Hawke saw his old friend Patterson sprawled on the steps of a wide covered verandah. He was smoking a cigarette cupped in his hand against the fresh breeze, talking to a young blonde woman wearing the same uniform as the young salt down on the dock. The badge pinned to her blue blouse told Alex this was Chief Ainslie of the Dark Harbor PD.
“How ’bout that, old Hawkeye himself,” Patterson said, getting to his feet and grinning at the tall Englishman. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, son.”
Ten years earlier, Patterson had been flying a single-engine Cessna that had gone down deep in the Peruvian jungle. Shining Path guerillas had shot everyone who’d survived the crash except Patterson. Alex Hawke and Stokely Jones had finally found him, delirious and barely alive. The guerillas never knew what hit them. Hawke had somehow found a way into the impenetrable rainforest, rescued Patterson, and found a way out.
The grateful Texan had given Alex the nickname Hawkeye, not after the famous television series character as many would later assume, but after the great Indian scout of the same name, the man immortalized as the last of the Mohicans.
Tex Patterson was a big man, a shock of grey hair on his head, but with a youthful linebacker’s build under a perfectly tailored navy blue suit. Crisp white shirt, and dark tie knotted at the throat. The standard DSS uniform, slightly modified by the big white Stetson on his head and the shiny black Tony Lama cowboy boots on his feet. And, the small enamelled pin on his lapel.
Under his left arm, in a custom leather holster, hung the “Peacemaker,” a long-barreled Colt .45 six-shooter, circa 1870. Never without his “shootin’ iron,” because, as Patterson was fond of reminding you, “God made man; Sam Colt made ’em equal.”
“Hi, Tex,” Hawke said.
“Howdy, Alex. Awful good to see you again,” Patterson said, squeezing his hand. “Can’t tell you how much I ’preciate you jumping in on this thing, partner. ’Course, I know Conch leaned on you a bit. She’s good at that. This pretty lady right over here is Chief Ellen Ainslie. First officer on the scene. Done a helluva good job keeping a lid on this, so far.”
Hawke smiled at the police chief. “Chief Ainslie, how do you do, I’m Alexander Hawke.”
Alex shook hands with her and introduced both Patterson and Ainslie to Congreve. The attractive blonde chief of police shook Ambrose’s hand, sizing him up, clearly surprised to find the legendary Scotland Yard man up in this remote corner of Maine. There had been any number of surprises in Dark Harbor recently. Alex could see dark blue Suburbans parked along the road, and the house was already crawling with DSS agents.
Patterson placed his hand on Hawke’s shoulder.
“There are four big old rocking chairs at the other end of the verandah, overlooking the sound,” Patterson said. “Why don’t we just let my guys get on with business uninterrupted for awhile, then we’ll mosey inside. Chief Ainslie was kind enough to bring along a big thermos of hot coffee. Let’s jes’ go around to those rockers, and she’ll fill you in on what we know so far?”
“Sounds good,” Alex said.
Once they were settled, the local chief of police did most of the talking. Alex sat back in his rocker, listening to the chief, and admiring the pretty little cove filled with sturdy-looking lobster boats, and small gaff-rigged sloops, and catboats riding at their moorings. The fresh tang of pine and spruce and the iodine smack of salt air filled his nostrils. Most of the early morning fog had burned off, and it occurred to Alex that this beautiful spot was about as unlikely a setting for a grisly murder as one could ask for.
No place is safe anymore. That was his thought when the pretty police chief interrupted his unsettling reverie.
“Should I give them the long version or the short version?” Chief Ainslie asked, looking at Patterson.
“Short,” he replied. “You’ll find these two gentlemen very adept at asking pertinent questions.” She nodded.
“Cause of all three deaths was exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds. The babysitter did it,” Ainslie said, in the most matter-of-fact way she could manage. “Fifteen years old, this kid. She used a butcher knife from the Slades’ own kitchen. Killed the two children in their beds, then waited for Mrs. Slade to return from a dinner over to the Yacht Club. Got her on the stairs. Left it, the knife, right under Mrs. Slade’s body, didn’t even bother to wipe it down.”
“Same number of stab wounds to each body?” Congreve asked.
“Yes,” Ainslie replied, a look of surprise in her eyes. “How did you know…there were fourteen. Does that mean anything?”
“It might, Chief Ainslie. Or, it might not. But everything means something, as you know. Now, Mrs. Slade knew this particular babysitter, did she?” Congreve asked, lighting up his pipe. “Local girl?”
“No. Siri, that is her name, she was substituting for the usual babysitter, who is my niece. A junior at the high school here named Millie. Millicent McCullough.”
Ambrose said, “Your niece, the sick girl? What does she have to say about all this?”
“I haven’t been able to speak with her, unfortunately. Missing. Last seen in the high school gymnasium. She was injected with a tainted vaccine and was last seen heading for home, ill. High fever, nausea, vomiting. Two children have already died from that vaccine, Inspector Congreve. Many are in the hospital.”
“Horrible. Your niece is missing?”
“We have every man we can spare looking for her.”
“I see. Who administered this vaccine, Chief?” Alex asked.
“A woman who moved here about six months ago. Enis Adjelis. She was posing as a nurse from our hospital, Mr. Hawke. The principal immediately called the hospital when the children became ill. Hospital had no record of her. We’ve learned she was the mother of the girl who murdered the Slade family.”
“You have anyone in custody?” asked Ambrose. “Any apprehensions?”
“I wish. They all vanished. The whole Adjelis family. Siri, the babysitter, the mother, and the father, who was a flight mechanic over to the airport. I dispatched Deputy Savalas and two squad cars directly to their apartment after the bodies were discovered. Not a trace of them.”
“Who found the bodies?
“Millie’s grandfather, my dad, Amos McCullough. Millie’s parents were killed in an automobile accident and she lives with Amos. Most nights Millie babysat the Slade children. Dad would bring her out here to the island in his lobster boat. Then come pick her up at the designated time. He arrived a few minutes after midnight to pick up Millie’s friend, Siri. Mrs. Slade’s Boston Whaler wasn’t tied up at the dock like it normally would be. Which was strange since she was never late.”
“She was early,” Hawke said. “I would imagine.”
Congreve nodded and said, “A nurse injecting school children with tainted flu shots would have certainly been a topic of conversation at the supper table. She’s got her usual babysitter out of commission and someone completely unknown out there on the island watching her children…”
Chief Ainslie nodded and continued. “You’re both right, gentlemen. I interviewed all the dinner partners. A Mrs. Gilchrist said she brought up the tainted injections and Deirdre just bolted. Made a pay-phone call, clearly distressed. Hung up, jumped in her Whaler and sped away. Anyway, my dad called me at home at five-thirty yesterday morning and—”
“So Siri used the Slade’s Whaler to get off the island after killing Mrs. Slade,” Congreve said. “That would have been around ten p.m. Long gone when your father’s lobster boat arrived just after midnight.”
“Yes. What did your father do between midnight and five-thirty?” Hawke asked.
“Slept. Dad is pushing ninety and not quite with it some of the time. He went down below on his boat to warm up while he waited for Dee-Dee, sorry, Mrs. Slade, to return from the club. Drank a cup of tea laced with rum and fell sound asleep on his bunk. When the sunlight came through the porthole he woke up.”
“So they had a good six hours at least to clear out,” Patterson said. “Damn. DSS bureau in New York ran down their last known address in New York. Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. Talked to all the neighbors, shopkeepers, et cetera. Totally clean. A model family. Immigrated from Athens four years ago.”
“Citizens?” Hawke asked.
“Yep. Newly minted. Red-blooded illegal aliens with phony driver’s licenses and Costco cards who’d pledged their goddamn allegiance to our flag.”
“Sleepers, Tex,” Hawke said, reaching over and laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
