Vorpal Blade (16 page)

'No. It's far too early.'

A following wind landed them ahead of schedule. Even so
it was a rush to find and board the commuter flight which
would take them north to Portland.

Earlier Tweed had warned them both to leave all the
talking to him. Paula had queried the wisdom of travelling
under their own names. Tweed had told her this was a
very tricky expedition they were undertaking, that if their
stealthy trip to Pinedale was discovered later it would be
safer if they had travelled using their real passports.

As the commuter aircraft took off from Boston, Paula
peered out into the night. Below them the city was a galaxy of lights and a few ships on the Charles River showed up at
their bows and sterns. Otherwise the Charles was a huge
black snake making its way inland.

It took them less than an hour to fly to Portland. The
further north they went the more plantations of evergreens
Paula saw spreading out below, their green nearer to black
in the moonlight. Then they were descending with white
surf bordering the coast to her right. Several fishing vessels
were moored in the harbour.

'Who are we contacting?' she asked.

'My CIA friend, Cord Dillon, told me over the phone we should reach the Chief of Police, Andersen, as soon as we left the airport here. Bumpity-bump. We're down.'

Andersen led them out of the headquarters building into
the night. To escort them the short distance to the waiting
police car he had thrown on a shabby old fur coat. Paula understood why. As in Boston, the air was raw, a biting
cold which froze her face, but it seemed even worse in
Portland.

No one had known anything about the hire car Monica
had ordered. Andersen had said it didn't matter - he'd
a police car and driver who could take them down to
Pinedale but they would have to find transport to bring
them back.

'I guess you folks chose the wrong time of the year to
come over here,' he commented. 'And the forecast is for a big storm to come in from the Atlantic.'

'Seems very quiet,' Paula replied, 'here in town.' 'Folks are battening down for the storm.'
Andersen was a businesslike giant, well over six feet tall.
He had expected their arrival, had wasted no time taking
them out to the car where a driver sat behind the wheel.
Very few people were about and those who were hustled along the pavements, well muffled up.

The car waiting for them was a battered old Ford. Across
the front of the roof was the transparent box with red
and blue lights lit up. An aerial which had seen better
days projected at a slanting angle. Andersen made quick introductions.

'Driver is Sam. He'll take you there. Then that's it.' 'Thank you, Chief Andersen,' said
Tweed.
'Sam has to get back here fast. A team is checking out a big robbery. It needs Sam to kick their asses to keep them
moving.' He glanced at Paula. 'Excuse me, Ma'am.'

Tweed sat with the driver while Paula and Newman
occupied the back. Then they were moving. Soon out
of Portland, Sam pressed his foot down, his headlights
gleaming on the blacktop ahead of them, now passing
through open country.

Paula started out excited. This was an adventure. Like
Newman she had let Tweed do the talking when they
passed through Customs in Boston.

'Business or pleasure?' the impassive officer had asked.

'Business,' Tweed had replied.

'Profession?'

'Security adviser.'

Nothing more. Tweed had thought what a tremendous
contrast to entering New York. He'd endured an hour-long
trudge as a crocodile of passengers slowly reached freedom.
Surly questions before he hurried to find a cab.

The blacktop stretched out of sight before them while
Sam sat hunched behind his wheel, saying nothing to
Tweed, not giving him a glance. Then they entered the
forests. Walls of fir trees so high Paula could not see
their tops hemmed them in on both sides. Her sense of
adventure evaporated. She began to feel claustrophobic.
The blacktop climbed crests so you couldn't see what
lay on the other side until the car popped over the top,
descended the far side. No other traffic. Occasionally there
was a break in the wall of firs where she had a glimpse of a
logging track vanishing round a curve. Didn't anyone live
in this eerie wilderness? she wondered. Then they passed
a large gap in the forest on her side. In the open space
she saw a red barn, the colour gleaming in a shaft of
moonlight. It must have been recently painted. Someone
did live somewhere.

The weather was changing. A fleet of low dark clouds
sailed in from the sea. Sam glanced up, made no comment.
He had a face which reminded her of a squirrel, a police cap
rammed down over his forehead. She wanted to ask 'How
much further?' but remembered what Tweed had said, so
kept her mouth shut.

Sam was slowing down, the fir trees Were thinning out.
He suddenly swung off the highway up a track of granite
chippings. Space opened out. Perched on a small hill was a two-storey clapboard building badly in need of fresh paint.
A railed porch ran along the front and several wooden
rails had collapsed. Shingles had been blown off the roof.
Behind smeared windows, beyond the top of wooden steps
leading up to the porch, lights glowed on the lower floor.
Somebody isn't bothered much about appearances, Paula said to herself. The car stopped several yards away from
the flight of rickety steps between the wooden rails. Sam
suddenly became voluble.

'Deputy Parrish is inside there,' he said in a distinct
accent. 'Doubt you'll find him very cooperative. Sea is over
there behind the police headquarters. Hear that wind?'

Paula became aware of a strange swishing sound. Look
ing back to the edge of the forest
she saw the huge trees
swaying slowly. It was a disturbing sight.

'Storm's close,' Sam continued. 'A buster's comin', they say. One helluva a murder took place near here recently.
The killer chopped off the head, dumped the corpse damn
near into the ocean. Head's still missing He made a
funny sound which Paula realized was a chuckle. 'Why'd
he want the head? Maybe collects them. Gotta get back
now. Andersen is tough but fair.' He waited while they
got out, leaned his head out of the window.
'Jed, Parrish's
helper, might drive you back to Portland.'

'That's so hopeful,' Paula said to herself as biting cold
entered her lungs.

The wind was rising more dangerously while Sam waited
for them to reach the foot of the steps. Paula wondered
why he was waiting. Suddenly Sam gunned his engine,
swung the car round in a mad swerve of a hundred
and eighty degrees. Chippings were hurled everywhere
and Paula realized why he had waited - for them to be
far enough away. With mixed feelings she watched his
red tail-lights vanish back along the highway. She had a
depressing feeling of isolation.

'Let's get on with it,' said Tweed briskly, full of energy.
'The rail's shaky,' he warned as he mounted the steps to
the porch. Reaching a large door he turned the handle and
bounced inside. Paula wondered how he managed it.

Beyond the door was a large room with a wooden board
floor. Behind an ancient desk near the far wall a man in
his fifties sagged in a large wicker chair, his booted feet
resting on top of an old desk. Untidy brown hair covered his large head, streaks plastered to his forehead. He had
small piggy eyes above a fleshy nose and below that a hard
mouth and jowls. He was fat and his old soiled red check
shirt was rolled up to his elbows, exposing ham-like flesh;
his gut protruded well beyond a leather belt low down on
his stomach. His full-cheeked face was red as a setting sun.
Tweed guessed the source of the redness was the bottle of
beer held in his right hand. He upended the bottle and
swallowed several times.

'Deputy Parrish?' Tweed asked as Paula and Newman
hurried in behind him, closing the door.

A wave of heat had met them tinged with a stench of
beer. Parrish hammered the empty bottle hard down on
the desk, stirred so now they could see his gun belt with a
holster and a revolver protruding from it. Paula felt faint
with the sudden change from icy cold to stuffy heat. Taking off a glove, she dug her nails into the palm of the hand. The
pain helped.

'Yeah, I'm Parrish. The law round 'ere. The only law
it's got. You Tweed?'

'Yes.' He introduced his companions. Parrish ignored Newman, was leering at Paula. Tweed started to move
forward and Parrish spoke again.

'On your way over 'ere you might put another log in the stove. Keep the lady's legs warm, although she's keeping me warm.'

'I'll do the fire,' another voice suggested. Tweed was
picking up two logs, walking over to place them in the
open stove, which was roaring. Humour the old brigand - but only so
far.

Paula was smiling at the much younger man who had
offered to help. His grey check shirt and blue denims
were spotless. He looked physically strong, had thick
corn-coloured hair, good features and a nice smile. Parrish
burped, then growled at the younger man.

'She's not for you, Jed. You'd have to get past Tweed
and the tough guy he's brought with him.'

'If you don't mind, Mr Parrish,' Paula snapped, 'I
would like to sit down until I get used to the heat in
here.'

'Of course!' Parrish dragged three wicker chairs from
the side of the room, placed them in front of his desk. He
waved a stubby-fingered hand with dirt under the nails for
her to sit down. 'Jed,' he called out as she sat down, 'we're
forgettin' our manners.'

He placed a hand on her arm, bending over her so she had a stronger acquaintance with beer fumes. 'There, are we comfortable now?'

She grasped his hand, removed it from her arm. Parrish
was obviously surprised at the strength she displayed.
Tweed, seated, had had enough. He leaned towards the
Deputy who had returned to his own chair.

'You were here when Hank Foley's body was found?'

'You might say I oversaw the operation.'

'How was he found? I presume you know that since
the murder happened within your jurisdiction. I need
data.'

'Well, in that case, maybe you ought to have a nice chat
with Jed over there. Later on. He found the corpse. Didn't
find the head though, did you, Jed? Sure you didn't drop
it when you'se was 'elpin' the Portland team to use ropes
to haul it up?'