Without Warning (18 page)

But he was also funny, with a homespun kind of humor that made his attacks seem less egregious. If you read a transcript of one of his shows, you’d think he was an arrogant, obnoxious asshole. But if you heard his voice reciting the words, you somehow got the feeling that a warm heart existed somewhere in the windbag’s chest.

If he had two defining worldviews, it was pacifism and nonintervention. He was against every war ever; if he was in charge in 1776 we’d still be curtsying to the Queen today. And if we sent a soldier to fight on somebody else’s land, that was absolutely inexcusable. Every dollar of foreign aid, in fact, was money that Sandman would have rather flushed down the sewer.

When I was elevated to chief, Sandman jumped all over it. As a “war hero” in a conflict he had no use for, I was a perfect foil. He pulled out all the steps, making it sound like I was responsible for every innocent victim of every war, ever.

He also claimed that I had less seniority than other candidates, such as Hank Mickelson. He was certainly right about that; I had very little civilian experience at all. Most of my police work was done in the military, then a short stint with the state police, but Sandman didn’t seem to think any of that should count.

In any event, once I got the job, he moved on to other contrived issues worth flogging.

I didn’t know what happened to Sandman; he just seemed to disappear. I wasn’t exactly a fan and avid listener, so I didn’t miss him. He may have had a big sendoff, but as far as I was concerned, he was there one day and gone the next. He wasn’t a young guy, so maybe he just retired.

I called Hank in and asked him if he knew where Sandman was.

He shook his head. “No idea; seems like he’s been off the air a couple of years, ever since that station went religious. You think he could be the ‘talk yourself to death’ guy?”

“He’s as good a guess as any. He pretty much called me every name in the book, tried to stop me from getting this job, and he did it all publicly, within the time frame we’re looking at.”

“I thought about putting a bullet in that sucker a few times myself,” Hank said. “Let me check it out.”

It was about a half hour later that Hank came back and told me that Sandman lived in Bergen, a town about fifteen miles away. “He’s retired,” Hank said. “You realize the son of a bitch is seventy-two? I guess it takes a while to get that mean.”

“Thanks.”

“You want me to call him? Make sure he’s okay?”

“No, I’ll take a ride out there in the morning.”

Hank laughed. “That’ll scare the shit out of him.”

“Good.”

Wiscasset considers itself to be the “prettiest village in Maine.” They don’t hide from that self-characterization, there’s a big sign proclaiming it as you drive in. And while many people who don’t actually live in Wiscasset would probably quibble with that view, the town is actually quite pretty and charming.

Not contributing to the beauty of the town is the Maine Yankee Nuclear Power Plant. It is far from the town center, so most tourists would never see it, or even be aware of it. But the locals know it well, and know its history.

The location for the plant was chosen for a number of reasons, but mostly because of both its fresh water and ocean access. Construction of the plant was completed in nineteen seventy-two, and the company was given a forty-year license to operate. It employed 480 people and contributed close to fifteen million dollars a year in property taxes.

The construction itself had substantial, albeit unsuccessful, local opposition, and as time went on, and the inherent dangers of nuclear power production became better understood, that opposition intensified. A group of citizens of Wiscasset and surrounding areas set out to close it down, but that task was far easier said than done.

Three referendums were held and each one failed, although the opponents did have some success in getting the government to impose stricter regulations and environmental standards.

In the mid-1990s, substantial safety problems were found within the plant, and it was determined that correcting them would be too expensive to justify. The plant was closed permanently in 1997, and it was systematically destroyed, much to the relief of many in the area.

However, when nuclear plants operate, nuclear waste is produced, and that byproduct literally remains dangerous for hundreds of thousands of years. And while the people in and around Wiscasset weren’t thinking that far ahead, they certainly would have loved to have shipped their supply to some waste-loving community many miles away. Unfortunately, those communities don’t really exist.

The federal government made a commitment to the good citizens of Maine that they would get the waste out of there, and then proceeded to renege on the commitment. They paid eighty-two million dollars as penance for their failure, but that did nothing to actually remove the waste.

So it all sat there, in reinforced steel drums, sitting in concrete. Everyone was just waiting for someone to figure out where to put it, a puzzle that they never seemed any closer to solving. Obviously, the material was guarded from terrorist attack, since for it to pour out into the various waterways would spread unimaginable damage for huge distances.

So security was fairly tight, though as with anything else, never perfect. But a trained security detail was on-site, patrolling manually and electronically 24-7.

While it would take a very substantial force to penetrate the barriers and damage the tanks, those barriers only protected the tanks from the perimeter. They couldn’t protect them from where the attack would come.

They couldn’t protect the tanks from the sky.

Steve “Sandman” Childress lived in the woods. I only knew there was a house there at all because of the small number posted on a tree at the beginning of his driveway. Actually, “driveway” might be giving it too much credit; it was just a small dirt path, barely wide enough to fit one car, that extended at least five hundred yards to the house.

The house itself was in the style of a log cabin. In fact, it pretty much was a log cabin, and a nice one. Behind it I could see a lake; it was a setting not atypical for Maine. I could think of worse places to wake up in the morning.

I had called in to the office to tell them where I would be, and gotten out to the house before nine. That way I’d be back relatively early and could spend the entire day working on the case.

Sitting on the porch, rocking in a chair and reading a book, was Sandman himself. He looked up in surprise when I pulled up; based on the location I doubted he got many visitors, or threw many dinner parties. When I got out of the car and walked up toward him, he looked at me with curiosity, but not recognition.

“You must really be lost,” he said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You’re Sandman Childress, right?”

“Are you someone I insulted?”

“That’s for sure. I’m Jake Robbins, I’m the chief of police in Wilton.”

He searched his memory bank for a few moments, and then the light went on. “The war hero?”

“So they say.”

“You going to shoot me?”

“No.”

He laughed a surprisingly appealing laugh. “Well, that’s a mixed blessing if I ever heard one. You like terrible coffee?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Come on in.”

He got out of the rocking chair, which did not seem an easy thing for him to do, and he led me into the house. The inside was what you’d expect from the outside: rustic and comfortable, with a great fireplace.

Once he gave me the coffee, which was in fact terrible, I asked, “Why did you say my shooting you would be a mixed blessing?”

“Because I was diagnosed last week with throat cancer. Ironic, huh? A guy with my mouth will die being unable to talk.”

“What about chemo, or radiation?”

“No thanks. Not my style. What’s the difference when I go?”

It bothered me that I could at one point relate to that, although Katie’s entry into my life may have been changing my attitude.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Have you been reading about the time capsule that was buried in Wilton?”

“Not unless Shakespeare or Dostoyevsky wrote about it.” He held up the thick book he had been reading and showed me the cover. It was
The Brothers Karamazov
.

“Heavy stuff,” I said.

“Literally,” he said, turning it sideways to show me the thickness of it. “But I decided that if I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die smart.”

“I got the feeling you always thought you were smart.”

He shrugged. “That was shtick. I mean, I believed a lot of it, and I don’t think you were the most qualified guy for that job. But the way I said all of that stuff, that was just shtick. Worked for a lot of years, made me stand out. Although around here that’s not so tough to do.”

I told him about the entire situation with the capsule, including the prediction that referred to talking leading to death. “There’s a chance, probably a small one, that you could be a target.”

“So you really might shoot me?”

I smiled. “No.”

“Who else would give a shit about what I said?”

“I wish I knew.”

He poured me another cup of terrible coffee, and we talked about other stuff, mostly football and politics. I found that I liked him, something I would never have guessed would happen based on the radio broadcasts of his that I heard. I realized it was, as he said, just “shtick.”

I was enjoying our conversation, but I knew I had to get back to the real world. He seemed to really relish having a visitor. I guess when one spends one’s whole life talking to an audience, it’s tough when all of a sudden there’s nobody around to listen.

But I couldn’t spend the entire day with him, as appealing an idea as that was starting to be. I was just about to remind him to be careful and call me if he was worried about anything, when the bullet exploded through the window and buried itself in his head.

Sandman died talking. Literally. Cancer was not going to get him; the bullet did that. There was no doubt about it, although I crawled over to him and felt for the pulse I knew wouldn’t be there. Then I began to figure out what to do next.

The shot had come from the front of the house, probably from the woods to the left of the driveway, about two hundred feet away. The shooter was a very accurate marksman, unless of course he was aiming for me. I did not believe that he was; he had other plans for me. In fact, the way things were shaping up, my death before he wanted it would probably spoil his fun.

I crouched down and peered through the window. I doubted I was in much danger; the guy could have taken me out at the same time he took out Sandman. But you never know.

There was really nothing I could do myself, not from that position and in that situation. If the shooter had left, there was no chance for me to find him in the woods and catch him. If he hadn’t left and he was waiting for another shot, this time at me, then going out the front door would be suicide.

My cell phone was not getting service out there in the woods, so I tried the landline in the house. If it had been cut, or for whatever reason was not working, I would have had to make a break for my car, so I could call in for help on the police radio.

But the line worked, even though it would have been relatively easy for the shooter to cut it. It told me that he had left a while ago, but I still had to act as if he was out there. I had to think of my own safety, since it was way too late to think of Sandman’s.

I called into the office, and they patched me in to Hank, who was out working the case. I told him what happened as quickly and accurately as I could, and asked him to have the state police set up roadblocks in the likely places. “It’s probably too late,” I said, “But let’s do it anyway. Also, there aren’t that many roads in here, and very few cars, so see if there are any convenience stores or gas stations that might have outdoor cameras. Maybe we can get some license plates to check out.”

He already knew the address, so I told him to get officers out to the house right away, in case the shooter was still watching me. I also wanted forensics people to come, since we had a murder scene on our hands. They and the coroner would stay back until we were sure that the area was secure.

“Any chance the radio guy is still alive?” Hank asked, which would have influenced how quickly the officers would move on into the house.

“Afraid not,” I said. “Have an ambulance on scene, but the coroner is all we’ll need. And Hank, no press. If they get wind of it, keep them way out of range.”

It took an hour and a half for Hank and a group of officers to make it into the house. They had obviously carefully combed the area, working their way in, so that if the shooter was there, he would have no escape route. As I was sure would be the case, he was long gone.

It was a long hour and a half, probably the longest one I had spent since Afghanistan. I covered Sandman’s body with a blanket, dignity demanded that I do so, even though there were some fibers from the blanket that would be transferred to the body. That didn’t matter. I knew how the death took place and would testify to it.

But I had time to think about the fact that all of these people were dying because of me. In this latest murder, I couldn’t even be sure if he was meant to be targeted that day, or if it were moved up because I came out to the house. I didn’t think I was followed, but maybe I missed it. It felt like I was missing a lot of things.

More people would die, and Katie would not come out of it alive, unless I figured out what the hell was going on. And I wasn’t much closer to doing so than the day we opened the capsule. The only progress we had made since then was realizing that it was all connected to me, and that wasn’t exactly a piece of investigative wizardry.

Once Hank arrived, I told him exactly how it had gone down. “He had all the time in the world to line up his shot,” I said.

“Poor guy. Shitty way to go, in his own house. You got a right to think you’re safe in your own goddamn house.”