Pushing water, p.25
Pushing Water, page 25
“Gord, you see we spared all expense wrapping this, and we’re not letting you leave until we all drink a toast from it, but this is for you, our new friend from the vast and featureless frozen northlands.”
McFetridge tore open the paper to find a bottle of Jameson Gold Reserve. “You give this to me now, after I’ve had too much beer to appreciate it? Bloody Yanks.” Gave the bottle an admiring glance. “Well, we’d better have some glasses, then. One for yourself, too, Jimmy. You’ve been the perfect host.”
Glasses dispensed. Shots poured. Doc raised his glass. “It seems a shame to throw back such fine whiskey, but here goes. To Staff Sergeant Gord McFetridge of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Dogged investigator, raconteur, blue-eyed and square-jawed and everything a Mountie should be down to that Dudley Do-Right cleft in his chin. We’re better cops and men for having known—” Shimp coughed, “better men and women for having crossed paths with you. Slàinte.”
“Wait!” From Sisler.
“What?”
“This is a celebration, right?” Sisler’s pronunciation of “celebration” suggested Doc would have an overnight house guest.
“Yeah.”
Sisler sat back on his stool. Looked at everyone in turn with eyes held open through force of will. “Depth charges?”
Silence for a second. Then Doc and Drew and Jimmy broke up. Shimp and McFetridge looked at each other in confusion.
Shimp had the nerve to ask. “What’s a depth charge?”
Doc pointed to Jimmy, who showed his shot glass like a magician making sure the audience knew there was no false bottom in the box where he’d saw the woman in half. Dropped the full shot into the Pilsner glass with his beer and drank the whole thing down without coming up for air. Finished, set down the glass. Made a ball with his hands in front of his stomach. Pulled them apart with sound effects. “Bwoouussshhhh.”
Doc, Drew, and Sisler looked expectantly at McFetridge and Shimp. “Noooo,” Teresa said. Doc and Sisler gave her looks, paused, and dropped their shots into their beers. Drew went next. McFetridge looked at them, then Shimp, gave a what the hell shrug and followed suit. Doc’s phone buzzed again while Shimp checked her half-empty beer glass, took a deep breath, and dropped in her shot. He reached into his pocket and turned off the phone.
Everyone drank. Shimp got most of hers down.
Hands shaken and backs slapped. McFetridge said, “Before I go we need one last toast. Pour them, Jimmy. Straight up. No naval warfare, eh?” Jimmy poured. “Now give me my bottle before we get carried away.” Tucked it into a jacket pocket amid much ball-breaking. “I’d like to toast the only civil servant among us who doesn’t carry a weapon for protection. We wouldn’t be here tonight if not for his keen eye, faultless memory, and detailed approach to his job. Even if his brother did used to kick his ass on a regular basis, here’s to Drew Dougherty, a man among…” looked at the others, “a rough approximation of men. And a fine-looking woman.” Nodded to Teresa Shimp. “Cheers.”
Everyone threw back the final shots of the evening. Shimp gave a mild convulsion and started for the back of the room. Doc grabbed her arm. She glared at him in desperation. “You really want to put your head in that toilet?” She made it out the front door with three feet to spare.
McFetridge watched her leave. “She’s a real trouper.”
Wilver Faison huddled in the corner of the recess of the old bank at Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street. Hurt like a motherfucker when the bullet went in down low like it did. Now he mostly felt cold. Pookie wasn’t dead, at least not yet, lying there a few yards away, wisps of steam rising from his mouth. Last time Wilver looked at Eddie would be the last time ever after he’d seen the bits of bone and brain on the wall. Heard the sirens and wondered how long it would take them to get there. He felt cold, but not uncomfortable. Maybe a little sleepy. No hurry. They’d get to him soon enough.
CHAPTER 54
Mary Pugliese tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear. Exhaled, fists on her hips. Looked out the big plate glass window at the front of the store. Snow and wind blowing so hard she couldn’t see across the parking lot. Mary understood why Dale’s put the summer clothes out with winter still on the calendar. Still seemed to her Mother Nature made a point of teaching patience every time Mary started the work.
She watched the snow for a minute. Wondered how bad the roads would get. Only a few miles from here to home but Moore Street between Freeport Road and her house on Leishman Avenue had a reputation as a bad hill in an area famous for them. She locked up her brakes a few years ago and slid right past Leishman, then Vine Alley, Kenneth Avenue, and Proctor Alley until coming to a gentle stop against the retaining wall that separated Constitution Avenue from the drop to the railroad tracks. That slope so steep not even Western Pennsylvania engineers dared put a road on it. Newer car and better tires now, but a memory like that has staying power.
The last thing Mary needed was for something else to go wrong. Already a shitty year, and it was only the beginning of March. Mary hadn’t known Monica Albanese or Tim Cunningham any more than to say hello and bullshit in the break room. Still, they both seemed nice. Never did Mary any dirt, or anyone else she knew of. Looked like that asshole might get away with it, too. Whole country was going to hell.
Then there was that shitheel Bob Gainey. Used her like some whore while he waited for money he stole in Canada to find him. At least the cops made it right after they kicked in her door. Nailed it shut for the night and got a crew from Busy Beaver out the next day. Mary never saw a bill. The cop who come by after to apologize—Dog something, big guy—was nice. Seemed sorry for real about kicking it in.
Tedious work, checking each type of garment and style against a list that told whether to mark it down for clearance or pack it up to be shipped someplace even cheaper than Dale’s. Saving anything for next season would be overly optimistic. Dale’s stood on the site of more failed businesses than Mary could remember. Hills, Ames, Steve and Barry’s. At least one more. Business peaked for a few weeks after the shootings—morbid sons of bitches mostly—now even below the previous levels. Mary wondered what the over-under was on how long Dale’s had left and what would come in next.
Something pinged off the metal rack when she swung a handful of slacks on hangers to her arm. Sometime a mis-sized ring fell off when a woman trying on a pair pushed their hands into the pockets to see how they laid. Gone forever when that happened. The woman would notice the ring missing at some point, retrace her steps, but Lost and Found wouldn’t have it yet, still lying in a pile of other stuff people had tried on and not bought. Never an expensive ring, so people didn’t often leave their numbers in case it turned up.
Mary ran her hands through all the pockets fast as a sorting machine after fifteen years’ experience. Found a lump in the third pair. Took it out carefully in case it was fragile. A small lump of lead with what might have been nail polish on it. Mary held it to the light for a better look and knew right away what flaked off wasn’t polish.
She thought of the cop—Newschwinger? Newanger?—who talked to everyone in the break room the first day they reopened. Told them the trouble the cops had taken searching the place, but, a place like this, things got missed. What they should do if they found anything. Mary wrapped the bullet in a Kleenex and went to the Customer Service office to see if Gina Policicchio still had that cop’s card. This might be something.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a solitary occupation that does not exist in a vacuum. I’m not someone who shows his books around before they’re finished, but there are a lot of influences that deserve credit:
Mike Dennis, with whom I share several bonds. Mike’s a good guy, the kind of person who can disagree without being disagreeable, and who will always shoot straight with you.
Western Pennsylvania, for providing such rich fodder. The anecdotes in this book weren’t quite ripped from the headlines, but they all had their origins in the back pages.
Eric Campbell, Lance Wright and everyone at Down & Out Books for their continued confidence and patience.
Eric Beetner for yet another cover that exceeds my already considerable expectations.
Chris Rhatigan, an editor who makes me reconsider things I should have considered one more time in the first place. He made Pushing Water a better book. As usual.
The Sole Heir™, who provided the medical insights needed.
The Sole Sibling™, who provides not only a brother for Doc but a rich cast of friends once removed, in addition to being as good a brother as anyone could ask for.
And, of course, The Beloved Spouse™, the perfect first and last audience, who unfailingly keeps these books, and their author, from going off the rails.
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DANA KING writes the Penns River series of novels, of which Pushing Water is the fifth. His Nick Forte private investigator series has earned two Shamus Award nominations from the Private Eye Writers of America, for A Small Sacrifice and The Man in the Window. His work has appeared in the anthologies The Black Car Business, Unloaded 2, The Shamus Sampler 2, and Blood, Guts, and Whiskey. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers, Private Eye Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime.
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BOOKS BY DANA KING
The Penns River Novels
Worst Enemies
Grind Joint
Resurrection Mall
Ten-Seven
Pushing Water
The Nick Forte Novels
A Small Sacrifice*
The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of
The Man in the Window
A Dangerous Lesson
Bad Samaritan
Standalone Novel
Wild Bill
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Here is a preview from The Lantern Man by Jon Bassoff.
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Detective Russ Buchanan
August 15, 2008
Dear Chief Mickel,
I am writing you in regards to the recent death of Lizzy Greiner. As you are aware, her body was recovered and identified this past spring after a fire destroyed the property that she had apparently been squatting in. As you are also aware, several of her journals were recovered at the scene of the crime, having been kept safe in a fireproof box. Forensics has determined that the journals were, in fact, written by Lizzy. To be perfectly clear, the writings seem to read less as a diary and more as an experimental memoir (intriguingly titled “The Lantern Man”), but given the strange circumstances surrounding her death as well as her apparent knowledge regarding the Chloe Peterson case, they are of particular interest to our department. Following the recent suspension of Detective Kline (who had been assigned to the Peterson case), I have been at the forefront in attempting to ascertain the journals’ relevance and truthfulness.
Despite the hearsay nature of the documents, I have been assured by legal that the journals can be used as evidence, assuming a factual analysis (see Bob Packwood, Applicant v Senate Select Committee on Ethics, No. A-704, 1994). I mention this because after Kline’s initial investigation resulted in a pair of arrests, these writings have convinced me of the necessity to reopen both the Peterson and Greiner investigations. While I understand that it might be painful for many to relitigate these crimes and will not be politically expedient, I still subscribe to the Fraternal Order of Police’s motto of “Fairness, Justice, Equality.” It is our duty, then, to determine the truth and levy justice, even if that truth and justice contradict our original findings.
Of course, there are understandably bound to be concerns about relying too heavily on Lizzy’s writings, especially considering her background. Indeed, she was somebody whose life had been impacted terribly by tragedy and who might very well have suffered from acute mental illness (as detailed by her psychiatrist, Dr. Sharon Waugh). But owing to these many doubts of reliability, I have done my best to corroborate or refute all events detailed in her story. Therefore, as you read through Lizzy’s narrative (transcribed), I have included my own investigative findings (written as footnotes). I have also included other documents pertaining to the investigation, including photos, letters, newspaper articles, and interviews conducted by myself and Detective Kline. I have placed these various documents not in chronological order, but in an order that I feel makes it easier to understand the circumstances and evidence surrounding the crimes.
After reading, I fully expect that you will authorize the reopening of both cases. I also fully expect that you will continue pledging loyalty to our profession’s most sacred entity: Truth.
Sincerely,
(signed) Russ Buchanan
Detective Russ Buchanan
THE LANTERN MAN
by
Lizzy Greiner
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
From the time we were old enough to listen, my father used to tell us the story of the Lantern Man. How he’d been a part of a small crew building an old railroad tunnel back in the 1880s and had gotten trapped deep underground and been left there to freeze to death.1 “Ever since that time,” Dad would say in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “his ghost wanders through the forest each and every night, his lantern bouncing up and down, creating menacing shadows. As he walks, he whistles a single note, unchanging. All the animals take shelter because they know they’re near evil. The Lantern Man doesn’t eat. He doesn’t drink. He searches for children who have strayed too far from the path to keep him eternal company in his cold, abandoned tunnel. He can smell the sweet flesh of children, and so once he finds them he follows them silently, staying hidden behind the boughs of the forest. Eventually, the child is bound to sense that someone is watching her. She’ll look around and say, ‘Who’s there?’ But as soon as she stares into his lantern, he releases a hideous scream and races toward her. Sometimes he strangles her. Sometimes he suffocates her. Sometimes he drowns her. Sometimes he burns her. But always he kills her. And when the forest is empty for too long and he is in need of a fresh soul, he sneaks into town. It is always in the wee small hours of the morning when everybody is sleeping, but if you were to glance out your window at the exact right moment, you might see the lantern bouncing up and down, held by a shadowy figure. He waits, he waits. And when the night becomes completely still, he enters a house through cracks in the windows or gaps beneath doors. Upon entering, he stands there for minutes, sometimes an hour or more, just watching them sleep. Children, have you ever had a terrible nightmare? Have you ever shivered in the darkness? That’s because the Lantern Man is watching you. He’s making up his mind. Should he take you? Is your soul pure? Or does he want another one—the pretty girl down the street? Her mischievous brother? But if he does finally make up his mind to take you, he blows out his lantern first, and then he kisses you on the cheek, just like your daddy would. And your nightmare might end and you might open your eyes, but you won’t see anything but darkness. With black magic, he’s able to trap boys and girls in a burlap sack; then he races unseen back to the woods.”2
While he told these tales, Shannon, Stormy, and I would stare at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. The stories terrified us, of course, yet, strangely, they also provided a kind of comfort, as rituals will do. When he finished telling a story, he would gather us on his lap and laugh and tell us that we would always be safe because if the Lantern Man ever tried to get us, Dad would be waiting with an axe and torch. And so, reassured, we would always beg for another.
Sometimes he told us these stories before bed. Sometimes he told them as we walked through town. One time, while we were eating breakfast at the Golden Burro Café, an old woman overheard him telling us about the Lantern Man’s collection of shoes and toys and teeth, about the body parts preserved in jars of formaldehyde. The old woman should have minded her own business—after all, each father parents in his own way—but, instead, she rose from her seat, flattened out her dress, and walked over to where we were sitting. She pointed at Dad and said, “Why are you telling these awful stories? You’re bound to give these poor children nightmares.”
Dad glared at the old woman through narrowed eyes before a smile slowly appeared on his face. “And I hope I do, ma’am. Children need something to be afraid of. Don’t you think?”
And Shannon and I, at least, were afraid.
Each night, before bedtime, we would duct tape the bottom of our windows and the cracks beneath our shared bedroom door to prevent the Lantern Man’s entrance. Shannon collected nails and sharpened stones and stored them beneath her mattress. I slept with my tennis shoes on, just in case I needed to escape quickly.3
Even as we got older and our father stopped telling us those stories, we still remembered and we were still afraid.
Everybody says that I, more than Shannon and Stormy, take after my father, and I guess I do. “There’s a lot of meanness in people,” he used to say, and I couldn’t help but agree with him. The way Dad looked at things, he’d always been a prisoner of his own life. That’s a hell of a thing. All he ever wanted, he told me once, was to have a real choice. To make his own mistakes. To commit his own sins. But he’d never been given that opportunity. His grandfather, Mark Greiner, was a miner (silver); his father, Dallas Greiner, was a miner (zinc); and so eventually he slipped into that same fate (molybdenum). By the time he was twenty-three, he felt that he was forever trapped in a town (Leadville) that he hated, doing a job he hated more. And while he never told me so, I always wondered if he felt the same way about his family.4
