The Maine Massacre (11 page)

The commissaris had got up too and stood looking out a window. The powerboat came chugging back, trailing several long logs. Jeremy joined him at the window.

"Ah, back again are they? Got a good crop."

"Local woodcutters?"

"In a way. Fox and young Albert. They often cut dead pines on the cape."

The commissaris scratched his nose. "Isn't the cape private property, sir?"

Jeremy grinned. "Sure, but the fox doesn't mind that. He's been out of bounds all his life. But there's no harm. Dead pines are of no value and the gales blow them over and they rot away."

"So what does he want them for?"

"He set up a small sawmill some years ago, after he came back from college. It's a used mill, outdated, belonged to an old sawyer who retired. The fox got it for the scrap price and the old man taught him how to use it. But the fox is original. He didn't want to compete with the big automated lumbermills and work himself to the bone for a marginal profit. He discovered that pine killed by carpenter ants has an interesting texture, and he learned to cut the dead wood very carefully so that it wouldn't fall apart. I've watched him do it. The boy is an artist."

"And he sells his product?"

"At a good price. He trucks it himself to Boston and sells to the interior decorators. I would say he's doing well, although he could do better if he used his education and went to the city. He could easily make a career."

"Perhaps he does, in his own way."

"What's that?" Jeremy asked and blew smoke at the raven, which croaked in protest and hopped to the next rafter. "Ah, I see. Yes, here are some of die boards he cut. Gave them to me last year. He's another exception to my rule. He comes and visits from time to time."

The commissaris admired a part of the rear wall of the cabin. The boards were very light, almost crumbly, and showed dark lines. Jeremy scratched the paneling with his nail. "See, it holds together. The dark lines were traced by the ants. Used to be their corridors."

"Now what was he telling us?" the commissaris asked and stopped. De Gier stood behind him, his hand out, ready to grab the old man in case he slipped on the steep path. They had almost reached the Opdijk house, and Suzanne was peering at them from the living room window. The commissaris turned and pointed at the island. "There he lives, in his island fortress, with a raven patroling the sky and three fierce dogs to guard the land. He carries a handgun and there's a rifle above his door, but apparently he hates hunting. His house is placed high and the woods around the house are cut down, about the last thing one would expect him to do. Maybe he would cut a few trees if they interfered with his view, but he cut them all. That whole part of the island is bare."

"A ravine," de Gier said, "and a drawbridge and a ladder that he pulls up when he is in his cabin."

"So he feels threatened, doesn't he? By what?"

"He didn't seem nervous or fearful at all, sir. His eyes laughed even when he was trying to be serious."

The commissaris' cane scratched the snow viciously. "Yes, he seemed rather flippant. But what he told us about that unfortunate woman may have been true. If it was he was helping us. But he wasn't helping us all the way. I am sure he knows what goes on here. Quite a few people know, but they aren't going to tell us. And you know why not, sergeant?"

The commissaris looked at the small part of de Gier's face that wasn't obscured by the sergeant's hat and upturned coat collar.

"Because they don't care at all. These people got killed and the rest watched them being killed, one by one, in various ways, and they went on with whatever they were doing."

"Like the muggings in New York, sir? I read an article about street killing out there. The passers-by will pass by."

"No, sergeant. Perhaps, but I don't think so. We've run into something else. As I said before, this is a different society. A small town in a forgotten corner. It may come to life in summer, but the summer people have no idea what goes on. They do their vacationing and go home. The local people stay, and they aren't all yokels. No, no, not at all."

"So what's their game, sir?"

"Jan," Suzanne's voice wailed through the window.

"Yes, dear," the commissaris shouted. "We're coming."

"Of course he may have been lying through his teeth, sergeant," the commissaris said a minute later when he was stepping out of his boots in the spotless hall, "and cackling with that raven now, about the fun they had with us. Jeremy of Jeremy's Island. He may be a very sinister man. And intelligent, unusually intelligent. But whatever he is, he knows what he is doing, and saying."

"Jan!"

"Yes, Suzanne. I just want to wash my hands."

They sat down and Suzanne came in carrying a big bowl of steaming soup.

"Pea soup, Jan. Just like Mother used to make it, with bacon and pigs' trotters. We'll have gelatin pudding afterward."

The commissaris looked at the soup.

"That gentleman came about the house, Jan."

"He did? Did he say what he thought it was worth?"

"Yes, Jan. Ninety thousand dollars."

The commissaris tried to move his spoon through the soup. There were some thin slices of white bread next to his plate.

"Do you ever bake your own bread, Suzanne?"

"No. Opdijk always wanted me to, but it's such a lot of work and quite expensive, really. I bought forty loaves last time we went to the city and froze them. They taste very good, I think."

"Ninety thousand the man said?"

"Yes. I was very pleased. Surely that much money will buy me a good apartment in Amsterdam. I would like to live in the south of the city, in one of those big blocks of flats. I am sure I can afford it now."

"The house isn't sold yet, dear."

"I'm sure you'll sell it soon, Jan. Oh, I'm so pleased you're here. I've been so worried. But mat's all over now. Tomorrow I'm going to pack some of the porcelain, but I'll need some crates. Do you think you can get me some crates, Jan?"

The commissaris yawned and checked his watch, after having pulled it from his waistcoat pocket. The watch told him it was eight o'clock, he frowned at it and shook it irritably. "What
is
the time, Rinus?"

De Gier was yawning too. "Two o'clock sir, do you still have Amsterdam time? I've been getting mixed up too. Last night, after we came back from the Wash's house I went home to the jailhouse and lay down to take a nap. I slept until this morning. The sheriff said he tried to wake me but had to give up."

"You look like you could use another nap now. I am certainly going to have one myself."

"Listen," the commissaris said when he saw the sergeant off on the driveway, "do me a favor, Rinus. Buy me some cheese and crackers at that store in town, and some peanuts or something. After you've had your nap. You can give it to me tomorrow morning. Chocolate, anything. Anything, sergeant. Where's your car?"

The sergeant looked about sleepily. "Don't know sir, ah yes, I left it near the highway and walked down. I was hoping to see some wild animals, but they must have hidden themselves. I only saw tracks."

"Will you walk back or shall I give you a lift in the station wagon?"

"It's all right, sir." The sergeant strode off and disappeared behind a large spruce, its branches heavy with snow.

Suzanne's thin hand rapped against the window set in the front door.

"Yes," the commissaris shouted. "Coming, dear."

"You must be careful, Jan," Suzanne said when he had returned to the hall. "You'll catch cold. You might even get the flu. I had the flu last winter and I was in bed for weeks and weeks."

"I never get flu," the commissaris said, and sneezed.

8

D
E GIER WALKED FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR, COLD TO HIS bones and struggling with his hat and branches that whipped into his face. Most of the way was uphill, and an icy breeze blew snowflakes into his eyes and froze the hairs of his mustache and eyebrows. It had also frozen the doors of the Dodge, and he had to warm the lock with his lighter. He smoked while he waited for the engine to warm up.

The road leading to Jameson seemed even worse than before, and he drove as slowly as he could, steering in the direction the car chose for itself and pumping the brakes when he didn't agree with the car's choice. The road's surface reminded him of some of the landscapes he had seen from the window of the intercontinental plane when it pierced the skies of Greenland and Newfoundland: a shiny eternity of frozen quietness, totally devoid of human life, a beautiful but frightening wasteland dominated by white or cream mountains and cut by gorges, violet in their own deep shadows. The road, properly photographed, could have been the cover of a science-fiction paperback, suggesting the weird miracle of another reality. The shock of change had touched off his perceptions, and the recent boredom of the gray days in Amsterdam was no more than the memory of an uninteresting and mostly forgotten dream. He grinned, forgetting his caution, and the car accelerated and made a sudden hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. "No," de Gier said gently, "not that way,
this
way!" He eased the car around again and kept trying until he reached the jailhouse. The compound was silent and, in the office, Bernie, the chief deputy, nodded sleepily and seemed disturbed when one of the telephones jangled. De Gier listened while he took off his coat and hat. Something about eggs. Another deputy, by the name of Bert, didn't have eggs, and Bernie thought that Bert should have eggs. De Gier went upstairs, found his bed, lay down and lit a cigarette. He put it out a few minutes later and closed his eyes, telling himself he should think about Cape Orca. When he woke up the room was dark. He found the sheriff in the office and was offered coffee. The two men had no chance to communicate, for a sudden commotion in the jail required the sheriff's prompt attention. De Gier left, telling Bernie, who was still taking care of the desk, that he meant to do some shopping at Robert's Market and would be back presently.

"You missed dinner," Bernie said.

"Never mind. I'll buy some food at the store."

Bernie grinned. "We'll get you something when you come back. The prisoners are on twenty-four hour duty." De Gier grinned back. He could hear the sheriff's steely voice admonishing somebody behind the heavy jail door. The sheriff's vocabulary seemed most impressive, although somewhat repetitious.

The Dodge was easier to handle this time, for the town's roads had received a good sand sprinkling. The few street lights reflected on snow banks, a wan, green shine interspersed with deep, sinister shadows. He turned and stopped under the extended roof of Robert's Market.

There was a blaze of light under the porch, calling attention to some ten different signs, partly overlapping so that it was hard to understand what they were suggesting the customers should buy. Three signs mentioned beer, another ice. Why would people want to buy ice? The sign had an arrow that pointed at a metal box. He got out of die car and opened the box. Plastic bags filled with ice cubes. He still didn't understand. Iced drinks. But surely all Americans had refrigerators and each refrigerator would have at least two trays of cubes. So why did people want more? A man came out of the store, opened the box, and took out two bags of ice. "Excuse me," the sergeant said. "What do you want ice for?" The man stared. De Gier repeated his question. "Party," the man said. "Party tonight. What else?" The man shook his head and walked away. De Gier nodded. Of course. An advanced drinking country.

The lights of the store seemed to be reserved for its exterior, for the large room inside was dark and gloomy. A young man with a round red face under a compact mass of tiny, whitish curls was serving beer to three customers who sat on high stools. They didn't turn around, but de Gier recognized them and smiled. His third day and he already knew everybody. The fox fellow, Madelin, and Albert. He said good evening, but the guests didn't turn around.

"What can I do for you?" the man with the whitish curls asked. There was no warmth in the question.

"Some cheese," de Gier said. "Some crackers, candy bars, peanuts, cigarettes, a flashlight, batteries for the flashlight."

"Help yourself."

De Gier shuffled through the store, studying the unfamiliar labels on cans and plastic bags. The display of goods was haphazard. Apparently new stock was placed wherever there was room. When he couldn't find what he wanted he thought of asking the storekeeper, but the four heads in the other corner were close together. They had obviously forgotten his presence. He stumbled on, eventually located the required articles, and took them to die counter where the storekeeper grabbed a stub of pencil, wrote down figures, and came to a total.

De Gier paid and asked for a bag.

"Sorry, no bag."

But there were bags. The sergeant saw a stack of flattened brown paper bags on a shelf on the wall behind the counter.

"Give me one of those. I'll pay if you like. I can't carry all this in my hands."

There was no response, but the fox fellow slipped off his stool, went to the door, and locked it. He took the key out of the lock, dropped it into the pocket of his short heavy jacket, and went back to his stool.

"Three beers, Tom."

"Three beers coming up."

"Make it four. Have one yourself."

"Four beers coming up."

The refrigerator behind the counter opened. Four cans of beer slid onto the counter. The beer was sipped slowly, straight from the can. Nobody looked at de Gier.

The sergeant's purchases were still on the counter. He studied his collection. If he picked the articles up he could carry them to the door, but he wouldn't be able to open it even if it were unlocked. He would have to ask somebody to open it for him. He might try to grab the bag, but he would have to get over the counter to reach the shelf that held the bags. Tom might object to his climbing the counter. He could handle Tom, but the fox fellow and Albert would be on Tom's side, and Madelin had given no sign that she disagreed with her friends' behavior. Any trouble arising from his grabbing a bag could be explained as the lawful start of a fight, with the enemy on the right side of the law.

Fine.

The locked door presented another interesting problem in any further proceedings. Obviously the act of locking a customer in is illegal. Restriction of the liberty of a human being. But he would have to prove the locking of the door.

He went over the options again as he got on the last stool at the counter. Yes, there was nothing he could do. Kicking the door out of its hinges would be explained as willful damage committed by an irresponsible foreign visitor, for they would unlock the door afterward and claim it had never been locked. He might, of course, remove the key from the fox fellow's pocket. The fox fellow would not like that. Back to base one. A fight, four against one. No.

De Gier produced a cigarette and lit it. He thought of asking for a beer, but Tom might not hear him. Tom was picking his teeth with a match he had sharpened with a long knife. He had left the knife on the counter, within easy reach. De Gier studied the skin on Tom's hand, soft skin covered with tiny, very blond hairs. A good knife with a thin, wicked blade. He had fought men with knives before. But to a fight a man who holds a knife takes concentration, and he wouldn't be able to watch what the others were doing. Tom threw the match into a carton filled with garbage and picked up his beer can. He drank, looking straight ahead. The fox fellow was tracing a crack in the counter with his forefinger. Albert had closed his eyes and was whistling. Madelin was reading the label on her beer can. De Gier smoked and rearranged his purchases, the processed cheese in front of the carton of crackers. He stacked the candy bars and put the carton of cigarettes on top and the peanuts on top of the cigarettes. He unscrewed the plastic flashlight and inserted the two batteries. He flicked it on. It worked. He flicked it off again. The cigarette had come to its end and he dropped the stub on the floor, rubbing it out with the heel of his boot. Nothing happened for the next ten minutes. Albert's whistled song repeated itself endlessly. A monotonous theme, but quite exact. De Gier listened to every repetition. He wasn't particularly worried. He had found the answer to the puzzle. There was nothing he could do but wait. There was nothing the enemy could do but wait. They would have to outwait each other. But the enemy was several steps ahead of him. The enemy could drink beer and be together, he could do nothing and he was alone. And the enemy could call the end of the game.

What next? Another cigarette? But he had just put one out. He felt in the side pocket of his jacket and his hand came up with an Amsterdam bus ticket. He held the ticket at arm's length and read its text:
"This ticket is valid on the
day of issue for any distance on an Amsterdam streetcar or
bus including transfers provided that
..." He crumpled the ticket and threw it into the garbage carton. Not too interesting, no plot, no characters. He glanced at the enemy. The enemy wasn't doing anything in particular, but Albert still whistled. Even so, there had been some subtle change. Albert's pouted lips blew a variation on the theme and his foot tapped twice. The taps seemed to set off the fox fellow, who got up, walked to a position halfway between the counter and the door, and began to click his fingers. Madeira's right hand became a fist, and her knuckles hit the warped and stained counter. Tom did something too. He picked up his knife, turned it around, and made the handle repeatedly touch his beer can. The sounds didn't blend at first, but Albert's whistling became a little louder and he held a note, broke it, and held it again. The rhythm fell into place.

De Gier got off his stool and unbuttoned his jacket. The enemy turned toward its prey, but the whistling, clicking, knocking, and rapping continued. De Gier's hand reached into his inside pocket and produced a flat black leather case. The whistling stopped, then started again. He opened the case and took out a small metal flute and screwed its two gleaming parts together. He blew his first note. It fitted into a missed beat of the knocks and clicks, and the sergeant breathed in, held his breath for four bars, and blew a higher, much longer note. When it broke, Albert's whistling caught up and spread and de Gier made the flute go down and become the whistle's shadow. He wouldn't dominate the enemy, he would be content to follow. He knew the tune. "Straight, No Chaser." A very good tune, created and played by the best musicians on the Coast and in New York City. He had the tune on at least twelve records. He had played it often with Adjutant Grijpstra accompanying on his old set of drums. But perhaps the present rhythm section was more of a challenge than the methodical approach the adjutant, the faraway adjutant, had offered on previous occasions. He knew the adjutant's style well and liked to adjust to Grijpstra's ways, but the enemy was new and bound to produce surprises, sudden changes, a whole new way of making use of the tune's possibilities.

He started the high note again but cut it into slivers and got back into the theme, repeating it to give the others a chance to fit in. Madelin was the first to start the chant. There was a word to the chant:
Cannonball.
Tom chanted with her, using the word's syllables to stress the main theme of the tune. Madelin's voice reminded the sergeant of the iced landscape he had seen in the Orca road surface, but the emptiness was no longer void. There were beings in it now, transparent and floating. The hoarse, thin voice of the fox fellow gave the beings more form and de Gier began to recognize some of the creatures on the edges of his mind, but not quite, for they were of his dreams and wouldn't enter into actual, definable existence.
Can-non-ball.
The word seemed logical, the only word that could be used in the chant. He remembered that he should follow rather than lead and Albert's whistling filled the store again, reaching into its dark corners. Tom had left his protected nook by vaulting across the counter. He no longer held his knife and the beer can. The fox fellow was no longer clicking his fingers. The chant had become powerful. Even quiet Albert was chanting, and Madelin's voice rose and broke die limitations of the room. She sang the last syllable of the chant's word.
Ball.
High and eerie but also sweet. A holy sound, de Gier thought, but truly holy, cleansed of the goodness that clings to angels and saints, approaching the purity that can no longer be named.