Archer Mayor - The surrogate thief

Copyright 2004 by Archer Mayor

All rights reserved.

Mysterious Press
Warner Books

Hachette Book Group, USA

237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

First eBook Edition: October 2004

ISBN: 978-0-446-50755-4

GATEKEEPER

THE SNIPERS WIFE

TUCKER PEAK

THE MARBLE MASK

OCCAMS RAZOR

THE DISPOSABLE MAN

BELLOWS FALLS

THE RAGMANS MEMORY

THE DARK ROOT

FRUITS OF THE POISONOUS TREE

THE SKELETONS KNEE

SCENT OF EVIL

BORDERLINES

OPEN SEASON

To Jean-Franois and Genevive DuLac
for the examples you set and the inspirations
you helped ignite

As with all my previous books, this one would never have left shore without the help of a great many people and organizations. They gave freely of their time, knowledge, and expertise and supplied me with the informational gold mine I rummaged through as I wrote. If there are errors as a result of this process, however, go no further than the messenger. The fault will be mine, and not the fault of those listed below. To them go only gratitude and best wishes.

John Applegate

Carol Boone

David Ainsworth

Euclid Farnham

John Martin

Paco Aumand

Von Labare

Letha Mills

Herb Maurer

Evan Hodge

Dana Bonar

Garry Lawrence

Eric Buel

Kathryn Tolbert

Karen Carroll

Richard Guthrie

Robert McCarthy

Bob Kirkpatrick

Kali Erskine

Bill OLeary

Yvonne Shukovsky

Paula Yandow

Karen Carroll

Dan Davis

Mike Crippen

Peter Shumlin

Castle Freeman, Jr.

Julie Lavorgna

Wyn Glover

Peter Langrock

Darlene Littlefield

Tammy Martell

The Brattleboro Police Dept.

The Vermont State Police

The Vermont Forensic Lab

Court Reporters Assoc. Inc.

The Vermont Dept. of Public Safety

The Tunbridge Worlds Fair

Windham Co. SAs Office

The Gloucester Police Dept.

D ispatch to 0-30.

Officer Paul Kinney unhooked his radio mike and answered, 0-30.

Domestic disturbance, 63 Vista Estates. Neighbor called it in. Address listed to a Linda Purvis.

Ten-four.

Kinney replaced the mike and pulled into a smattering of traffic. It was almost midnight, and, even in a town of thirteen thousand like Brattleboro, it was still Vermont, where phoning people after nine and staying up past eleven remained unusual, even slightly inappropriate, behavior.

Kinney was feeling good. It was summer, two days ago hed been released by his training officer to patrol on his own, and he was flush with self-confidence. To his thinking, all that remained was to learn the ropes thoroughly with the Bratt PD, establish a reputation, put out some feelers, and pick from a variety of plum federal jobs, from the FBI to Homeland Security to God knows what. He felt poised before a veritable trough of opportunities.

He headed west on Route 9 into West Brattleboro, the main towns smaller offshoot. Given its less urban makeup, West B played host to a choice of trailer parks, from the seriously upscaleexpansive, complete with paved roads, car parks, and garagesto the barely solvent, where the odds favored Mother Nature repossessing her own.

Not surprisingly to Kinney, the loftily named Vista Estates fit the latter category.

He wasnt concerned. He didnt know this address specifically, but he judged himself pretty adept at handling domestics. Hed studied his FTOs stylean old-timer whod been a field training officer for too many yearsand, as a result, had mostly learned how not to behave. And even though hed handled only a couple of domestics on his own, Kinney was convinced of the merits of his technique. People under stress didnt need a friendly ear. They were secretly yearning for the comfort of a little imposed discipline.

Vista Estates was to hell and gone, almost out of town, and proffering neither vistas nor estates. A trailer park whose assets were better known to the tax courts than to any Realtor, it was a threadbare clearing among some roughly opened woods, crisscrossed with narrow, root- tangled dirt lanes and populated with as many empty lots as decaying trailers.

The one thing the park owners had bothered with, Kinney noted gratefully, was numbering the addresses. He found 62/63/64 without much trouble, clustered together, although only after hed used his flashlight to see better out his side window. Vista Estates had clearly deemed streetlamps a luxury.

Kinney drew abreast of the rough scratch in the dirt ser-ving as a trifurcated driveway, told dispatch of his arrival, and pulled himself free of the car. Before him were two distant trailers and an empty space for a third. The home on the left was blazing with light, its neighbor all but dark, save for a single curtained window.

He drew in a deep breath, both enjoying the cool summer air and preparing himself for the show of command he saw coming, and set off down the driveway.

He considered stopping by the neighbors first. That was certainly protocol. But instinct and vanity pushed him toward the direct approach. Slipping between the pickup and the small sedan parked out front, without checking their registrations, he climbed the worn wooden steps up to the narrow homemade porch and paused at the thin metal front door.

He certainly sympathized with the neighbors complaint. There was a knock-down, drag-out screaming match taking place inside, accompanied by the thumping of inner doors and the smashing of crockery.

Kinney passed on simply ringing the bell and removed his flashlight from the slim pocket sewn into his uniform pants.

He used it to smack the door three times.

Brattleboro police.

The immediate silence was like pulling the plug on an overly loud TV setutter and complete. In its sudden embrace, he felt abruptly and paradoxically defenseless.

The door flew open without warning, revealing a large man with a beard, a T-shirt, and an oversize revolver in his hand pointed at the floor. You get the hell away from here or shes dead. Got that?

Kinney felt his stomach give way, along with his bravado. Transfixed by the gun, he imagined himself as the human-size target he so frequently perforated at the range, and could visualize the barrel rising to the level of his eye, an enormous flash of light, and then nothing.

Instead, the door was merely slammed in his face.

You get away from here or shes a dead person. Thats all he said. He had a gun.

Ron Klesczewski closed his car door and leaned back against the fender. He rubbed his face with both hands, still chasing the remnants of a deep sleep from his brain, before peering into the wary, almost belligerent expression of the patrolman before him.

You got the call? I mean, you were the one this guy talked to? Ron spoke deliberately, hoping to project a calming influence. In fact, being the senior officer here, he felt his own anxieties beginning to roil inside him, a nagging insecurity hed wrestled with all his life.

Yeah. It didnt sound like a big deal from dispatcha routine domestic. I knocked on the door, he opened up, delivered the one-liner, and slammed the door. There was a woman behind him, crying.

Klesczewski took in the tight shooting gloves, custom gun grips, and strained nonchalance and identified a neophytes attempt to camouflage insecurity with accessories. She look all right otherwise?

To his credit, the patrolman became clearly embarrassed. I guess. I was sort of looking at the gun. Thats when I figured I better call for backup.

Klesczewski studied him for a beat before asking, You okay? Did he point it at you?