Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3) (17 page)

Mike
flashed back to his last experience dealing with the FBI, during the Chief
Court fiasco nearly two years ago, and grimaced inwardly. The two agents he had
dealt with back then had been assholes, but at least they operated with a
modicum of professionalism. This pair handled themselves like a couple of
hoodlums. “Well, we agree on that,” he finally offered. “I don’t want anyone
else getting hurt; we’ve had enough of that around here already to last several
lifetimes.”

The two
agents pushed their chairs back and stood in unison. Ferriss offered Mike a
tight-lipped smile while Cooper scowled like he had just found out Mike was sleeping
with his wife. Neither man offered his hand again. “Be seeing ya around,”
Ferriss said. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

“You do
that,” Mike answered as the men exited his office. He watched them wind their
way through the bullpen and out the front door. This was going to be a long
day.

13

The hunger was now so bad that Jackson
Healy thought he might be going insane. Cramps wracked not just his stomach but
his entire frame, and eating was all he could think about. Despite the fact he
had chowed down less than twelve hours ago, he felt as though he had been
wandering in the wilderness for months since his last meal.

Since
awakening from his strange slumber down in that secret underground room he had
felt mostly confused, like something momentous had happened to him but he
couldn’t figure out what it was. But now, the awful hunger pains thundering
through his system had the effect of focusing him in a way that nothing else
could. He crashed through the thick underbrush of the forest, lost, no idea of
where he was going or what he would do when he got there, clutching his ruined
Colt revolver like a talisman.

From
somewhere far off his right, Jackson began to make out an occasional low
humming noise. It was barely noticeable at first, like a pesky mosquito buzzing
around his head as he tried to sleep. Then the noise would rise slightly in
volume, and shortly afterward fade away. Varying intervals of time would pass,
and the mosquito-buzz sensation would begin again.

The
sound was unlike anything he had ever heard, but Jackson was pretty sure it
wasn’t coming from an animal, which meant it must have a human origin. Where
there were humans there would be food, and Jackson needed food.

Badly.

So he stopped
walking, forcing himself to stand and listen despite the powerful hunger
ravaging his belly, and when he next heard the strange noise, he began moving,
changing course slightly, navigating – he hoped – in the direction of
the humming sound. He moved as fast as he could, driven by the overwhelming need
to eat, a sensation now joined by a powerful thirst.

The
forest was thick, thicker than any he had ever encountered, but he moved at a steady
clip, enduring scrapes on his face and arms from the underbrush, and bruises on
his shins from collisions with low-lying logs and boulders. He skirted massive
fir trees, walked up gentle rises and down steep drops, continued moving
doggedly forward.

His
throat felt parched.

He was
so damned hungry.

Just
when he began to doubt he would ever exit the forest, when he began to fear he
would walk in circles under the thick canopy of trees until he simply dropped
dead from exhaustion or hunger, just when he thought it might be
better
to die than to put up with the unwavering
hunger and intense thirst, he stepped through a thick screen of wild prickly
undergrowth into a field of tall grass gently waving in the light breeze.

And on
the far side of the field was a house.

Beyond
the house, off in the distance, Jackson could see another of those terrifying
buggies, somehow moving without the assistance of a horse, propelling itself
along a trail that looked flatter and smoother than any he had ever seen. The
low humming noise he had been using for guidance accompanied the carriage’s
movement, fading away and eventually disappearing as the buggy turned a corner
and disappeared. Jackson stopped and watched, spellbound by the sight even in
the face of his nearly overwhelming hunger.

Once silence
returned, Jackson resumed his examination of the house in the distance. Behind
it, in direct line between himself and a screened back door, a length of rope
had been strung in a zig-zag pattern back and forth between two poles shaped
like a T. A lady stood in the sunshine hanging laundry out to dry. The lady was
probably a hundred feet away, but even from here Jackson could see she had a
thick mop of snow-white hair, leading him to believe she was probably in her
sixties, or maybe even older.

Her age
didn’t matter, though, because Jackson was approaching the limits of his
endurance. Cramps rifled through him almost continuously and his throat felt as
though someone had sandpapered it when he wasn’t paying attention. He needed
food and he needed water, and he was going to get them both here, come hell or
high water. No woman, young
or
old,
was going to stop him.

He
broke into a trot, crossing the field with long, loping strides, and for a few moments
the woman didn’t even notice him. She was engrossed in her chore, working with
machine-like efficiency. Finally, though, she spotted him out of the corner of
her eye, stiffening noticeably and turning to face him head-on.

He
slowed to a half-trot, not wanting to spook the old woman until he could get
close enough to handle the problem if she drew a gun on him. She watched him
approach, her forehead crinkled with concern at this unexpected development,
but said nothing. Just when Jackson thought maybe she was mute, she raised a
hand and pointed a finger in his direction.

“This
is private property,” she said with the clipped tone and confident certainty of
the righteous. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you can just
turn your ass around and drag it right back the way you came…”

Jackson
kept moving, picking up his pace at the woman’s words rather than stopping or
slowing. The closer he came to her, the less authoritative her voice sounded,
until her words simply faded away and she stared with her mouth half-open, a
look of shocked distaste frozen on her wrinkled face.

Jackson
had seen that look plenty in his life, mostly from women but occasionally from
men. He had even seen it a few times from his ma before he left home. He wasn’t
surprised. He realized he must appear intimidating, with ill-fitting stolen
clothes covering his unwashed body, blood stains splashed liberally over everything.

“Food,”
Jackson croaked, stopping in front of the woman and swaying like he had drunk
half a bottle of cheap whiskey.

The
woman didn’t move. She stared in horror at Jackson’s midsection and he realized
her attention was focused on the Colt revolver still grasped in his right hand.
He glanced down reflexively and saw what had held her gaze so effectively. A
clump of the dead sheriff’s hair was stuck to the grip, crusted in place by his
dried blood. It bristled in the breeze exactly as the field grass had done when
he was exiting the forest.

He
smiled at the thought, and that seemed to jolt the woman out of her shocked
inaction. Her eyes widened and her gaze left the gun, running up his disheveled
body to his face, and she opened her mouth to scream.

And
Jackson hit her.

14

Sharon was halfway across the
dusty Ridge Runner parking lot when her cell phone rang. With every other
available member of the tiny Paskagankee police force busy at the scene of last
night’s double murder, Mike had asked her to examine the excavated pit closely
in search of any evidence that might shed some light on exactly what had
happened down there.

She
glanced at the caller ID and smiled before pressing the
Send
button. “Hello, Chief, how can I help you?” She had gotten so
used to calling him “Mike” during the months of his retirement that addressing
him more formally now that he was back at work was going to take some getting
used to.

“Sharon,
have you gotten to the Ridge Runner yet?”

“Yes, I
just drove in and am getting out my unit now. What’s wrong?” She could sense
the tension in his voice.

“You’re
going to have some company in a few minutes. Two FBI special agents are on
their way over there. They left the station a few minutes ago.”

Sharon
held her cell phone away from her ear and glared at it accusingly, as if it
might be trying to get away with telling a particularly bad joke. Then she
returned it to her head and said, “Could you repeat that, Chief?”

“I
think you heard me,” Mike said. “There will be two FBI special agents visiting
the Ridge Runner crime scene this morning. Names are Ferriss and Cooper.”

“You
called the FBI and their people are already here? That doesn’t even seem
possible.”

“No,”
Mike answered. “I didn’t call anybody. There were at the station waiting for me
when I arrived this morning. Claimed Pete Kendall notified them about the human
remains uncovered behind the Ridge Runner and wanted to take a look at the
scene. Something about a possible connection to a missing persons cold case
they were working some time ago.”

“Pete notified
them? When would he have had time to do that? He was with me most of the
afternoon and then was busy getting killed overnight. I suppose he could have
called Portland in the short time between when we left the Ridge Runner and
when he called us at home, but…”

“I
agree; it seems unlikely. And why would he suddenly decide to call in the Feds?
I can’t imagine how he would have known about some FBI missing-persons
connection. Plus, I think he would have mentioned it to me if he was planning
on calling Portland, and he never said a word.”

“Very
strange.” Sharon said.

“You
don’t know the half of it. These guys acted more like thugs than buttoned-down
Feds. They claimed to have stopped by the station as a courtesy before visiting
the scene, but I think the only reason they were there at all was to throw
their weight around and to try to intimidate the small-town cops.”

“Fat
chance of that,” Sharon laughed.

“You
got that right. But listen; be careful when those guys show up. Stay out of
their way and don’t hassle them, but keep a close eye on them at the same time.”

“No
problem, boss.”

“Do me
a favor and check in with me when they leave.”

“Will
do.”

“And
Sharon? Watch your back, something’s not right about those two.”

She
clicked off and eyed her phone thoughtfully. Mike McMahon was not one to worry
over her like she was some helpless child who needed protecting. She knew he
regarded her as a solid, reliable cop who could handle herself on the job and
off. Plus, she had a 9 mm equalizer strapped to her hip.

But his
concern was evident in both his words and his tone and that, in turn, made her
a little uneasy.

She
shook her head and dropped her phone into her breast pocket, then resumed
walking around the deserted Ridge Runner toward the excavation site in back.
She was a little surprised but grateful that Bo Pellerin wasn’t already on the
scene, hassling her about all the business he was losing being forced to stay
closed, and pushing to learn when the crime scene tape would be removed so he
could get his precious septic system installed and once again serve the needs
of Paskagankee’s drinking public.

As she
approached the corner of the building, the crunching of tires on gravel told
her that either Pellerin had decided to put in an appearance or the Feds had
arrived. She tried to decide which option she preferred and realized there was
no good answer. Reluctantly she turned and watched a dark blue G-car motor
slowly across the lot and pull to a stop next to her own vehicle.

The FBI
was here.

***

The two special agents followed
Sharon to the gaping hole dug into the ground behind the Ridge Runner.
Perfunctory introductions had been accomplished when the men climbed out of
their vehicle, after which neither one seemed inclined to speak. She could feel
them staring at her ass and was tempted to whirl around just to catch them so
she could read them the riot act, but Mike had asked her to play nice, so she would
try to do so.

For
now.

The
overcast layer had disappeared overnight, with the sun putting in an appearance
for the first time in more than a week. The pleasantly warm temperatures had dried
the ground out nicely. Most of the mud inside the excavated hole had hardened
into flaky, powdery dirt, and Sharon was thankful for that. Maybe she would
actually be able to find some useful evidence down there.

The
small group arrived at the edge of the pit, the stationary earthmover looming above
them like the skeletal remains of a gigantic yellow dinosaur. Sharon lifted an
aluminum ladder off the ground where it had been deposited next to the
construction vehicle and slid it into the massive hole, noting with distaste that
neither one of the FBI agents made any move to help.