Archer Mayor - Tucker Peak

We hadn’t found much then. We had reason to think we’d find a bit more this time.

Snuffy Dawson stood next to me as we watched four officers in white Tyvek suits wrestling a heavy chest away from the far wall of an almost empty room, while a fifth stood by, taking photographs of each step of the process. Snuffy was now the happy recipient of much recent media attention, having held several press conferences in order to explain the sheriff’s department’s hat trick in solving a homicide and a major embezzlement case and in busting up a local drug ring. I noted with satisfaction that he repaid our courtesy of keeping out of the limelight by mentioning our help. It was a political gesture on the part of an old pro, and I was hoping it would be useful in VBI’s future interactions with other departments. That was probably wishful thinking, of course. Other cops would just think Snuffy had brought us in because he was losing his grip.

But it was another small step in our march toward legitimacy. “Have you heard what they’re going to do with Tucker Peak?” I asked him as we waited.

“Their board of directors hired a bankruptcy lawyer, if that tells you anything. There’ll be the usual claims that the world is ending, and then they’ll find a buyer at ten cents on the dollar and they’ll start it all over again. The rich’ll stay that way and the poor’ll find other jobs.”

“We found out McNally’s heart condition was bogus, by the way,” I said. “He printed the prescription label on his computer and filled the bottle with generic saccharin.”

Snuffy snorted softly with disbelief. “Why did he add to the confusion? Burning the pumphouse, blowing the water main, sabotaging the generators? All it did was draw attention.”

“But not to him. It just gave strength to the rumors about how messed up the mountain was-rumors they did everything they could to spread. Gorenstein’s the better talker of the two. He said the plan was to degrade the resort’s reputation, even push it into bankruptcy if possible. That way, the fake heart problem could believably flare up and let McNally leave gracefully, and the finances would be in such a mess that their little shoplifting might go unnoticed. That’s the main reason McNally kept playing ball with the TPL. He needed them as cover. It was a long shot, but he and Gorenstein were hoping to get away with it free and clear-if they had, they could’ve stayed in the U.S., two mediocre businessmen who’d just been targeted by poor timing, bad luck, and in Gorenstein’s case, a slightly soiled name. The burning of the pumphouse wasn’t part of it, of course. McNally had to destroy it so no one would find out the pumps didn’t exist. If Linda Bettina hadn’t been so efficient McNally could’ve skipped adding arson to his list of offenses.”

“What’s Kathy Bartlett going to do with Norman Toussaint?” Snuffy asked after a moment’s reflection.

“Nothing too awful, I guess,” I told him. “There were mitigating circumstances. He’ll probably be on probation forever and owe a small fortune, but I doubt he’ll do jail time. He finally rolled over on McNally, which helped. But the best news for him is that it may have all paid off-the treatments he was paying for seem to be working. I heard this morning that his kid’s turned the corner and might be headed for a full recovery. To be honest, though, I don’t think Toussaint’ll be that lucky. He sold his soul in this deal, and that’s going to haunt him the rest of his life. Too bad McNally doesn’t have the same kind of conscience.”

The chest now shoved aside, the team of four began tearing up heavy floorboards, all of which had already been sawed through to form a perfect four-foot-by-six-foot rectangle.

“Your two wounded deputies okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. Now they have bragging rights and their wives are ready to kill them both. Tough life. Lucky Tony Bugs was such a lousy shot. I bet he wishes you were a better one.”

One of the men dropped into the hole with some rope and disappeared from view.

“I didn’t shoot to wound,” I admitted, although I was happy I had.

A few minutes later, the man in the hole reappeared and handed several rope ends up to his colleagues. He rejoined them up top and they all four pulled as a unit, lifting a human-size, sausage-shaped bundle wrapped in multiple layers of tarp and plastic, much like a poor man’s mummy.

“Well, there you have it,” Snuffy said quietly, “as advertised. At least Tony Bugs gave us that much.”

I looked at the packaged remains of Marty Gagnon, the small-time hood who’d thought himself capable of moving up from simple burglary to blackmailing a mobster whose identity he’d discovered by pure fluke.

“God,” I sighed. “What a species we are.”

Snuffy Dawson smiled. “You gotta love it.”