Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(96)
“What reason did he give?
“So that its discovery would gain international attention for his crusade. The navy base is already the preoccupation of conspiracy theorists. He sees himself as the inspirational leader of a vigilante insurrection that will sweep the nation.”
“There’s more to this, Clegg. There has to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if Dyer was put up to this? What if he was goaded along by someone else? He’s already unstable, and he thinks he’s dying of a brain tumor, and so he’s going to be easy to manipulate. Someone tells him he’ll be a world-famous hero if he wipes out all those sex offenders.”
“Who do you think is manipulating him?”
“Russo.”
Clegg’s tone turned sour. “What reason would Russo have had to mastermind something like this?”
“He wouldn’t, which is why he would make such a good middleman. People think those Night Watchmen are just a bunch of tough-talking old drunks. I did, too. But they hated what Foss was doing—bringing ‘human garbage’ to their mountain resort—and his business was in direct competition with Cabot Lumber. When I met Russo at the Sluiceway, he didn’t act like the head of security at Widowmaker. He acted like he worked for Cabot.”
“Mike—”
“I know it sounds crazy, but at every stage of this thing, there’s been one of those Night Watchmen involved. First it was Torgerson showing up outside the SERE school. Then it was Partridge publishing an incendiary column the day before the massacre. I don’t know how Adam Langstrom fits into it all. Maybe Russo told Dyer to kill him as a dry run, to see if he could go through with killing the others. But I think Foss was the real target all along.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“I think you should get some sleep, Mike,” Clegg said at last in a patient, fatherly voice. “Those aren’t accusations you should be making in public without any proof. You’re starting to sound like those conspiracy theorists we were just talking about.”
“If I was one of the Night Watchmen, that’s exactly what I’d hope you’d say.”
“Or it could be that it’s all coincidence, and Dyer is a better letter writer than you think he is.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, we’ll know more in the morning.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Dyer’s manifesto also spells out exactly how he disposed of Langstrom’s body. He says he lashed it to a tire wheel and then pushed it off a bridge over the Dead River. In the morning, the state police are sending a dive team to check out the water under that bridge. You’re welcome to watch them if you’d like.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
I had barely hung up the phone when the door opened and Flotsam and Jetsam rushed into the guest room and began sniffing around my legs. As I scratched their heads, I found myself thinking of Shadow again. Would he be able to survive alone in the wild, after having spent so much time with humans? Yes, he would, I thought. There was something about that animal that made me regret all the times I had scoffed at New Agers for worshiping wolves as magical creatures possessed of special powers. Shadow might not be a deity, but that big brute was a survivor.
The phone buzzed again. This time it was Stacey. I stretched out atop the still-made bed. The dogs jumped up to join me.
“I got your message,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I am now.”
“What happened tonight?”
“I promise to tell you the whole story,” I said, “but first I need to hear how you’re doing.”
“Shitty. You were right. I shouldn’t have gone out there. I saw things—I wish I could unsee them.”
“You need to come home.”
“I’m worried it won’t help.”
“I’m not.”
“You promised to tell me the whole story of what happened to you. Begin at the beginning.”
And that was what I did.
*
The next morning, I awoke early to go watch the state police divers begin their search for Adam’s corpse. Pulsifer was waiting in the kitchen with two cups of coffee. “You’re not going to get far without a vehicle.”
“I figured I’d steal one of yours.”
“Another charge for the disciplinary committee.”
As I had expected, the temperature had plummeted after the snow moved out, and it took us so long to scrape the frost from the windows of Gary’s patrol truck that I needed to pry my fingers loose from the scraper. I never knew the living could also suffer from rigor mortis.
“Do you know what the state does with unclaimed bodies?” I asked Pulsifer.
“I’ve always assumed the ashes end up in the back room of some funeral home. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just something that’s been on my mind.”
We drove in silence back toward Kennebago Settlement, both of us agreeing without saying so that it was too cold for further conversation.
A deputy had blocked the road to the bridge with his car to prevent nosy people from approaching the scene. It was my friend from the other night, the one who had pointed me in the direction of the wounded dog.