Stay Hidden by Paul Doiron

Author:Paul Doiron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2018-07-03T07:00:00+00:00

25

The FBI’s recommended method for interrogating a suspect goes by the dubious acronym PEACE. The letters stand for Preparation and Planning, Engage and Explain, Account, Closure, and Evaluate. Ariel had already called me out for my lack of preparation and planning. The rest I’d made a muddle of. Now I left Pillsbury’s house with plenty to evaluate.

I had failed one of the first commandments I’d been taught as a cadet at the Maine Criminal Justice Academy: never let a confrontation get personal. You do that and you surrender all of your authority as a police officer. It’s not just for your sake either. The last thing society needs are thin-skinned cops patrolling the streets who are scared for their lives. Even in experienced veterans, adrenaline can become a lethal drug. Lethal for the person not wearing a badge.

I would listen to my recorded conversation again before I sent it to DeFord and Klesko. Hearing their legitimate criticisms would be easier, I hoped, if I had already identified every time I’d been knocked for a loop by one of Pillsbury’s verbal punches.

On a whim I decided to go searching for Hiram Reed. As Nat’s best friend, he warranted a conversation. His feral temper would likely prove an impediment. As would his double-digit blood-alcohol content. But Hiram was a weaker man than his father, and when you’re splitting wood, you always aim for the crack.

The last time I’d seen the harbormaster’s son, he’d been staggering uphill, away from the village. The airstrip was fogged-in and useless. So where had he been headed?

The Datsun’s engine complained all the way up the incline. The exhaust coughed. Various belts squealed like piglets. I began to wonder if the truck was suffering delayed side effects from the collision with the deer.

I was about to abandon my fool’s errand when I caught sight of a beer can in the roadside weeds. I continued on slowly, concerned that in the impenetrable mist I might roll over the drunken man, passed out across the road.

The fog hung suspended three feet off the ground, too heavy to rise, too light to fall. But in my low beams I could make out the weaving trail Hiram had left as he continued east toward destinations unknown. Soon I’d passed the limp orange wind sock that marked one end of the airstrip.

On the far side of the field was a tall cone of gravel that might have been the leavings of monster-movie ants. In fact, I had come upon the headquarters of the island roadworks. A yellow snowplow, soon to be reattached to someone’s truck, waited for winter in the weeds beside a sand shed.

There were deep ruts between the gravel pile and the shed. Some of the tire prints had been made that morning, since they were filled with latte-colored water. Older, undisturbed puddles would have shown clear.

I paused to survey Maquoit’s impressive Public Works Department. As I eased the brake down, I heard an engine start up behind the shed. I

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