Buried Dreams (20 page)

“What's the deal?"

"The deal is," she said, wiping her delicate fingers with a fistful of paper napkins, "is that he has a couple of things going on. One is trying to nail a piece of land that belongs to the city of Porter, an island in the harbor. Peavey Island."

"What's there now?"

"A one-lane bridge connecting to the mainland, scrub grass, park benches, some playground equipment, and the usual weekend arrests for drunkenness, public lewdness and other assorted acts that come from tiny minds and big thirsts. It's belonged to the city for years, but your activist friend --- all right, acquaintance --- wants it."

"Does he now?" I said. "Something to do with an old treaty Signed by the state and an Indian tribe, many years ago?"

"Good guess," she said. "That's exactly what's going on, and the hilarious thing is, this character might actually have a case. There really was a treaty signed, way back when, that gave this tribe --- an offshoot of the Abenakis --- certain rights to this island, and this treaty was not signed when New Hampshire was a crown colony. It was signed when New Hampshire was a state."

I wiped down my own fingers with napkins and adjusted the heat some. I was finally warming up. "Which makes a big difference?" I asked.

"Of course it does. Somebody could make an argument that a treaty between an Indian tribe and the British government has no standing, hundreds of years later. Harder to make that argument when it took place when New Hampshire was a state, even a young one."

"And William Bear Gagnon is arguing that it's time to enforce the treaty, and that he's a descendant of that original tribe."

"Bingo. Trouble is, the federal government has certain rules over what constitutes a tribe, but Gagnon might be able to do it, if he can prove that a number of tribe members still live in the area, and that they could arguably be called a tribe. And if that happens, well, Connie tells me that there's a provision in the treaty that allows the tribe to buy the island back, any time in the future. Of course, Connie and about half the city government in Porter know exactly what's going on with Mister Gagnon's sudden interest in his ancestors and tribe."

"Casino," I said.

"Correct again," Paula said. "My, you are sharp today, especially for somebody who's been playing in the dirt. And the humor quotient keeps on getting better, because while some in the city are horrified at the thought of a casino going up in their neighborhood, with no real oversight since it's owned and operated by Native Americans, a whole other contingent are drooling at all the money that can be made over the increased tourists, increased bus traffic, so forth and so on."

I looked over at the house, tried to think of the work that would go into excavating and lifting that structure up, and decided it was too much to think about. Instead I said, "What happens next?"

Paula giggled as she started putting some of the trash away in the plastic bags that earlier had held our lunch. "I haven't told the real funny part yet."

"I can hardly wait."

"Oh, it's worth waiting for. You see, and this hasn't come out and God knows if it ever will, but it's doubtful that William Bear Gagnon is who he says he is."

"A member of that Abenaki tribe?"

"No, silly, an Indian. Native American, or whatever term is being used this year."

The car was beginning to feel a bit stuffy. "You're kidding."

"Tsk, tsk, not when it comes to hilarious stories like this do I kid. Look, my bud Connie is a bulldog when it comes to checking things out. You know the old journalism classroom joke?"

"No, I can't say that I do."

"If your mom tells you she loves you, check it out. Connie got suspicious when this character rolled in, claiming to be a Native American, of a little-known tribe. She's done some background research on him, finding out where he's from and such. Truth is, his name is Billy Gagnon, and he got his middle name, Bear, after spending some time up in Warren, Maine. Do you know what's in Warren, or do I have to spell it out, Lewis?"

I knew very well what was up there. "The Maine State Prison."

"Yep. Did some time for aggravated assault, attempted rape. Charming fellow. And his ethnicity is French-Canadian. Oh, there may be a great-great-grand aunt or two that had Indian blood, but I believe Connie when she says that he's nothing more than a fraud."

Now the car interior seemed too warm. "What's Connie going to do with this great information?"

"Well, that's when the hilarious factor gets taken over by the pathetic factor, because the paper probably won't do a damn thing."

"Why? Seems like a hell of a story."

"Sure it does. But Connie tells me --- and this is all on deep background --- that the conglomerate that owns the
Porter Herald
would not look on too unkindly if Billy Gagnon gets his wish and a casino is built in Peavey Island. And she's also getting some pushback from her editors. You see, the
Herald
has always prided itself on sticking up for the underdog, for pushing unpopular causes, for going after the people in power. How do you think their readership would respond if they decided to take down a charismatic and increasingly influential Indian leader in the seacoast? Hmmm?"

"Probably be brought up on charges of hate crimes, I'd imagine."

"Or something like that. So the story of William Bear Gagnon, who discovered his true roots after spending time in prison, will remain deep in Connie's notes or computer files for the foreseeable future. Hey, you ready to leave?"

"You still okay for the first favor?"

"Sure," she said, shoving the bags of trash into the rear of the car. "Have I ever said no to you before?"

"Plenty of times," I said, which earned me a jab in the ribs.

About thirty minutes later we were in Durham, at a small stretch of roadway outside of the campus that Paula told me was called Gasoline Alley, for the number of gas stations lined up on both sides of the narrow road. Paula shook her head at all the traffic rolling in and out of Durham, to the place where she had gone to school, and she said, "Damn place was so crowded when I was here, I probably couldn't stand it now."

At the Circle H service station, I paid the usual and customary bills, got a lecture on how the dents and dings should get looked at before they started to rust, and Paula joined me as we walked out and stopped by my Ford Explorer, parked forlornly at the end of the lot, near a line of other cars and trucks, most of which were missing chunks of fenders, bumpers, and windows. My own set of wheels had scrapes and dents on both sides, and a brand-new tire that looked out of place with the other three.

"Well," I said, reaching over to pull out a clump of grass from a broken sideview mirror. "At least it's the best-looking in the bunch."

Paula slipped her hand into mine. "Lewis, tell me again what happened."

"Wheel fell off."

"I know that. How did it fall off?"

"The lug nuts holding it together came off, that's how."

She squeezed my hand. "Lug nuts don't come off by themselves, do they."

"Not hardly."

"What's going on?"

I thought about that for a second, and I squeezed her hand back. 'What's going on is that I'm grateful for the ride over here, and you should go back to Tyler and keep on getting your house together, and spending time with your town counsel. That's what's going on, Paula."

Her hand felt warm and soft in mine. She said, “We could have had something, the two of us. I think about that, every now and then."

'We did have something special," I said. "It was right for the moment, it was special, but... we both knew it wasn't going to last. Couldn't, not the way I am, and because of what you need. What you've got now is good, Paula. Don't worry about me."

She squeezed my hand and said, "You're welcome for the favor.  And don't be sure you know just how good I have it."

I watched her as she got into her Camry, responded to her own wave, and then got into my wounded Explorer and headed home as well.

At home a light rain was starting to fall, which discouraged me from resuming my failed archaeological project, which didn't upset me that much. I spent some time in the kitchen sink again, trying to get the dirt off of my hands, and when that was finished, I gave Diane Woods a call at the Tyler police station. She was out and I was surprised at how comfortable that made me feel. I had a question to ask her, and with her not available, it allowed me to find out the information on my own.

But how?

I went up to my office and spent a few minutes on-line, until I found the phone number I was looking for, and I sat back in my chair, looked at the phone, ran some options and possibilities through my mind. There was a number of ways I could get this question answered, and some years ago it would have been just a matter of picking a particular fib that would work. But no longer. Technology had pretty much dumped the option of using the favorite method of private detectives, con artists, and snoopy journalists: the pretext call, phoning someone and pretending to be a loan officer, lottery official, or a phone company rep, all in the attempt to get information. With caller ID and the method of calling back and verifying a number, the pretext call was getting too hard to pull off.

Which just left one option. The truth.

"The truth," I said aloud. 'What a concept."

And with one hand, I picked up the phone, and with the other, I picked up a legal pad and pen, and started calling.

After the initial call north, I was transferred one way and then another, until a pleasant-sounding young man named Jeff Simpson took pity on me. He was a press officer with the state of Maine's Department of Corrections, and he said, "Run that by me again, please?"

So I told him who I was and explained what I was doing and what I was looking for, and he said "hmmm," a lot, and I guess I got him in a good mood or government workers in Maine by nature are always in a good mood, for Jeff Simpson said he would get back to me in a while with the information I was looking for. I said that was fine and hung up the phone and decided to stay in my office instead of rooting around out in the front yard any more.

And I was also under no illusions. The polite young man was no doubt at this moment on the phone calling
Shoreline
magazine to check on my bona fides. He wanted to make sure I was who I said I was, and not some nut or freelance or somebody out to do something. So the checkup would go on, a call to Boston to the offices of Shoreline would take place, and I would just sit here and wait until the young man up in Augusta ---about a three-hour drive from where I sat --- was satisfied that he could talk to me.

So what to do then?

Not much. I looked fondly on a small black rock that was sitting on top of my computer and briefly recalled how that bit of American history ended up in my home, when I had a strange encounter with a female representative of the federal government some months ago. Then I turned my chair around, ready to pull something down from the nearby bookshelf to read, when the phone rang. I took a breath, picked up the receiver, said hello.

"Mr. Cole?"

"That's right."

"Jeff Simpson, returning your call."

"Thanks."

Over the receiver, I could make out the sound of paper being moved around. "I've made the necessary phone calls, and I can confirm your question. But any other additional information would require a Freedom of Information Act request. Do you understand?"

"I do,"

"All right," he said.  “William Gagnon. I can confirm that he was in fact an inmate at the Maine State Correctional Facility in Warren. He was released just over a year ago, on September first."

"Okay. And the other name?" The phone suddenly felt slippery in my grasp, like it was ready to be propelled across the room.

"Oh, Yes. The other name you mentioned. I can confirm that as well."

"Sorry?"

"The man you asked about. Ray Ericson. He was an inmate at Warren, and he and Mr. Gagnon were at the facility at the same time for approximately seven months."

I didn't bother writing anything down. I didn't have to. I hung up the phone and stared at the nearest bookshelf for a moment, and then got up and got going.

Chapter Twelve

So back to Porter I went in my Ford Explorer, back to Stark Street. I drove by the still-lit storefront twice and saw a pickup truck near the front. It was a dark blue Ford with rusty wheelwells and FREE TIBET and FREE LEONARD PELTIER stickers on the rear bumper. I then found a place to park in a dirt driveway that belonged to a small white house that had its windows covered by plywood and decorated with a number of NO TRESPASSING stickers. The house was on the other side of the street, two buildings down from the storefront. Backing in, I shut off the engine and waited. The storefront didn't seem as crowded as before. Through the windows I could tell there was movement back there. I sat and waited, hands folded in my lap. On the passenger's seat next to me was a copy of today's
New York Times
, a bottle of water, and underneath the
Times
, my 9mm Beretta and a pair of 7 x 50 binoculars.