39

THE FOUR WHEEL DRIVE SUV jounced and stuttered over the trail leading through the woods to Warren Sprague’s open field. The Explorer’s reinforced suspension bounced the vehicle’s occupants in random directions, alternately pulling them tight against their shoulder restraints and then slamming them back into their seats.

Professor Dye, who had not traveled the narrow access road before, sat in the back seat holding his breath, convinced that at any moment the truck would be tossed off the trail straight into a tree trunk. Chief McMahon and Officer Dupont seemed prepared for the rough terrain, though, and it only made sense. The chief had come here just yesterday in his futile attempt to convince the bonfire’s host to cancel the event, and Sharon had already admitted her familiarity with the woods surrounding town from her wild youth.

The nervous tension that Ken had been feeling since seeing the news story about the disappearance and subsequent brutal murder of Harvey Crosker—the very real sensation of a ball of fear growing in the pit of his stomach—was now blossoming into outright terror. He had made every attempt to maintain a calm and reasonable persona, both to assure the two police officers who seemed actually to be giving him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t a stark, raving lunatic, but also in an effort to prevent his nervous system from short-circuiting and maybe stroking out.

Ken watched the trees bounce slowly past the rear window, their branches scraping the side of the car. All the leaves had long since fallen off the trees way up here in northern Maine, and the bare ends of the branches looked to Ken like bony skeletal fingers, reaching for him, grasping, trying to clutch him and pull him into the thick black forest.

If anyone could be prepared for the impending confrontation, it was Ken Dye. He had heard of the Abenaqui legend for the first time as a young child and shortly thereafter began undertaking the exhaustive research that would eventually consume him and become his life’s mission. Ken knew he was ready, although to say he was also scared shitless would not be an overstatement.

He almost wished he understood a little less about what they were up against, like Sharon and Mike did. But wishes were irrelevant at this point. Professor Kenneth A. Dye was the only person who could bring an end to what had been set inexorably in motion here in this isolated and remote town. It had to be him. He could not explain to the two police officers in the car with him why that was the case without putting them and everyone else in even more danger than they already faced.

They deserved the truth, if for no other reason than the fact that now, at the exact moment in time when Ken Dye most needed someone to believe in him and his admittedly unlikely story, he had found two people who did. Oh, they were skeptical, of course they were—especially the chief, Mike McMahon—and why wouldn’t they be? Ken had no solid proof to offer in support of his hypothesis, but the fact that the evidence in the two murders pointed to nothing the police could quantify in terms of traditional crime-solving, surely helped his case.

In any event, Ken knew he owed a debt of gratitude to the man and woman sharing the car with him tonight; a debt he could never repay. He tried to clear his head and told himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Becoming dewy-eyed and sentimental would be a mistake, one that would likely end up getting more people killed. Focus, he told himself, and just do your best to bring this thing to a successful conclusion.

The vehicle crept along the rutted path leading through the woods. Outside the windows the fog seemed alive, writhing and dancing, thick as soup in one area and then, tantalizingly, nearly nonexistent in the next. The forecast called for temperatures continuing to moderate through the night and into tomorrow, so the likelihood of the fog lessening was slim. In fact, conditions would probably worsen.

The tension inside the Explorer was palpable. Silence reigned as each member of the little group concentrated on his or her own thoughts and, Ken assumed, fears. At last the vehicle slid through a small opening in the forest and burst into the massive, open field. The heavy fog refracted the truck’s headlights unpredictably, making it even more difficult to see out here than it had been while they were driving along the path through the forest, where the trees looming on both sides of the trail had focused the light more or less straight ahead along the trail.

From the back seat, Ken could vaguely discern the shadowy, boxy shapes of vehicles ahead and to their right. Mike turned the SUV in that direction and crept along the edge of the trees. Rows of parked cars came into focus, and the chief nosed into the first available spot.

The three climbed out of the vehicle and fell in behind a cluster of teens who seemed to know where they were going. Mike clearly had no clue which direction would lead them to the big bonfire, and Sharon, although she had attended the event many times as a youth, admitted she really didn’t remember enough about those visits to be able to point them in the right direction with any degree of confidence.

Ken hoped the kids in front of them were headed toward the bonfire and not out into the woods to do whatever it was teens around here did in the woods. He assumed the presence of two uniformed Paskagankee Police officers a few feet behind them would be motivation enough to move in the direction of the huge mountain of timber—at least until they could ditch the cops—and apparently it was. After slogging along for a few minutes he began to see the unfocused yellow haze of the gigantic pile of burning brush and trees.

The sound of voices grew louder and soon the group broke through enough of the fog to take in the impressive sight of the twenty foot high pile, brightly ablaze with dancing flames. The fire had clearly been lit only a few minutes ago, as the entire pile of debris had not even caught yet. Sharon had said Sprague traditionally threw the first match into his bonfire at seven p.m. sharp, and it was just a few minutes past seven now.

Ken gaped in open amazement at the number of people milling around the bonfire, here in the chill of a late-November northern Maine evening. He had no idea what the population of Paskagankee was—One thousand? Three thousand? Five thousand?—but whatever the number, it seemed clear that a large percentage of those people had decided to brave the pervading dampness of the thick fog as well as the hazardous driving conditions to come here and enjoy the community celebration.

Townspeople gathered in various sized groups, some holding large paper cups, presumably containing generous helpings of the hard cider Warren Sprague had promised Mike McMahon, all chatting and gossiping amiably, occasionally breaking out in raucous laughter. The recent murders of Harvey Crosker and the unlucky stranger passing through town during the height of the storm dominated the conversation, but if anyone felt concerned about his or her safety this evening, they weren’t saying so, at least not loudly enough for Ken Dye to hear it.

Professor Dye and the two police officers stopped at the bonfire, now rapidly gaining in intensity, to warm their hands. Chief McMahon handed Ken and Sharon portable radios with explicit instructions for both of them to check in at least every fifteen minutes. The original plan had been for Ken to patrol with Mike, but he was able to talk the chief out of forcing them to stay together, pointing out that the professor was the one probably the least at risk, since he knew best what they were up against.

The fire grew bright and hot as the interior of the gigantic pile of brush and debris began to smolder and finally catch. The intense heat pushed the small group back a couple of paces as Chief McMahon gave them his final instructions. “Make your outer perimeter the farthest group of people that you can observe. I don’t want you exposing yourself when you’re alone, especially considering the restricted the visibility. And DON’T forget to check in every fifteen minutes.”

“How many officers do you have in the area?” Ken asked the chief.

“We have one stationed at each end of the access road, if you can call it that, as well as two officers walking around in plain clothes. I’ll be in touch with them on a separate radio. Also, the two State Police investigators volunteered to help out tonight before leaving for Portland in the morning, so they’re here somewhere, too.”

Ken couldn’t help but notice the disdain in the chief’s voice as he referenced his State Police counterparts. He tried to mask it, but it was definitely there.

The chief rubbed his hands together and then slid them into a pair of fur-lined leather gloves. “Are we all set?”

Both Ken and Sharon nodded, and Mike said, “Let’s get started, then,” and walked away from the fire. The thick, swirling fog enveloped his receding form almost immediately, and he was gone.