Paskagankee (9 page)

12

KEN DYE PACED NERVOUSLY, glancing out his living room window as the freezing rain continued to fall, building on what had already frozen on the ground and reaching thicknesses of three inches or more in spots. Power had begun failing sporadically in various Orono neighborhoods, and Ken wondered how long it would be before his house was plunged into darkness. He rechecked the candles he had placed around the room, hoping they would be sufficient to ward off the darkness when the inevitable occurred. They might light the room, but he knew candles would do little to counter the darkness in his soul.

The professor sipped his Jack nervously and wondered for probably the thousandth time whether he had done the right thing in calling the authorities. He was almost positive that his hunch about what had been set in motion in the isolated little town of Paskagankee was correct, but Ken Dye was a man who had seen a promising career scuttled and a life ruined by talking about things people didn't want to hear. He had no desire to become a laughingstock again, this time to an entirely new segment of the population.

On the other hand, if he
was
right about the situation developing in Paskagankee, then he really had no choice but to alert the police to all that he knew and everything he suspected. If he remained silent and it turned out he was right, the bloodshed—and there would be plenty of it—would be entirely on his hands, and he simply could not live with that.

Ken took another sip—
be honest Kenneth old chap, gulp would probably be more accurate—
of the amber liquid to calm his nerves and wished the damn police would just get here already. This waiting was the worst, even more so than dealing with the inevitable skepticism and maybe even downright scorn he would encounter from them. The weather was terrible, though, and he thought it entirely possible they wouldn't show at all, at least not today. It was a measure of how little the authorities had to go on regarding the disappearance of that poor man that they were even willing to
consider
coming all the way down here to listen to him in the first place.

He took another pull from his rapidly emptying glass and peered out his front window, and this time was rewarded with the sight of a white and blue Ford Explorer turning carefully into his driveway. On each side of the vehicle were emblazoned the words “Paskagankee Police.” The front tires slid and for a moment Ken was certain the SUV was going to end up in the middle of his front lawn, then the truck gained just enough traction to complete the turn and park safely on the driveway.

A moment later both front doors opened, and a man and woman exited the vehicle dressed in police uniforms. Ken guessed the man might be in his mid-thirties and the woman, who was tiny and didn't fit any stereotype of a police officer Ken had ever heard of, looked considerably younger. He hurriedly topped off his glass and opened the door to welcome the two into his home.

13

“YOU TOLD OUR DISPATCHER you had some important information for us,” Chief Mike McMahon said after introductions had been completed. “I have to tell you,” he continued as Ken ushered them into his living room, “that I expect to be impressed, since you insisted we come all the way down here in the middle of the worst November storm in at least a decade.”

The professor cleared his throat and sipped his drink. He had offered refreshments to the officers but was unsurprised when they turned him down. “I'm sorry about that, Chief McMahon, but if I told you what I had to say over the phone, I'm afraid you would have hung up on me before I even half-completed my story.”

“You're not doing much to establish credibility with me so far,” the police chief told him. It was obvious the two officers weren't in the mood for idle chatter, having just completed a hair-raising fifty mile trek along extremely icy roads. The chief had done all of the talking for the two officers to this point, and Professor Dye wondered what, if any, purpose the young female officer's presence served.

“Let me just launch into it then,” he said.

“Good idea.”

Dye took another nervous sip and noticed a look pass between the two officers. “I know what you're thinking,” the professor said, “and yes, I do enjoy my sour mash. After you hear what I have to say, you might just reconsider and have a belt or two yourselves.”

“Get on with it, Professor, please.”

“Okay. Yes. Well, I came to this country four decades ago to research Native American folklore after graduating from Oxford University. I've made the study of that subject my life's work, and I am convinced it has a direct bearing on what has begun happening in your town right now, Chief McMahon.”

The police chief frowned. “You're saying a Native American kidnapped Harvey Crosker and tore an old lady's dog apart? How? And for what possible reason?”

“No, Chief, that's not what I'm saying.” Dye took another drink with a shaking hand, the whiskey sloshing down one side of the glass. “This is even more difficult than I had imagined,” he mumbled, more to himself than to the two police officers.

“Listen, Professor,” McMahon interrupted, clearly out of patience. “We came a long way in lousy weather because you said you could help with a missing-persons investigation. Is that the case or is it not?”

Dye took a deep breath and said, “Yes, I can help you. Are you familiar with the history of the Roanoke Island settlement in what eventually became the state of Virginia in 1587?”

“I only know what little I learned in school and that was a long time ago. Wasn't that where the English colonists disappeared without a trace?”

“That's right,” Dye answered, nodding. “The leader of the settlement, a man named John White, returned to England to procure supplies when they became scarce. When he arrived back in Europe, he was forced by the British to assist them in their war against the Spaniards. By the time White managed to return to Roanoke, three years had elapsed, and he found that the colony had simply vanished, seemingly into thin air. No trace of any of the inhabitants, either living or dead, could be found anywhere although all of their personal belongings were left untouched.”

“That sounds more or less like what I learned in school,” Mike said. “It's all very interesting, but what does any of this have to do with an ongoing police investigation in Paskagankee, Maine?”

“The geographical area in which your town is located is home to a legend somewhat similar to the Roanoke Island mystery, although much more obscure.”

“Go on.”

“In the early 1800's, when the town of Paskagankee was established, it was nothing more than a tiny village. But back then the town didn't exist in its current location. The original village of Paskagankee was constructed on a piece of land some distance east of where the town square currently sits.”

The chief gazed at Dye quizzically. The professor was glad to see he had at least gotten the man's attention. He continued talking, his drink forgotten on the end table next to him. “The settlement existed in its original location only for a matter of perhaps a year or two, then things started happening to the residents, of which there were only a few dozen.”

Officer Dupont spoke up. “Things? What sorts of things are you talking about?” It was the first time she had spoken since being introduced at the professor's front door.

“Bizarre, inexplicable things,” answered Dye. “Things like animals being massacred in horrific ways. Remember, in those days, animals weren't necessarily pets, they were much more important than that. They were a critical element of survival, forming much of the village's food supply, and so the deaths were taken quite seriously, as you might imagine.

“Eventually, the massacre spread to residents. Villagers began being murdered; their bodies ripped apart in horrifying fashion. The surviving members of the village, and remember there were only a few, abandoned the settlement, eventually picking up stakes and reconstructing Paskagankee where your town exists today.”

Chief McMahon shook his head. “That sounds utterly ridiculous. They moved a whole town because of a couple of ritualistic murders? I don't think I'm buying that one.”

“No, it's true,” the young female officer interrupted. “I've lived in Paskagankee my whole life, up until a year or so ago that is, and there have been stories whispered for as long as I can remember about things happening hundreds of years ago in the area—things very similar to what Professor Dye just spoke of.”

“Okay,” Mike said reluctantly. “But were the perpetrators ever caught? Was the town massacred by Native Americans? Is that what you're getting at? And I still don't see the relevance to our situation today.”

Professor Dye hesitated. “Well,” he said, “here's where it gets a little hard to believe.”

“You mean up until now you've been telling us the
believable
part?”

“Now you understand why I drink,” the professor said with a crooked grin.

Neither of the two officers returned his smile, so he shrugged and continued. “I told you I've studied Native American folklore my entire adult life. Well, my research—and believe me when I tell you it has been extremely thorough—suggests that a deadly confrontation took place in the exact location of the original settlement of Paskagankee. It occurred in the late 1600's between a group of traveling missionaries, working to convert Native Americans to Christianity, and a local tribe of Abenaqui natives.

“As the legend goes, there had been a tryst between one of the missionaries and a young Abenaqui girl, who subsequently got pregnant and eventually gave birth to a baby girl. The missionaries returned to the area a couple of years later, and the young man who had fathered the baby discovered he had a daughter.

“He made the determination that no child of his was going to be brought up as an Abenaqui and somehow attempted to kidnap the child. A vicious battle took place between the missionaries and the Abenaqui villagers, a battle in which nearly everyone from both sides was killed.

“As the Abenaqui tell it, one of the missionaries, who had guns and used them against the Native Americans in the heat of the battle, shot the young mother. Whether it was accidental or intentional depends upon what version of the story is being told and will undoubtedly never be known for sure. In any event, the big lead musket ball ripped through the baby and then struck the mother, basically tearing the infant's head right off her body.”

Professor Dye paused, drinking from his glass of Jack Daniel's. His hand had stopped shaking and his voice was strong.

The chief had been listening, clearly spellbound. Now he said, “That's quite a story, Professor. But I still don't see the connection between a Native American legend from three centuries ago and a disappearance yesterday in my town.”

“Yes, well, I was just getting to that,” Dye explained. “You see, I said
almost
everyone was killed and that is true, but there
were
a couple of survivors. The legend has it that one of the missionaries, the man who shot the mother and her baby, survived, albeit suffering horrific injuries. The missionary, incredibly, managed to walk out of the forest. He was suffering grievously from his wounds but did, in fact, survive and eventually returned to England, never to see America again.”

“And?” said Chief McMahon.

“And there was one other survivor. According to the Abenaqui legend, the medicine man from the doomed village, an ancient warrior possessed of powerful magic, leveled a curse upon the location of the massacre, a curse which allows the spirit of the grieving mother to possess the body of a human host, provided that host spends sufficient time in that specific location. The mother's spirit will then have the ability to use that human host to extract retribution for her child's tragic death.

McMahon looked skeptically at the professor. “Retribution?”

“Yes. People will be torn apart, literally limb from limb, exactly as her child was torn apart. Legend says the spirit will possess tremendous power, far beyond what is understandable either through physics or physiology.

“This legend dovetails perfectly with the events which occurred in the original village of Paskagankee, which had the extreme misfortune of being constructed on the exact location where the massacre had taken place almost two hundred years prior. The young Abenaqui mother's spirit managed to inhabit someone from that town, perhaps more than one person, and caused the horrific deaths of numerous settlers, eventually forcing the panicked abandonment of the town. The granite foundations of some of the buildings from that haunted settlement still exist today. I know they do because I've seen them.

“I believe, in fact I am nearly certain, that you will find this is what's happening now in your town.” Professor Dye looked up at the clock hanging on his living room wall. Nearly two hours had passed since the two police officers had pulled into his driveway.

Chief McMahon studied the carpet at his feet. Ken could see he was trying to decide how to proceed. “You expect me to believe that a three-hundred-fifty-year-old Indian woman is haunting my town?”

“Not haunting, exactly; at least not in the classic definition of the term. Rather, her tortured spirit has taken possession of some unfortunate citizen's body. That person, whoever it is, is under the influence of the curse and is not responsible for his or her actions. But here's the thing, Chief McMahon. The killing is not going to stop until the curse is neutralized. Until that happens, things are only going to get worse in Paskagankee. Much worse, I fear.”