37

THE KATAHDIN DINER, THE only eatery in downtown Paskagankee and, therefore, normally a very crowded place, bustled with its typical barely controlled chaos at 12:45 in the afternoon. Young waitresses rushed back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room carrying trays piled high with food, from the most expensive New York strip steak dinner all the way down to appetizers, desserts and coffee. The place was raucous with the sound of people talking, laughing, and occasionally arguing. Plates rattled, glasses clinked, and silverware banged against dishes. Mike loved all the activity and tried to eat at the Katahdin as often as he could.

At the moment he was taking a quick lunch break with Sharon, who had rolled up in her cruiser five minutes ago as Mike took the first sip of his coffee. The brew was hot, and strong enough to strip paint. Steam rose off the surface of the mug in great waves that reminded Mike of fog rolling in off the Atlantic. He wondered absently how the hell they could possibly get their coffee so hot and whether the owners of the diner had ever been subject to a lawsuit from some unwary customer taking a big gulp and scalding the skin right off the roof of his mouth.

His coffee musings were instantly forgotten, though, as the petite officer walked through the front door. Sharon looked adorable, even dressed, as she was, like any other cop in the town’s simple police blues. She removed her hat upon entering the restaurant, and scanned the tables looking for Mike, then threaded her way through the crowd, gracefully sidestepping the perpetually rushing waitresses and stopping to share a word or two with several people Mike didn’t recognize.

She slid into the booth next to him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, which surprised Mike. She laughed when she saw his face and said, “I know what you’re thinking, but I grew up in this town. Trust me on this: They’re already talking about us anyway, so I figured, what the hell; might just as well throw some gasoline on the fire.”

“You’re not concerned about what they might be saying about you?”

“No. Are you?”

“Nope. But on the other hand, I didn’t grow up here.”

Sharon laughed. The sound was big and boisterous, not what one would expect from such a tiny woman. “I’m a drunk and this is a very small town, remember? Most of these people have seen me at my worst, sprawled across three chairs at the Ridge Runner at closing time, stumbling around trashed out of my mind. The last thing I’m worried about is that people will gossip about me seeing the handsome new stranger in town.”

“Huh,” Mike said with a frown. “Handsome new stranger? I thought you were only seeing me,” and was rewarded with a punch on the arm.

“Do I have to sit here and starve all day or are you going to buy me some lunch?” she asked, and Mike raised a hand to get the attention of the nearest waitress. He loved how Sharon was always surprising him. Just when he thought he was beginning to get a handle on her multifaceted personality, she would do or say something that came straight out of left field.

They placed their order and the waitress winked at Sharon as she walked away. “I went to high school with her,” Sharon explained. “I’m sure she’d be coming on to you herself if I weren’t sitting here.” Then she changed gears and asked, “So how did your briefing by the big shots from Portland go?”

Mike shook his head disgustedly. “You don’t want to know. It was even worse than I had expected, and I wouldn’t have believed that was possible. They’re going to try to whitewash the whole thing—O’Bannon’s claiming there weren’t any murders at all.”

Anger flashed in Sharon’s blue eyes and she said, “But that’s ridiculous! How are they going to explain away two gruesome killings?”

“Bears,” Mike replied simply.

“What?”

“I know,” he said. “I know. It’s frustrating. You’re preaching to the choir, sister. But never mind that right now, I wanted to talk to you about our new friend Professor Dye.”

“I like him.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Mike laughed. “You two were chatting away like long-lost soul mates five minutes after you met him. But I want your take on his story.”

“My take? What do you mean?”

“Come on, Shari. I know you were listening to him. Don’t you think that whole Abenaqui legend thing is a little . . . I don’t know . . . unusual? Strange? Insane?”

She sat for a moment gathering her thoughts. Mike waited patiently. She reached out absently and took a sip from his coffee cup just as the waitress brought their lunch order—cheeseburger and fries for him and a salad and coffee for her. “Here’s the thing,” she said, picking a crisp piece of lettuce delicately off her bowl with two fingers and plopping it into her mouth. “I’m Catholic.”

Mike waited for further explanation. When none seemed forthcoming he said, “So?”

“Well, think about it,” she said. “Although Catholicism and Native American religions—if you could even call them that—are radically different in many ways, in their most basic forms they do have some things in common. There are grand mystical elements in both that stretch the credulity of non-believers.”

She did it again, Mike thought. Once again she has surprised the hell out of me. “How so?” he asked.

“Well, take for example the Eucharist in the Catholic Church. That’s where the parishioner stands in line during mass to receive a small wafer of unleavened bread from the priest or a designated Eucharistic minister. The bread is blessed and has been transformed into the body of Christ.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Mike said. “The bread represents Christ.”

“No,” Sharon answered, shaking her head vigorously, her short black hair flying around her face. Mike loved it when she did that. “That’s exactly my point. If you’re a Catholic, your faith tells you that the bread doesn’t represent Christ’s body; it actually is Christ’s body. It’s transformed by the priest’s blessing during mass.”

“I’m still not following you,” Mike said, feeling like a dunce and once again remembering why he had had so much trouble in school as a kid. “What does any of this have to do with an ancient Native American spirit?”

“Well, where is the difference between a Catholic knowing the piece of bread he is taking into his body is a tiny bit of Jesus Christ and a Native American knowing that a curse can force a restless spirit to take over a human’s body? Does one require any more faith than the other? And more to the point, if one is possible and credible and accepted by millions around the world as truth, why couldn’t the other be possible and credible too?”

Mike sat back in the booth, his burger temporarily forgotten. He stared unblinkingly at Sharon. “You believe him, don’t you?”

Sharon smiled. She hadn’t forgotten about her salad and was chewing it with gusto. “You believe him too, you just don’t want to admit it to yourself yet. Look at it another way,” she said. “Did you ever read any Sherlock Holmes stories when you were a kid?”

“Why?” he asked. “Are you planning on calling Holmes back from the grave to solve this case? You do realize he was fictional, right?” This earned him another punch in the arm and he said, “If you’re going to do that, could you at least alternate arms so I can have matching bruises?”

She laughed again, the sound full and rich and genuine. “We don’t need Sherlock Holmes, you’re just as sharp as he ever was, and you have the added advantage of being real, to boot. But you haven’t answered my question. Did you ever read any Holmes?”

“Sure,” he said. “What’s your point?”

“Just this. In one of the stories, I can’t remember which one, Holmes supposedly tells Dr. Watson, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

“So you’re saying—“

“There’s no other possibility that fits what we know,” she said, “so why would I force myself to disbelieve the evidence just because it makes me uncomfortable or forces me to think outside the box?”

“But you don’t even seem all that uncomfortable with it.”

“I’m not,” she agreed, shrugging. “Just because it involves a concept with which I’m unfamiliar, doesn’t mean I’m going to discount it or dismiss it out of hand.”

“Fair enough,” Mike said, draining his coffee and picking up the check. “Wow.”

“What?”

“My brain hurts now, thanks a lot.”

“That’ll teach you to ask for my opinion.”

Mike chuckled. “I think maybe I need to do more of that, not less.”

They walked side by side to the cash register at the front entrance, Mike acutely aware of the townspeople watching them pass by. Sharon seemed not to notice. After he paid the check, they strolled out the door, and Shari offered to drive him back to the station, located a few hundred yards down Main Street, but Mike declined. “I need to think,” he said, giving her a quick kiss before she could beat him to the punch.

Sharon smiled, her face lighting up, then slid behind the wheel of the cruiser and drove slowly down the street.