The Siege Page 9

  One of the first things that crossed his mind was to ask this policeman if he knew anything about Larry’s death. Dale figured he must, in a small town like Dyer. If there was anything to Roberta’s claim that Larry’s mother hadn’t even been allowed to see her son’s body the policeman would know. He also realized, in a town like this, that such questions, would be considered prying by an outsider. Maybe, though, if he explained that he was Larry’s boss at the D.O.T., it would be seen as nothing more than concern for Larry’s survivors.

  Good questions, Dale decided as he swallowed the last bit of coffee and put his cup down.

  “Get ’cha anything else?” Cloe asked, coming up on Dale from behind.

  Startled, Dale looked up at her and shook his head. “Ahh, I guess not,” he said. “The bill, I suppose, if you have to.”

  It was a stale joke, and Cloe surely had heard it a thousand times before because her face remained passive as she took the order pad from her stained apron pocket and hurriedly totaled it up.

  “You can pay at the register,” she said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to Dale. “Have a nice day,” she added, sounding so automatic, Dale was sure she couldn’t repeat it if he asked her what she just had said.

  With one last wipe across his face with his napkin, Dale stood up and fished in his pocket for some loose change. Not finding enough, he unlimbered his wallet and slipped out a dollar bill. He left it under his plate and strode over to the register.

  He didn’t miss the side-long glance the policeman gave him, so he nodded a friendly, wordless greeting. He could practically hear the cop’s mind, questioning him: New fella… Ain’t seen you ’round here before… What’cha doin’ in town? Dale chastised himself for slipping into small-town, redneck cop cliché.

  Cloe, still unsmiling after snatching up the monstrous tip Dale left her, walked to the register and rang up the sale. Dale handed her a twenty-dollar bill and waited patiently for her to count his change.

  The whole time, Dale could feel the policeman’s gaze burning into his back. His neck felt flushed as he put the bills into his wallet, folded it closed, and slipped it into his back pocket. He was about to stride on out of Kellerman’s, but impulsively he turned to the cop and met his gaze.

  “Good morning,” Dale said, letting his smile widen as he held his hand out to the policeman. “My name’s Dale Harmon. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  The cop shook his hand firmly and then, letting his hand drop, said “M’name’s Jeff Winfield.” Gesturing at the empty stool beside him, he added, “I see you already had breakfast, but have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Dale pulled nervously at his ear lobe as he sat down. Suddenly, he felt very foolish, but now that he had started, he felt compelled to continue.

  “Well, you see,” Dale said, shifting on the stool, trying to get comfortable, “I worked down in Augusta with Larry Cole. My daughter and I came up for the funeral tomorrow, and I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me to clear a few things up.”

  Winfield squinted as he regarded Dale. “I knew Larry since he was a boy,” he said softly. “ ’S a shame what happened. He was a good kid growing up, as far as I was concerned. Never got into any trouble with me, anyway.” He glanced up when Cloe slid his breakfast plate in front of him. “You don’t mind if I eat while we talk, do you?”

  Dale shook his head. “Go right ahead. I just wanted to get a bit more information about what happened last Friday,” he said. “You see Larry was pretty close to me and my daughter, and I just won’t feel right unless I know how it happened.”

  Winfield stripped back the foil from a small container of grape jelly and, squeezing it tightly between thumb and forefinger, squirted it onto a piece of toast. He spread it evenly with his knife, then took a huge bite. Jelly squirted out from between his front teeth.

  “Not all that much to tell, really,” he said between grinding chews. “He was driving south on Route 2-A, in a section the locals call the Haynesville Woods. What was he doing up here, anyway? Was he just home for a visit?”

  Dale damned well knew that the cop already knew what Larry had been doing up in the area and was just feeling him out. “There’s some highway money appropriated for some work on that stretch of road. I guess some folks consider it too dangerous and want it straightened out.”

  Winfield nodded his head. “Folks have an expression for that stretch of road. They say there’s ‘a tombstone every mile,’ because of all the accidents out that way.”

  “So what happened to Larry?” Dale asked with a sudden intensity that caught Winfield by surprise.

  “Like I said, not much to tell. The road’s pretty curvy most of the way to Haynesville, and it gets pretty monotonous pretty fast. Lots of times, it’s something as simple as a deer suddenly darting out onto the road or a logging truck pulling out from one of the tote roads. A driver gets startled and blam!” He slapped his fist into his open hand. “He doesn’t make the turn and he meets a tree or a rock head-on. That’s all she wrote.”

  “Larry went off the road sometime around midnight,” Dale said. “You can’t tell me there was a logging truck out there that late.”

  Winfield shrugged and put a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “I’m not saying I know what made Larry go off the road,” he said, chewing noisily. “I’m just saying he went off the road as he was going into a curve. He went straight into a rock embankment. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of his car or him left.”

  “You don’t have any idea why he was driving out there, so late at night, do you?” Dale asked.

  “You sure do seem to have quite a few questions,” Winfield said, leaning away from Dale and scanning him up and down. “You sure you aren’t from the press or maybe the insurance company?”

  Trying to keep the intensity he felt out of his voice, Dale shook his head. “Like I said, Larry was like family to me and my daughter, and I really feel like I have to know what happened.”

  “Look here, Mr. Harmon. From Haynesville, you have two choices. You can either drive south to Bangor or you can go north straight off the edge of the world.” He paused, took a deep breath, and added, “I guess we know which way Larry went.”

  Dale nodded and looked away, feeling a sudden iciness in his stomach. He tried hard not to imagine the squealing sounds of tires and brakes, the smashing of glass and groaning of twisted metal, and the soft, thudding impact of human flesh that had taken his friend’s life.

  “As it was,” Winfield continued, “I was on patrol that night, and I was the first one on the scene after we got the call.” He shuddered and swallowed. “ ’T’weren’t very pretty.”

  “I can imagine,” Dale said softly. “But what you’re saying is, you haven’t really determined the cause of the accident, is that right?”

  “No, but we sure as hell know the cause of death,” Winfield said. He scooped up some more eggs and shoveled them into his mouth. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

  “Well,” Dale said. Cold fingers still gripped his stomach. “There was something else I was wondering about. Have you heard anything about the funeral?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s tomorrow afternoon.”

  Dale nodded. “At two. Have you heard anything about the funeral being closed-casket?”

  Winfield took a swallow of coffee and wiped his chin with his napkin. Shaking his head, he said, “I hadn’t, but it wouldn’t surprise me any. Like I said, I was there on the scene and, frankly, if I hadn’t found his registration and his wallet, I never would have recognized him. The car burst into flames on impact, and he was… Look, you just finished eating. I don’t want to be responsible for any indigestion, all right?”

  Dale shifted to his feet, about to leave, but still, he didn’t want to let it drop, not quite yet. “I went out to Mildred Cole’s last night,” he said.

  Winfield shook his head solemnly. “I had the dubious honor of going out there myself to tel
l her what had happened. I understand she’s taking it pretty hard.”

  “Actually, I never got to speak with her,” Dale said, “but I spoke with her sister.”

  “Roberta,” Winfield said, unsuccessfully disguising a small laugh.

  “Uh-huh. Roberta told me Mildred wasn’t allowed to see the body, that the funeral director, what’s his name?”

  “Franklin Rodgers,” Winfield said.

  “Right. He’s insisting that Mildred can’t see the body.”

  Winfield shrugged. “After seeing what I saw, I can understand why,” he said, taking another sip of coffee.

  “And you don’t consider that unusual?” Dale asked. It struck him as strange how, in talking about this to Winfield, the whole thing grew in intensity for him. He suddenly felt very committed to finding out exactly what the hell had happened out there on the Haynesville Woods Road last Friday night.

  Winfield shook his head slowly. “Look here, Mr. Harmon,” he said. “No one tells me how to do my job except for Captain Bates. Frank Rodgers is the local undertaker, ’n in my estimation, no one, including some state worker from Augusta, is going to tell him how to do it. Can I be any clearer on that?”

  Dale shook his head and paused to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m not telling anyone how to do their job, Officer. Look, you knew Larry Cole, didn’t you?”

  Winfield shrugged. “ ’Course I did. Not very well, but like I said before, he always stayed in line. Never any trouble ’s far as I was concerned.”

  “And you knew his mother and his father before he died.”

  Winfield grunted agreement.

  “Well, then, think about how his mother must feel! She gets a call sometime after midnight…”

  “Actually,” Winfield said softly, shivering from the recollection, “I went over to her house to tell her.”

  “Okay, fine, and you tell her that her only son, her last surviving family member is dead. Gone, just like that!” He snapped his fingers in the space between them. “Think about it! She has to absorb all that grief, and then, how do you think she feels when she’s told that she can’t even see him one last time? How do you think she feels?”

  Winfield looked down at his lap, where he had shredded his napkin. He glanced nervously around the restaurant to see if anyone overheard their talk. Cloe was checking customers for coffee refills; Ruth was nowhere to be seen; Herbie was leaning out the back door of the kitchen, smoking and gazing off into the distance.

  “I know how she feels,” Winfield said softly.

  “Do you?” Dale said, pressing. “Did you ever lose someone that close? Did you ever have a child of yours, or your wife die in an accident like that?” He earnestly hoped Winfield hadn’t; his purpose wasn’t to scratch open old wounds. It was obvious Winfield was still shaken up from what he had seen that night.

  Winfield shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I meant I know how she feels ’cause I saw her fall apart when I told her the news. ’N I happen to know from talk around town that her doctor prescribed some pretty hefty tranquilizers.”

  “So I’m not telling you or Mr. Rodgers or anyone in this town how to do their respective jobs,” Dale said. “All I want you to do is one favor, not for me but for Mildred Cole. I want you to ask Rodgers if he’ll let me see Larry’s body.”

  Winfield’s head snapped up, and he nailed Dale with a harsh look. “Why you?” he asked. He laughed softly as he shook his head. “After all this bullshit, I was pretty much expecting you to ask if Mildred Cole could see him.”

  Dale stroked the side of his face. “You know, if he really is as bad as you say he was, maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to see him. Rodgers is probably right. Let her keep the memories she has. But if I saw him, I could reassure her and comfort her. It would be the voice of someone who had been close to her son, telling her that her son was at peace.”

  Winfield picked up his coffee and contemplated it for several seconds before drinking. He wrinkled his nose and, putting the cup back on the saucer, hailed Cloe. “Cloe! I could use a warm-up.”

  Cloe immediately started toward him.

  “So?” Dale said, leaning both elbows on the counter.

  Winfield smiled and nodded as Cloe filled his cup. He took his time adding cream and sugar, and stirred thoughtfully. The spoon clattered loudly when he placed it on the countertop, where it left a little brown ring.

  “I just want to know why in hell you’re so all fired-up about all this,” he said. He leaned back slightly, puffing out his chest as he hitched his gun belt. “You want to see his body, and I want to know why you think I should help you do something like that.”

  Dale came up close to him, meeting his eyes on the level. “Larry Cole was a damned close friend of mine,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, “and since you scraped him up off the road, no one, not even his mother, has seen him. I think that’s pretty damned peculiar! That’s why!”

  Winfield thought for several seconds, seconds that seemed to drag out into minutes for Dale. At last, he took a huge gulp of his coffee, wiped his face with his shredded napkin, and hefted himself off the stool.

  “Okay, Mr. Harmon,” he said, as he fished a five dollar bill from his wallet and left it on the counter beside his plate. “I’ll give Rodgers a call later on today and just sorta broach the subject with him. You give me a call this afternoon, ’n I’ll tell you what I find out. Will that satisfy you?”

  Dale knew he had pressed the man far enough, so he smiled and held out his hand. They shook, and Dale smiled, “Thank you very much,” he said.

  Winfield started for the door, but before swinging it open and leaving, he looked back at Dale. “Just give me a call ’round one o’clock. We’ll see what’s what. I ain’t promisin’ anything.”

  II

  The day was turning into shit, as far as Hocker was concerned, but last night had been pure glory!

  After “borrowing” the old man’s truck, he and Tasha bypassed Bangor and I-95, taking Route 2 north through Old Town and Lincoln. They didn’t dare stop until they had some healthy distance between them and the town of Holden. By the time they stopped for “breakfast” in Mattawamkeag, it was well past noon.

  The “old man,” they had discovered, was in the bad habit of keeping his wallet on the seat beside him as he drove. Perhaps, Hocker thought, the truck seat drove the bulging wallet into his skinny, little ass, making driving uncomfortable. In any event, Hocker was surprised to find a fat wad of bills in the wallet, along with assorted credit cards, a driver’s license, and ragged-edged family pictures.

  “Righteous bucks,” Hocker said, whistling between his teeth as he held the steering wheel with one hand and hastily counted the bills with the other. “We got close to a hundred bucks here.”

  “Whoopee,” Tasha said. She was unimpressed by the money or at least that was the impression she tried to give him. Throughout the drive to Mattawainkeag, she was silent, either staring out at the road ahead or else, eyes closed, leaning her head against the side window. Every bump in the road made her head bounce against the glass, but at least she didn’t have to look at or talk to Hocker!

  What she really felt was a cold, stark fear that Hocker really had killed that man back there! It was fear that, even now, an All Points Bulletin was out for their arrest! It was fear that she might have made the biggest mistake of her life when she ran away from home and hooked up with this asshole Hocker!

  Somewhere along Route 2, after Mattawamkeag, Hocker spotted a deep-rutted logging road and, without even slowing, jerked the wheel hard to the left. The truck’s chassis groaned and snapped as it rattled over the washboard road bed. A yellow wall of dust fantailed behind them.

  “Christ! Slow down before I lose all my fillings, will you?” Tasha yelled. Her voice was almost lost beneath the rattling sound coming from underneath the truck.

  Hocker leaned his head back and laughed aloud, but a sudden, hard bounce threw him right out of his seat so that he hit his h
ead on the truck roof. That suddenly sobered him up, and he eased up a bit on the gas pedal.

  “What the hell are you doing, anyway?” she asked. She looked back longingly at the asphalt road through the rear window. It may not be much, but at least it connected towns. This road was going nowhere!

  Hocker’s jaw was set grimly as he negotiated the bumpy dirt road around several turns, but before long he drew to a stop and killed the engine. “I guess this’ll about do,” he said. “Come on, everybody out. We’ll set up camp for the night here.”

  Tasha scowled as she stepped out of the truck and looked around. Dust swirled in the air and settled slowly. Other than the curving dirt-logging road behind them, there was no sign of human life anywhere. Towering pine trees speared up into the sky, swaying with a soft hiss in the gentle wind. Birds called from surrounding woods, and looking up, she could see what appeared to be a hawk wheeling overhead, riding the thermals. The brightness of the sky made her eyes begin to water, so she turned away.

  “Look,” she said, her anger continuing to bubble, “it’s one thing to hitchhike and camp somewhere along the road. But I never said I was Pioneer Annie! I don’t want to sleep out here in the goddamned wilderness!

  “Sssh!” Hocker said, holding his finger to his lips and glancing around. “You hear that?”

  Tasha shook her head angrily. “All I hear is the friggin’ wind!”

  “No! Listen!” Hocker said. He suddenly bolted forward, running into the brush, leaping over moss-covered deadfalls and waving for her to follow him. “Come on!” he shouted, his voice echoing and growing fainter.

  Tasha stood for a moment beside the truck, watching him go. Soon, all she could see was his head, bouncing up and down further into the brush. Everywhere, the woods vibrated with intense shadows and light. After another moment, she swore softly under her breath and started after him. It was better than standing there alone.