Dunston Falls (8 page)

Holding his head, Peck rolled onto his side into the fetal position. The pounding in his head grew even worse as the pressure behind his eyes amplified. Blood ran down his nose in tiny droplets. He could taste it as it touched his lips, sickly sweet and sticky.

Pushing himself to all fours, Peck attempted to stand, but a fit of dizziness overtook him and he fell, face first to the rug with the floor spinning around him.

He closed his eyes and attempted to steady his breathing to keep from passing out. Slowly the spinning sensation waned and his head began to steady. Then, in the darkness behind his eyes, a vision slowly began to form.

A fire burned in yellow and red flames, so vivid in color he felt as if he could reach out and touch them. In the background of Peck’s mind, there was an anguished cry for help, shouted barely above a whisper in a child’s voice. A small hand, the hand of a child reached out for him, desperate for contact.

On the floor, Peck felt himself reach out with his right hand to try to touch the child’s hand he saw in his mind’s image. Instinctively, Peck knew the child was in some kind of mortal danger.

As their fingers met, the fire suddenly burst into an uncontrolled, wall of searing hot flames. Peck felt a stabbing sensation of pain in his head. An explosion echoed somewhere in the background and the chaotic vision vanished into darkness, leaving Peck breathless and drenched in a cold sweat. He lay still for a minute, trying to breathe and regain control of his muscles.

Then, pushing himself to all fours, Peck slowly crawled toward the bathroom. Gasping for air, he reached the toilet where the bile in his stomach rose up and forced him to vomit until his stomach was empty and the muscles cramped.

Rolling onto his back, Peck looked at the ceiling. “Ah, Jesus, Deb,” he said aloud, and then began to weep openly.

Peck loaded the fireplace with wood and built a roaring fire to warm the house. He poured a drink of Deb’s expensive scotch at the corner bar, then took a seat on the sofa before the fire. As he smoked a cigarette, he replayed the episode from the bedroom in his mind. Whatever the hell that was, it was no headache and no amount of aspirin was going to fix it. After finishing the scotch, he stretched out on the sofa and exhaustion overtook him.

Peck was asleep on the sofa in the living room when Bender and McCoy entered the house. McCoy touched Peck’s shoulder and gently shook him. Peck opened his eyes, sat up and looked at his watch.

“It’s five in the morning,” Bender said.

“The chains took a while,” McCoy explained. “Sorry we were so late getting back.”

Bender handed Peck a mug of coffee from the kitchen. “I made it before we woke you up,” he said.

“I must have dozed off.” Peck took the mug, blew on it a few times and cautiously sipped the steaming hot coffee.

“The ambulance is outside,” McCoy said. “Jay and I will carry out the body, if you’d like?”

Peck nodded and took another sip from the mug.

McCoy and Bender went to the stairs where the doctor picked up a body bag.

Peck lit a cigarette and watched them ascend the stairs to the bedroom. He could hear Jay and McCoy lift the body of Deb Robertson and place her into the bag. There was a moment of silence, followed by the loud zip of the body bag.

As McCoy and Bender carried the lifeless body of Deb Robertson down the stairs and to the front door, Peck stared into the fire and choked back a tear.

In the hospital lounge, McCoy listened carefully as Peck described his nightmarish attack on the floor of Deb Robertson’s bedroom. Every few seconds, McCoy scribbled a note on a pad and nodded his head.

When Peck was finished, McCoy stood up. “Let’s go out back.”

Peck followed McCoy to an examination room. “Take you shirt off and have a seat,” McCoy said.

Peck removed his shirt and tee shirt and sat on the examination table. McCoy picked up a small flashlight. “Open your mouth, Dave.”

For fifteen minutes, McCoy examined Peck. Blood pressure, heart, pulse rate, ears, nose and throat, reflexes, he checked it all and even felt for tumors.

“Put your shirt on,” McCoy said when he was finished.

Peck reached for his tee shirt. “Well?”

“I don’t know,” McCoy confessed.

“You don’t know?”

“I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker, Dave.”

“But something must have caused that? I didn’t wind up with my head in the toilet for no reason.”

“There’s a reason,” McCoy confessed. “There always is. I just don’t know what it is at the moment.”

Peck slipped his shirt on and tucked it into his pants.

“Look,” McCoy said. “Other than your blood pressure being slightly elevated at the moment, and that’s understandable, you’re tip top. I see no cause for alarm, but I’m going to call Maine Medical Center and schedule an appointment with a neurologist.”

“A neurologist? Why, what do you think is wrong with me?”

“I don’t think anything is wrong with you,” McCoy said. “That’s the problem.”

“What about those pills you gave me?” Peck said.

“I’ve got something stronger, but I don’t want you to take it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Peck allowed himself a tiny smile. “Define necessary.”

McCoy responded with a smile of his own. “Your head in the toilet qualifies.”

Seated behind his desk, Peck looked at Kranston, who occupied the chair opposite him. Both men were silent, lost in thought. The only noise in the room it seamed was the sound of Kranston’s constant gum chewing.

“You look tired, Ed,” Peck finally said.

“I am, but not nearly as much as you.”

Peck glanced at his watch. “It’s four in the afternoon and there’s nothing more we can do right now. Why don’t you go home?”

“Why don’t you?”

Peck stood up from behind the desk, walked to the woodstove and fueled the fire with several heavy logs. He stirred things around with a poker until the logs caught fire.

Returning to his desk, Peck said, “This is home, for now. At least until the state police call us back.”

Kranston sighed to himself. “I could use a drink.”

Peck opened a desk drawer and produced the bottle of scotch. “One finger or two?”

“Better make it three.”

Peck opened the bottle and poured scotch into two plastic cups. “Three it is.”

Kranston tossed the gum into the trashcan, picked up his cup and took a sip. “I feel rather guilty, sitting here by a warm fire, drinking scotch. Safe, while two women are dead.”

“Feeling guilty won’t help,” Peck said. “It only gets in the way and makes matters worse by fogging your judgment. It is best to keep your mind free of guilt, anger or anything else until he’s caught. There’s plenty of time afterwards for that.”

“That’s right,” Kranston said, respectfully. “I keep forgetting this isn’t your first murder case, is it?”

Peck took a sip of his drink as he looked at Kranston. “A homicide cop always hopes each murder is his last. It never is, though. There’s always another just around the bend, waiting to be discovered, hoping to be solved.”

Across the room, the short wave radio suddenly came to life. Static gave way to the voice of Sergeant Goodwin of the Maine State Police.

“This is Sergeant Goodwin of the Maine State Police in Augusta. I am responding to a distress call. Over,” Goodwin said.

Peck and Kranston looked at each other, and then ran to Bender’s desk where the short wave radio was located.

Peck picked up the heavy transmitter. “This is Sheriff David Peck of Dunston Falls. We placed the call. Over.”

“Sorry about the delay, sheriff. Power is out statewide and I’m on generator. What is the nature of your distress call? Over.”

“Sergeant, I need a forensics team and homicide. I have two murders committed several days apart. Over.”

There was a slight pause before Goodwin responded, incredulously. “Two? There was only thirteen in the entire state last year. Over.”

“Last year,” Peck said. “How soon can you send somebody? Over.”

“Sheriff, give me a day to get back to you,” Goodwin said. “I’ll have to make some calls. Over.”

“No more than a day,” Peck said. “I’ve got a situation here. Over.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Out.”

Peck set the transmitter on the desk and looked at Kranston. “He’ll see what he can do.”

Kranston returned to Peck’s desk, picked up his drink and finished it off in two large gulps. “I’m going home, Dave. I suggest you do the same and get some sleep. You won’t be of any use to the state boys if you’re a basket case.”

“I’ll stay here,” Peck insisted. “I’m getting used to the cot.”

“Suit yourself.” Kranston walked to the door, and then paused as if he suddenly remembered something. “I almost forgot. Father Regan is preparing a memorial service for this Sunday. I thought it would be the appropriate time to make an announcement.”

Peck stared at Kranston for several seconds. “Be prepared to answer the question why it took the second murder to announce the first.”

Kranston gave a slight nod of his head to acknowledge he understood, turned and left the office.

Peck sat at his desk and wrote reports for several hours after Kranston left. Experience taught him that no detail was too small or insignificant to overlook or ignore. Most cases come to successful conclusion by a second and third look at a detail detectives dismissed the first time. Once that missed detail became obvious, the detective usually beat himself up for not catching it sooner. Some day, police work would be a more advanced, highly technical science, but for now, it was keen eyes, instinct, experience and dedication. He hoped science and forensic labs didn’t replace those invaluable qualities.

Peck fueled the fire, heated the coffee, and continued to write. Especially in murder cases, the twenty-four hour period before and after the crime are the most important. Once a scene grows cold, the less of a chance there is in solving the crime. In this instance, both murders were outside the window of solvability. Even the FBI crime lab would have a difficult time analyzing clues and finding a suspect.

Peck was reluctant to admit it, but that meant a third murder would have to occur in order to obtain enough fresh evidence to solve the first two. That was a homicide detective’s nightmare, waiting out a fresh crime scene to solve a previous murder.

To the detective, a fresh crime scene meant new clues and a chance to close a case. To the victim, it meant they were dead.

It was as simple and as complicated as that.

Peck set his pen aside and gently rubbed a spot between his eyes just above his nose. He could not describe the feeling as pain, but pressure as if the area had suddenly swollen. As he sat there and rubbed, Peck’s attention turned to the open door on the woodstove. Red-hot flames danced as the logs crackled. He could not explain why, but the flames appeared nearly hypnotic in their rhythm.

Peck placed both hands on the desk as he continued to stare at the fire. A bead of sweat rolled down his face to his mouth. It tasted of salt. He could feel his heart beating inside his chest and a vein swell on the side of his neck.

Suddenly, Peck was somewhere else, as if he mind was no longer connected to him and left the room. It was impossible, he knew, but he felt as if his consciousness transported him to a place outside of his body and he was beside himself. He could see the flames of an out of control fire raging as if he were standing right before it. There were screams all around him, cries of pain ringing in his ears.

Peck jumped to his feet, but the hallucination stayed with him.

A tiny hand, a child’s hand reached out for him.

Peck felt himself raise his right hand to reach for the child.

On contact with the child’s hand, there was a sudden, thunderous explosion and the vision vanished like a puff of smoke. Drained, Peck fell backwards into his chair.

Sweat ran down his face as Peck tried to gather his thoughts and calm himself. He opened the desk drawer, removed the bottle of scotch and took a major league swallow. Setting the bottle aside, Peck sat and stared at his fingers. He wanted to get up and return to the cot, but his legs felt like lead. He lit a cigarette and felt the muscles in his legs slowly relax. Finally, when he could stand without getting dizzy, he walked to the cot and drifted off to sleep almost instantaneously.

Peck joined McCoy for breakfast at Deb’s diner. News of Deb’s death was unknown to her staff so the mood in the diner was cheerful, more so since the storm broke and the sky began to clear. Conversation was optimistic, almost festive. It was amazing how people came together in a time of emergency and could seemingly almost enjoy that emergency, then take pride that they survived it. Big city and small town people shared that quality across the country, Peck observed, remembering the nuclear bomb scares of the earlier fifties generation.

After they settled in at a table, Peck opened up to McCoy.

McCoy ate a spoon of oatmeal as he listened to Peck describe his nightmarish hallucination of the previous night. If McCoy was surprised at Peck’s descriptive recant, his face showed no emotion.

“I can’t really describe it, Tom,” Peck said. “It was as if I was having a dream and was wide awake at the same time.”

“They did a study after the war,” McCoy said.

“Which war, one or two?”

“Both, actually, but mostly from forty six to forty nine,” McCoy said. “The study was on combat stress. They called it combat fatigue, mostly because it sounded better.”

“I’ve been out of the Army thirteen years,” Peck said.

“That doesn’t matter. You were how old when you were drafted?”

“Thirty seven and I volunteered.”

McCoy spooned some more oatmeal into his mouth and thought for a moment. “The war was hard enough on the young men, a guy your age at the time, it must have been hell.”

“It was hell on everybody,” Peck said. “But, I’m not getting this. If combat stress was behind this… hallucination, why now? The war has been over more than a decade.”

“I’m not a shrink, Dave. I can only guess.”