8

PROFESSOR KENNETH DYE TOOK a long pull on his JD and savored the sharp, smoky bite of the Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey burning and churning its way down his throat before crash-landing in his belly. He had long ago reached the conclusion that the first sip of the day was the best but didn’t mind testing that theory with plenty of other sips and the occasional enthusiastic gulp too, just for good measure.

He slid his frozen dinner into the oven and reflected on the day just past. Not too bad, all things considered. After struggling through that first interminable class in the typically empty lecture hall, he had hit his stride and burned through the remainder of his daily schedule with ease, setting his internal autopilot and noting with pleasure he could remember next to nothing from any of the remaining lectures. Maybe not exactly the classic definition of job satisfaction, but under the circumstances, Professor Dye knew it was the best he could hope for. A dead-end job teaching students who didn’t care, for an employer who thought he was completely off his rocker, didn’t do much for motivation.

As he waited for his frozen fried chicken dinner to bake—Now there’s a mystery, the professor thought. How can it be fried chicken if I’m baking it?—he flipped on the local television news for no particular reason other than he appreciated the background noise. He could have microwaved his meal and been eating it in just a few minutes but why bother? He had all the time in the world, so whether the food was ready in eight minutes or forty-eight was irrelevant to Ken Dye. The extra time it took to cook in the oven would be put to good use anyway, as he could enjoy his Jack a few minutes longer before digging in.

On the tube, the perfectly coiffed anchor gravely informed his viewing audience a water main had burst under Portland Avenue. “The plummeting temperatures,” he intoned, “will cause the water to freeze, making the already hazardous driving conditions even worse. The authorities are advising motorists to seek alternate routes and to stay home unless travel is absolutely necessary.”

“Now you tell me,” the professor groused. His drive home from work, normally no more than fifteen minutes from campus to garage, had taken almost forty-five this afternoon. The streets formed a passable imitation of a gigantic skating rink, with ice building up too quickly for the town of Orono sand trucks to keep pace. Now cars were sliding off roads into utility poles and into each other with alarming frequency and predictable results.

For the time being, though, Kenneth didn’t care. He was home for the evening. He had no place to go and in any event no intention of driving after enjoying his nightly medicinal dose of Jack Daniel’s. The police had very little sense of humor about drunk driving, particularly in a college town, and Ken Dye knew his reputation was already damaged enough without adding the ignominy of a drunk-driving arrest to it.

On the TV, a perky blonde field reporter was transmitting a live breaking news report from the isolated town of Paskagankee, located fifty miles up the road, deep in the Maine wilderness. The woman was dressed in a dark green parka adorned with the station’s call letters and a fur-lined hood which the wind kept ripping off her head. Her face appeared chapped and cold, stung by sleet which seemed to be flying sideways in direct violation of the laws of physics. She looked miserable. Ken wondered whether it was her idea or the producer’s to broadcast the report from outside in the elements.

“This quiet, out of the way community was rocked today with news of the disappearance of fifty-eight-year-old Harvey Crosker,” the reporter gamely shouted into the wind, which howled around the microphone like an out of control freight train. “The missing man was last seen by his wife when he ventured out into the storm this morning to clear his driveway. That was almost twelve hours ago. Massive amounts of blood were found at the scene, and it is feared Mr. Crosker, sick with cancer, may have been abducted.

“This comes on the heels of a savage attack on a local elderly woman’s dog last night. The animal, a full-grown golden retriever, was discovered with its body torn apart in the back yard of its owner’s home.

“Police will not speculate on whether the two events are connected or if they have any leads on Mr. Crosker’s disappearance, but anyone with information regarding the man’s whereabouts is urged to call the Paskagankee Police Department immediately.” The report concluded with a photo of the missing man flashing onto the screen, a telephone number superimposed along the bottom of the image.

This was all lost on Professor Kenneth Dye, though. He was no longer paying attention.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered to the empty house, staring at the far wall and seeing nothing. “It’s finally starting.” In the kitchen, the oven’s timer beeped insistently, informing Ken Dye that his chicken dinner was ready and demanding he do something about it. But suddenly he wasn’t the least bit hungry.