Paul Doiron - Massacre Pond

“Hey, Beautiful,” Matt said to Stacey Stevens.

“My car looks incredible!”

“Do you like it? The guys just finished detailing it.” He turned to the little boy, who had the flat features of the Central American migrants who came to work in the Maine blueberry barrens, and said, “ Diga hola a Stacey, Tomas. ”

“ Hola, ” said the boy. The logo on the T-shirt they were both wearing read BIG BROTHERS, BIG SISTERS OF WASHINGTON COUNTY.

Stacey crouched down so she was at the child’s eye level and held his small brown hands in hers. “Hello, Tomas. Did you have a fun camping trip?”

“Si.” His voice was so soft, I could barely hear it.

“We roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories,” said Matt with a smile. “Tomas even got to swim because the water was still so warm. It was pretty crazy, though, with only four adults and thirty kids. I was up all night taking them back and forth to the outhouse.”

“I’m sorry I had to work, or I would’ve gone with you,” said Stacey.

“Maybe next time.” Skillen suddenly seemed to notice my presence inside the truck. He peered through the open window at me. He had long eyelashes that would have made his face seem feminine if not for the strength of his stubbled jaw. “Who’s that in there?”

“It’s Mike Bowditch,” she said.

“How are you doing, Matt?” I said.

“I’m good, Mike.” He straightened up and leaned his body close to his fiancee’s. “I thought you were going out with McQuarrie today,” he said, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“I got waylaid.”

His nose twitched. “What’s that smell?”

“I’ll explain later.” She flicked her eyes in Tomas’s direction to indicate the story wasn’t appropriate for all age levels.

“I’m going to hit the road,” I said.

Stacey leaned back in through the open window. “Thanks again for the ride. And I’m serious that you’d better call my dad. If you don’t, you and I are going to have a problem, Warden.”

“Understood,” I said, shifting the truck back into drive.

I watched the two of them in the rearview mirror as they walked around the glimmering Outback, admiring its renewed beauty. The little boy held Stacey’s hand. Then I looked down at the passenger seat. Just as Stacey had warned me, she’d left a wet, muddy imprint there in the shape of her ass.

By late October, the sun sets early in Maine. It takes a more southerly trajectory across the sky than it does during the summer. If you happen to find yourself standing in a shadowy north-facing place-a gravel pit, say, surrounded by high walls of pebbles and sand-you might find yourself needing a flashlight by four in the afternoon.

It was my third pit of the day, and I had already collected hundreds of shell casings and cigarette butts. Along the way, I’d discovered ripped bags of trash, plundered by raccoons that had eaten everything except the dirty diapers; a putrid gut pile that had once been the inner organs of a deer before a poacher carved them out; weather-stained paper targets in the shape of human torsos stapled to splintered pieces of wood; thousands of cigarette butts; crushed beer and soda cans; and more used condoms than I cared to count.

I found shell casings from every caliber of firearm known to man amid the litter: a lot of.30-06s, Remington.223s, the two popular Winchester loads-.270s and.308s-but also plenty of handgun shells:.45s and 9? 19 mm Parabellums, 380 ACPs like the kind I used in my off-duty Walther PPKS, 40 Smith amp; Wessons, 357s (both Magnums and SIGs), and more than a few.38s fired from snub-nosed revolvers. Not to mention all the red, yellow, blue, and green shotgun shells. The.22 casings alone were beyond belief. Gravel pits were the places many Mainers learned to shoot, and the guns that beginners used tended toward easy-kicking.22s, either rifles or handguns.

The work had been hard and hot in the direct sunlight. Then the sun dipped below the edge of the cliff, and it was as if someone had opened a refrigerator door behind me. I shivered and reached for the SureFire flashlight I carried on my belt.

I was down on my hands and knees, bagging and tagging yet another assortment of brass shells while carefully avoiding the shards of broken glass that had already sliced a hole in my knee, when I heard my call numbers come over the police radio. I’d left the windows rolled down to clear the fetid bog smell from my truck, but also so I could listen to life happening back in the real world. I’d never expected to hear myself called to a 10–32.

There is a movement across the nation in law-enforcement and emergency-response circles to dispense with the confusing jargon of ten codes in favor of what is called “plain language.” The campaign was yet another outcome of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, when police and firemen rushed to the smoldering towers from far-flung locales and found themselves unable to communicate with one another because, it turned out, different communities in the tristate area used different ten codes. This commonsense movement to speak normally over the radio had not yet reached the easternmost county in the United States, where I lived. Washington County always seemed to be at the ass end of every fad.

10-32: person with a weapon.

I just about leaped into the patrol truck. “Twenty-two fifty-eight,” I said into the mic.

“Twenty-two fifty-eight,” answered the deep-voiced Washington County dispatcher. “Ten-thirty-two in progress at Twelve Jerusalem Road. Shots have been fired. What’s your twenty?”

“I’m about ten minutes away.”

“Then you’re the nearest unit, Mike. Be advised that state police and sheriff’s deputies are on the way.”

“Ten-four,” I said.

I unlocked the Mossberg 590Al from the rack behind my head and set the heavy shotgun on the floor mat. I knew the man who lived at the house on Jerusalem Road. Every law-enforcement officer in the county did, and we’d all made wagers on when this day of reckoning would finally come. If things went as badly as I feared they might, I might need every round in my service weapon and every shell in my shotgun before the night was done.

* * *

Karl Keith Khristian had been born Wilbur Williams on an island in Penobscot Bay. He came from a long line of lobstermen, many of whom spent their entire lives within a hundred miles of their home ports. Unless they served in the military, they often went decades without encountering a person of another race. In my own life, I have learned that there is a fine line between innocence and ignorance. Some of the native islanders I met were the most open and accepting people on the planet. Others were, inexplicably, the most hardened bigots you’d ever want to meet. All you need to know about Wilbur Williams is that he left the island his ancestors had settled eight generations earlier when one of his neighbors adopted two Cambodian girls.

By the time he ended up in the deep woods of Washington County, he had legally changed his name to Khristian and acquired an arsenal capable of repelling any urban refugees from the coming race war, the goose-stepping United Nations troops that were sure to follow, and the zombie apocalypse that would cap the whole thing off. When it came to doomsday prophecies, KKK was an equal-opportunity paranoid. He was a bald gnome of a man with sun-damaged skin and a permanent squint that suggested irritable bowel syndrome or an undiagnosed need for reading glasses.

According to Washington County’s longtime sheriff, Roberta Rhine, Khristian’s devolution from harmless backwoods crank to potential serial shooter was complete the day we elected our first black president. She’d told us to keep a close watch on the old buzzard. My patrols took me frequently past his personal compound. Khristian lived alone in a tiny house, along with his three rottweilers, but the actual residence was hidden behind a plank fence topped with spirals of razor wire. He used the fence as a billboard to promote various political and religious sentiments: