE CHECKED IN WITH Professor Dye immediately after speaking with Sharon. The professor had nothing to report, which Mike chose to interpret as good news. The plan they had developed was to patrol the area in two concentric rings. Sharon would circle clockwise around the outer ring, remaining just within sight of the blaze's glow, and the professor would walk in the opposite direction, staying within roughly fifty feet of the fire.

The professor was unarmed and untrained, so Mike wanted to be able to keep an eye on him. In the event of trouble, Mike would be able to get to him quickly. It had seemed like a decent plan when they drew it up—the best they could develop under such short notice and with severely limited manpower—but these pea-soup weather conditions had thrown a real monkey-wrench into things. Mike had never seen such a thick, all-encompassing fog settle into an area, and he had spent fifteen years in Revere, Massachusetts, a city located right on the Atlantic Ocean.

Mike hoped he hadn't made a mistake by allowing Professor Dye to come here tonight. He wondered what his friends on the Revere Police Department would say if they knew his prime suspect in two horrific murders was a three-hundred-year-old dead Native American girl, and his hopes for solving the crimes were pinned on an aging academic with zero credibility in his own professional circles.

“This is a thrill a minute. No wonder you left the big city to move up to the armpit of the universe.” Mike looked to his side to see Detective O'Bannon scowling at him, holding a cup of coffee in his right hand and looking like he wanted nothing more than to throw it in Mike's face.

“Nice to see you again, too,” Mike answered. Behind them, the fire crackled and popped as the intense heat expanded the wet wood. Incredibly, it was still gaining in intensity. The townspeople milling around the massive brush pile had gradually been forced farther and farther away from the flames as the area became hotter and hotter.

Mike decided to push O'Bannon's buttons a little. The man had been nothing but condescending and uncooperative since arriving in Paskagankee, and Mike was still smarting over the whitewash job O'Bannon and his silent partner Shaw were giving this case, which, if Professor Dye was right, was about to explode in their faces. “Having a good time, are you?”

O'Bannon snarled, “I can't wait to put this freaking little hellhole in my rear view mirror. What a goddamn waste of time this whole circus has been. Jeez, a couple of people get attacked by an aggressive animal and you clowns think the world is coming to an end.”

Heads turned as the people in the immediate vicinity of the two men heard the anger in O'Bannon's voice and nervously stepped away. Mike calmly replied, “Come on detective, it's just you and me here. The attorney general is fast asleep in bed a hundred miles away. You can't tell me you really believe the ridiculous notion that those two poor men were ripped to pieces by a bear, right? We've gone around and around on this, and there's no evidence to support that theory. Why don't you just admit the truth: you have no idea what's going on and you just want to get the hell back to civilization? I won't share your dirty little secret with anyone, I promise.”

O'Bannon sneered at him, disdain evident in his voice. “Maybe my theory's a little weak, but at least mine's plausible. The rumors I'm hearing are that you and your little girlfriend have been taken in by that egghead college teacher and you're running around hunting a ghost. That sound about right, Chief?”

Mike stared at the man, feeling his face begin to flush. He knew how silly it sounded, but yes, he finally had to admit to himself, he thought Professor Dye might actually be right. “It's not a ghost,” he said after a moment's hesitation. “It's a spirit that has gained possession of someone's body. Someone, I might add, who is just as much a victim as the two murdered men. And I'm well aware of how crazy it sounds, but it fits. If you would take the time to open your mind and actually pay attention to your surroundings for a change, you might find it
plausible
too.”

Grimacing in disgust, looking like he had just bitten into spoiled meat, O'Bannon said, “You're as crazy as a loon, you know that? Killing that little girl must have really done a number on you because you're just about ready for the nuthouse. I'm leaving in the morning as planned and so is Shaw. Do us both a favor and stay out of our way until then.” O'Bannon glared at Mike, his face florid either from the chilly temperatures or his anger, Mike wasn't sure which. Then he stalked off into the dark and the mist, muttering under his breath, as the fog swallowed him whole.

Mike stood for a few minutes, thinking about the vehemence of O'Bannon's verbal attack. It occurred to him that up until a few days ago, if confronted with a similar situation, his attitude would have been nearly identical to O'Bannon's, although he hoped he would have expressed it a little more civilly.

He chuckled to himself at the incongruity of the entire mess and began another circle of the bonfire. He took three steps and ran headlong into a woman, almost knocking her off her feet. Reaching out quickly to steady her, he said, “Excuse me, miss, I'm sorry.” She smiled at him and he realized it was the reporter he had clashed with yesterday at the police station, the one he had chased out with threats of jail time.

“Well,” she purred, seeming not to notice—or choosing to ignore—that she had nearly been dumped onto the muddy ground. “If it isn't Chief McMahon. Destiny seems determined to bring us together, don't you agree?”

Mike let go of her arm, saying, “Hello again, Ms. Manheim. I'm sorry for almost knocking you over, but I really don't think destiny has anything to do with it. You just refuse to go away. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“Oh, don't worry,” she interrupted, her tongue tracing her red lips suggestively as a lascivious smile played across her face, “I understand you're taken; you're off the market, as it were. I wouldn't dream of trying to come between you and that little girl you've recently become involved with. But really, Chief, come on. Don't you think she's a tad . . . oh, how do I put this delicately . . .
fresh-faced
for you?”

Mike had already begun walking away from the reporter and he froze in mid-stride, swiveling his head and giving her a stony stare through narrowed eyes. “How do you know . . . ?”

Melissa Manheim smiled triumphantly, moving in for the kill. “How do I know about what, Chief? The fact that you're screwing a girl nearly young enough to be your daughter? Please, give me at least a modicum of credit. This is my job after all; it's what I do.”

“Really, and what is it you do, exactly? Harass people trying to do their jobs?”

“Come now, Chief McMahon, don't be so touchy. Everyone has needs; I, of all people, understand that. I just wonder if the Paskagankee Town Council would be as understanding if they were to discover that their brand-spanking new police chief—the man they just hired and who has been in town less than three weeks—is
already
sleeping with one of his subordinates, the most junior member of the force, no less? Hmm, I wonder.”

“Let me guess,” Mike responded, trying but mostly failing to keep the anger out of his voice. “If I agree to pass information regarding these murder investigations along to you exclusively, you will keep the information about my personal life to yourself, is that about the size of it?”

The tall, willowy reporter said nothing, smiling and gazing steadily back at Mike.

“I told you before, and I'll say it again,” he continued. “Stay out of my way. Maybe this is all just a big game to you, but two people are dead in this town, and that amounts to two more murders than have taken place here in the last thirty years. I know, because I looked it up. Something is very wrong in Paskagankee, and I intend to find out what it is, and your thinly veiled threats are doing nothing to bring me closer to accomplishing that goal. If you want to spill my personal life to the people who brought me here, please, feel free to do so, because it isn't any more their business than it is yours, and I've been kicked out of better places than this, anyway. So you go ahead and do whatever you think you have to do, and I'll do the same. Do we understand each other?”

Mike finally took a breath, amazed that Manheim the Maneater had allowed him to finish his rant uninterrupted. He wondered whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The suggestively sexual look she had adopted was gone, replaced by a flat glare. It was as if the first Melissa Manheim had been replaced by an identical twin; one who had lived a very hard life. “No problem,” she spat. “I don't need you anyway; I was just trying to let you feel like part of the team. I have plenty of sources more than happy to pass along information to me. For example, I know you believe a
ghost
committed these murders.” Her eyebrows rose as she emphasized the word “ghost.”

“I don't need to tattle to the council about you and Little Miss Patrolwoman,” she continued. “Once I splash the story all over the Journal about you wasting time and resources chasing ghosts while a killer stalks Paskagankee, you'll never work in law enforcement again, here or anywhere else.”

The two stared each other down. Their voices were filled with venom, but the conversation had been a quiet one, so Mike didn't think anyone else had heard the exchange. He knew Melissa Manheim could do serious damage to his career if she chose to, maybe even scuttle it permanently, but was coming to the realization he didn't much care. He was committed to his current course of action and would deal with the consequences, whatever they might be, when the time came.

“I really feel sorry for you,” Mike muttered, shaking his head as the furious woman strode away into the fog. He hoped he didn't run into anyone else he knew. The last ten minutes had consisted of verbal battles with O'Bannon and then Manheim. He didn't have the energy to spar with anyone else right now.

42

THE NIGHT DRAGGED. THE time was nearly midnight and Sharon was cold and tired. Even though the temperature was much warmer tonight than it had been for days, it was still only in the low forties and the moisture permeating the air made being outside for any length of time extremely uncomfortable. She wore several layers of clothing in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to keep warm, and to Sharon it felt as though the dampness had managed to work its way through every last stitch of fabric. Her clothes felt heavy and wet.