William Landay - Mission Flats

Behind the hills, thunderheads were drifting in from the west. From the looks of it, we were in for a cold, wintry rain. Leaf-peeping season was over, the tourists gone. Time for winter, time for the ‘hard cold’ to make its first appearance.

A group of kids played touch football on the green, unconcerned by the storm clouds.

On Central Street, Jimmy Lownes and Phil Lamphier were loafing outside the Owl, smoking cigarettes and glancing up at the sky. Jimmy gave us a little two-fingered wave, a Marlboro pinched between his fingers. Before long, he’d be spreading the word that I had returned with a black kid under arrest, and the whole town would be aware of it before supper. That was fine too. It would save me the trouble of announcing the news.

At the station, we moved Braxton into the holding cell. Whatever misgivings I might have had about his guilt, Braxton was still under arrest for murder. Procedures had to be followed.

Then Kelly, Dick Ginoux, and I lingered a moment at the front door of the station.

‘Gorry,’ Dick said, ‘it’s gonna be a gullywasher.’

‘Why don’t you go home, Dick, get some rest. I’ll sit with him.’

‘No, Chief-’

‘It’s alright, Dick. I’ll be alright.’

He gave me an appraising look. ‘Alrighty, Ben. If you say so.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for keeping an eye on things while I was away.’

Dick looked away. ‘I’ll stop by to check on you later.’ Before ambling off, he gave Kelly a little wave that resembled a salute. ‘Officer Kelly.’

‘Officer Ginoux.’

Kelly emitted a tired sigh. ‘Well, looks like you made it back home, Ben Truman.’

‘Looks like.’

‘You want me to take the first watch?’

‘No, Mr Kelly, I think it’s time for you to go home too.’

‘Home?’

‘You’re retired, remember?’

‘Oh, that. Well.’

‘There’s nothing left to do here. It’s Boston’s case now. They’ll pick up Gittens, if they haven’t already. This here is just guard duty. We’ll arraign Braxton in the morning, then the staties will take him away until the trial. Really, go home. It’s alright.’

‘You’ll be alright with him?’

‘Yeah. I’ve seen worse.’

Kelly snorted. He produced the nightstick from inside his coat. ‘Well, take this. In case he acts up.’

‘I can’t take that.’

‘Of course you can. What am I supposed to do with it? I’m retired.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Take it, Ben Truman.’

I took it.

‘Alright then,’ Kelly said, as if relieved to be unburdened at last of that little baton. ‘Alright then.’ He stood there a moment, apparently unsure what to do next.

I told him, ‘I’ll stop by soon, let you know how it all worked out.’

‘I’d like that.’

Kelly went to his car and folded himself into it like a daddy longlegs receding into a crack in the wall. He rolled down the window. ‘It’s a shame, you know. You might have made a good professor someday.’

‘Who says I still won’t?’

He made a knowing little smile then said, with a nod toward the nightstick in my hand, ‘Don’t hurt yourself with that thing.’

Back in the station I pulled a chair in front of the entrance to the back room and stretched my legs across the doorway. The nightstick weighed heavy in my lap.

Braxton said, ‘Just you and me now, huh, Chief Truman?’

By late afternoon the thunderstorms began rolling through. Rain gusted against the stationhouse windows with a snare-drum sound.

Around four I asked Braxton what he wanted for supper. He had barely spoken during the five-hour ride from Boston or in the four hours since we’d arrived.

‘I’ll have a lobster,’ he said.

‘You’re thinking of a different Maine. Try again.’

‘Steak.’

‘Steak? How about like a burger or a sandwich?’

‘I told you: steak.’

‘Okay Steak.’

When the food was delivered from the Owl, I brought it back and unlocked the cell. There was no place to sit in the little hallway, so I sat on the chair inside the cell while Braxton sat on the cot. His steak was gray and cupped in the middle like a recently vacated pillow. He took a bite and grimaced. ‘What is this, moose or some shit?’

‘Yeah, I probably should have warned you about the steak.’

He worked his steak awhile in silence. My supper was better, a turkey sandwich. I offered to trade but he waved me off.

‘Aren’t you afraid I’m going to get out?’ He nodded toward the open cell door.

‘Nah. Where would you go? You’re a hundred miles away from the middle of nowhere. Besides, right now the safest place for you is probably right here in this cell.’

‘Might be the safest place for you too.’

There was a shadow conversation going on here. Braxton had not murdered Bob Danziger. He knew it, of course, and by sitting down to supper with him I signaled that I knew it too. My every polite comment carried the same coded message. What do you want for supper? and How’s the steak? and all the rest were understood to mean I know you didn’t kill Danziger.

Braxton said, ‘Gittens is coming, you know.’

‘I figured.’

‘What you gonna do?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Well, you better think of something, Chief True-Man, ’cause Gittens is already rolling, I promise you.’

‘What would you do, Harold, if you were me?’

‘I’m not you, dog.’

‘But if you were, and Gittens was coming?’

‘Call my niggers.’ He used the word easily. It held no political charge for him.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘You’ve got cops. Call them.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’ My eyes sought out a dusty spot on the floor. ‘It just doesn’t work that way’

‘What about the tall guy? Call him.’

‘Kelly? No. I can’t.’

Braxton nodded — not because he understood, I think, but because he didn’t want to waste his breath on a dumb cop who wouldn’t listen.

‘You want me to call mine, get ’em up here? We’ll get your back, if you want.’

‘No, Harold. No, thanks.’

The phone rang. It was nearly five, daylight faltering. The stationhouse groaned in the wind and rain. I knew before I picked up that it was Martin Gittens.

‘Ben? We have to talk, Ben.’

‘Martin. Talk about what? There’s a warrant out on you. Where are you?’

‘I’ve been investigating. I have something to show you. New evidence.’

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, I think you should see it for yourself.’

I did not respond. For a time, there was silence on the line.

Then, speaking slowly and patiently, Gittens said, ‘Ben, everything’s going to be alright. But we have to stay cool. Stay cool and think. Can you do that, Ben?’

‘Yeah.’ My voice failed. I cleared my throat and said, ‘Yeah, Martin, I can do that.’

‘I know you can. I’ve been watching you, Ben. You’ve been staying cool for a while, haven’t you? Now think. It’s your decision: Do you want to meet me and see what I’ve got, or would you rather I just left?’

‘I’ll meet you.’

In the cell behind me, Braxton said, ‘Don’t do it, dog. Don’t go.’

‘Good decision,’ Gittens said. ‘Why don’t we meet at the lake? We can talk there.’

‘The lake?’

‘Yes, Ben. At Danziger’s cabin. Is that alright with you? Or does it upset you?’

‘No, it doesn’t upset me.’

‘Good. We have to work together now, you and me. We’re a lot alike, you know.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘we’re not.’

Gittens paused, then told me, ‘Come alone.’

By the time I got to the lake, the air glowed with a numinous phosphorescent light. The rain had stopped, and surfaces glistened. In hindsight I suppose the glow was just moonlight slipping between the clouds, which had already begun to scatter. But at the time the night-light seemed faintly miraculous. It seemed to emanate from the lake itself, shining up from the water to illuminate the sky.