Janwillem De Wetering: The Maine Massacre

"A minijet," Reggie said. "Amazing, the police must have money to burn these days."

Janet's quiet voice spoke into the commissaris' ear. "Did the sheriff say a Dutch police officer?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you a Dutch police officer? I believe Suzanne told me so yesterday."

"I am," the commissaris said.

"But you have already arrived."

"So I have."

It was too much of a coincidence. The commissaris wondered how many men were employed by the various Dutch police services. Fifty thousand? More? But what would any of them be doing in Woodcock County, Maine, USA? He smiled. He remembered having seen Grijpstra going into the corridor where the chief constable had his office. What would Grijpstra have wanted the chief constable to do for him? If Grijsptra wanted to deal with the top he would, normally, go via the chief of his own division. That chief was he, the commissaris. So why would Grijpstra have bypassed him?

He looked back. The blue plane was coming down, gracefully. An elegant machine.

"If you like we can go back." Janet Walsh was saying. "Whoever that man may be, you are sure to know him, don't you think so? Wouldn't it be nice for two Dutch police officers to meet in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yes," the commissaris said, "but I won't delay you. I will meet my colleague later on, no doubt."

So they were flying Sergeant de Gier in. He thought a little further. The chief constable knew a number of high American police officers. Amsterdam had become a city of interest, ever since it had been classified a throughport for drug traffic. The chief constable also knew the American CIA chief in the Netherlands. A single telephone call from the chief constable's desk would arrange a temporary transfer for the sergeant. He frowned. Something was wrong. He wouldn't accept official recognition of his own invalidism, even if he was an invalid, even if his rheumatism was crippling him. He didn't need a bodyguard, or a nursemaid. He was traveling at his own expense, in his own time. He felt that he was falling asleep and struggled to stay awake.

"We'll have you in bed soon," Janet's low voice said, "with a cup of good strong tea. You must be exhausted, poor man."

"I am a little tired," he said and fell asleep. His last thought was that he would find a way to deal with the sergeant. It wouldn't do to disappoint de Gier, but he certainly wasn't going to encourage him either.

The blue jets engines roared whole its wheels screamed to a stop on the carelessly plowed and badly leveled strip. The hands of the impeccably uniformed pilot moved over his controls and the engines whined into silence.

"Jameson," the pilot said gruffly and pointed at a weathered sign dangling on a long rusty nail. "One of the world's forgotten assholes. You sure you want to come here, sergeant?"

"Jameson, Maine," de Gier said. "Yes, that's what they said."

"And that's where you are."

The sheriff's cruiser showed its nose between a shed that housed the strip's machinery and office and a corrugated iron hangar, and an old man in a shapeless coat and an old-fashioned airman's leather cap with form flaps seemed hesitant as to whether he should go to the plane or acknowledge the sheriff's high station by opening the cruiser's door. He finally decided to stay where he was and let things sort themselves out. The cruiser inched forward, then suddenly leaped away, coming to an abrupt halt near the small aluminum staircase that the pilot was sliding from the plane. The pilot jumped down and shook the sheriff's hand.

"Here he is, all in one piece."

The sheriff's regular white teeth showed. "You guys spending the night here?"

"Can you put us up?"

"I only have the jailhouse."

The pilot laughed. "No thanks, we have our own jails and there'll be a storm tomorrow. We'll get back while we can.

De Gier waved at the second pilot and tried to pull his stylish short coat closed with his free hand. His suitcase was leaning against his leg.

"You sure you want to stay here now?" the pilot asked, turning back to his plane.

"Sure."

"Okay, it's your party, let us know when you have enough and we'll come and save you-if the weather lets us."

"Get into the cruiser," the sheriff said and whisked de Gier's suitcase off the ground. "It's too cold here-there's more ice than air in the wind. Is that the coat you're planning to wear here?"

De Gier lifted a foot, slipped, and was yanked back upright by the sheriff's wiry arm.

"What have you got under your shoes?"

"Leather."

The sheriff grinned and pushed his guest around the cruiser, holding on to him while he opened the door. As the car moved off de Gier noticed that the sheriff's mustache had become white and that ice had formed on the end of each hair. He felt his own. The icicles tinkled together. He tried to pull them off. The sheriff shook his head. "Don't do that. They'll come off by themselves. Ice melts. What do I call you? Sergeant? The general said that was your rank, how come a general is sending me a sergeant?'

"Sure, sergeant. Sergeant Rinus de Gier."

He had to say it again, since the sheriff had trouble with the sharp G of the surname. "Like getting a fly stuck in your throat and trying to bring it up. You have more sounds like that in your language?"

"A few."

The sheriff's tone was cold, but de Gier hardly noticed. His thoughts were still in the sky. The small jet had moved like a dragonfly, and the pilot had obliged when de Gier pointed at one of the hundreds of islands and circled the conglomeration of overgrown rocks dotted with a few white wooden houses, going so low that they could see the foam break on the waves, rolling in to froth over the jagged shore. The transition from the even routine of Amsterdam's ugly police headquarters and the gray steady rain of Holland's swampy winter that had made his brain sodden and slow to the sudden explosion of clear colors on the American coast had been too quick, and he felt elated but also stunned. One day with nothing but the prospect of thumbing through a file of lengthy reports on events hardly worth noting and the very next day this. He mumbled and the joined inarticulate words sat on the steady purr of the cruiser's engine.

"What's that?" But the sheriff forgot his question as he asked it. They had left the road leading to the airstrip and were on a narrow highway, reasonably clean of snow and mud. A car came roaring toward them, cutting through the double yellow lines in the middle of the road.

"Watch it." But de Gier had seen the car and stretched his legs and held on to the dashboard. A head-on collision seemed possible, but the other car swerved. "Close," the sheriff said and braked and made a U-turn.

"You mind?"

"No," de Gier said.

"Good."

The sheriff had grabbed the microphone stuck close to the shaft of the cruiser's wheel. "Route One, going south, pursuing subject in black Oldsmobile, speeding, possibly under influence, just passed Billy's farm."

The radio responded immediately. "Want any assistance, Jim?"

"Not yet, ten four."

"A little chase. I'll call it off if you're tired. You had any sleep lately?"

"Enough," de Gier said. The cruiser's siren was barking just above his head, short urgent blasts, threatening like the howl of a pack of wolves.

"Motherfucker," the sheriff said.

"Pardon?"

"Motherfucker, must have been going over eighty. There's a fifty-mile limit here."

De Gier thought about the word as he watched the cruiser's speedometer touching a hundred. The low trees on the sides of the speedway had become a continuous fringe of gray green streaked with white where snow clung to the evergreen's needles. The cruiser's purr changed into a controlled roar. The dark eyes in the sheriff's narrow face betrayed no excitement. There was no traffic on the speedway and the only other moving object was the Oldsmobile. The battered rear of the black car was growing. De Gier could see the registration plate, but the numbers were unclear, partly covered by dirt and rust.