“Was it a drug overdose?”
“Gunshot wound to the head. He tried to kill himself last summer.”
Just like that, the fog closed in again. “What? Why?”
“He was an unhappy teenager. I don’t know the particulars.”
“You need to find out,” I said. “I’m betting that there’s a connection between him and Cates. Or a connection between him and Kendrick.”
The sheriff fell silent.
“What is it?” I asked.
Rhine said, “Joey Sprague was a freshman at the University of Maine at Machias.”
My adrenal glands woke up. “Was he one of Kendrick’s students?”
“I’ll find out.”
“See if he was a friend of Trinity Raye’s, too.”
“Can I put you on hold?” said the sheriff. “I’m thinking it might be a good idea for me to send one of my deputies to the Sprague house.”
Ben and Doris Sprague’s little chalet was dark and the curtains were drawn when Chief Deputy Corbett arrived outside their door. The fire road had been recently plowed, and Ben’s truck was gone. Corbett phoned in, asking what to do. He wanted to head over to Bog Pond, where all the excitement was.
Sheriff Rhine told him to suck it up and wait.
The chief deputy was still waiting two hours later when Warden Cody Devoe and Tomahawk followed the scent trail from the hole in the ice, along the edge of the Heath, straight to the Spragues’ doorstep.
By then, it was already too late to alert the Canada Border Services Agency and request that its agents detain a blue GMC with a Fisher snowplow should it attempt to cross from Calais, Maine, into St. Stephen, New Brunswick. Later, the Canadian guards would verify that such a vehicle, carrying a middle-aged man and woman and another man, had been waved through without a search. Like most Washington County residents, the Spragues traveled frequently across the border to go grocery shopping or catch a movie, and they were well known to the Canadian guards on duty. No one suspected that the friendly little couple’s companion was a fugitive from justice.
But the next day, after the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents picked them up, the Spragues claimed they didn’t even know Kendrick was a fugitive.
“Kevin didn’t tell us he was on the run,” Doris Sprague told the men at the Houlton checkpoint, nearly one hundred miles from Calais. “He showed up at our house, saying he needed a ride over to New Brunswick.”
“Why?” asked one of the agents.
“He said a Canadian friend of his had been badly injured in an accident,” said Ben.
“Why not drive himself, then?”
“His truck had a blown head gasket.”
“So then what happened?”
“We drove him across the bridge into St. Stephen,” said Ben. “He told us to drop him outside Charlotte County Hospital.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you wait six hours before returning across the border?”
“We decided to take a moonlight drive.”
When asked by the ICE agents and the Maine State Police detectives why they would perform such a charitable service for a man they barely knew, the Spragues admitted that Professor Kendrick wasn’t a total stranger. He had been their son Joey’s favorite teacher at the university, but they continued to profess their ignorance of any crimes he might have committed. While it was true that their son had known Trinity Raye, his suicide attempt had nothing to with drugs, they insisted. Joey suffered from depression but he would never have taken heroin. Neither of the Spragues had ever seen Randall Cates or Prester Sewall before the night of the blizzard. They had no prior relationships with the dead men, in other words, although they would not mourn their passing. They didn’t know why God, in His wisdom, had chosen to deliver those evildoers to their doorstep in that blizzard, but they swore they had nothing to do with what had happened to Randall Cates out in the Heath.
Prester Sewall had obviously murdered his friend, and then he had killed himself. The facts spoke for themselves.
40
“That’s horseshit,” I told Sergeant Rivard.
We were standing on the south bank of the Machias River in Machiasport the following afternoon. A housewife had glanced out her frosted window, and a beam of weak midwinter sunlight had touched something red in the tidal flats below. It was a bloody, bandaged foot sticking up out of the tacky mud.
Rivard called for the airboat team to extract the body of Prester Sewall from the stinking mire where it had become wedged. Now the two of us, along with about fifty other onlookers-some fellow officers and SAR volunteers, the rest just garden-variety voyeurs-were watching Warden Mack McQuarrie lean over the side of the boat and tug with all his might at the dead man’s leg.
Prester didn’t want to come out.
Rivard tucked a fresh wad of Red Man chewing tobacco in his cheek. “What’s horseshit?” he asked.
“The Spragues’ story.”
Sheriff Rhine had been phoning me with recaps all day. She must have figured it was the least she could do, given that my crackpot theories about Randall Cates’s death hadn’t proven so cracked after all. She’d given me a detailed account of the state police interrogation of the Spragues in Houlton, and she’d listened patiently as I vented my frustration at the roadblock investigators faced, at least until the Mounties hunted down Kevin Kendrick on their side of the border, if they ever managed to hunt him down. She’d even offered to buy me breakfast at McDonald’s some morning.
“Ben and Doris Sprague are lying,” I told Rivard. “They knew damn well that Kendrick was on the run last night, and they knew why. They should be charged with aiding and abetting.”
“How’s the AG going to prove that, exactly?”
It was the same question Rhine had asked me, and I still had no good answer.
“Their son, Joey, was friends with Trinity Raye,” I said. “Both kids had been good students at UMaine Machias, but their grades had gotten worse and worse. That screams drug abuse. Then the Raye girl dies, and a few months later, Joey Sprague tries to commit suicide. What does that suggest to you?”
I answered my own question before he could. “It suggests guilt,” I said. “Maybe Joey bought the heroin from Cates and gave it to Trinity. For all we know, Randall and Prester might have done their deals in the Heath all the time. They might have driven past the Spragues’ house regularly on the Bog Road. Maybe that’s how Joey became one of their customers.”
Rivard was wearing his sunglasses, as always, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but he seemed focused on Mack McQuarrie and the activity around the airboat.
I continued thinking out loud. “I still think it was dumb luck that they got stranded there in the storm. And I don’t think the Spragues recognized Prester when he showed up on their doorstep. His driver’s license says his name is John, and his face was disfigured. That was why they called Doc for help. It was only later, when they came upon Randall in the Heath, that they realized he was the man responsible for one girl’s death and for their own son’s turning himself into a vegetable. You’re a father, Marc. What would you have done in that situation? You could kill the bastard-and no one would ever know.”
I wasn’t sure if my sergeant had been listening until he turned his head. “What are you suggesting?”
“I think Ben Sprague was the one who really killed Randall Cates. He had the means, motive, and opportunity. Or maybe he and Kendrick did it together. I could see Kendrick goading him into doing it. He can be quite persuasive. If the two men were mutually involved, that would explain what happened back at the
