Dead to the World Read online

  Dead to the World

  B.D. Smith

  © Copyright B.D. Smith 2021

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2021 by B.D. Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-811-5

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  For fans of B.D. Smith, please check out our recommended titles

  for your next great read!

  The Doug Bateman Mystery series:

  The Ice Maiden

  Black Frog

  Dead to the Word

  “The Ice Maiden deserves a spot

  at or near the top of your reading list.”

  – Best Thrillers

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Sebec Lake Map

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  BRW Info

  1.

  It was karaoke night at the Bear’s Den. Outside, the parking lot was overflowing with snowmobiles and pickups. A few couples were seated in the restaurant, eating a late dinner under the watchful eye of taxidermy gazing down from the walls. The tavern room, in the back, was full of Thursday night revelers. A few were celebrating the extension of the ice fishing season from the ides of March to the end of the month, but most of the tables and booths were crowded by sledders looking forward to an upcoming weekend of fun. The central Maine networks of snowmobile trails around the town of Dover-Foxcroft was in excellent shape, thanks to a recent heavy snowfall and frequent grooming by the Piscataquis Valley Snowmobile Club.

  A minor disagreement between members of two local snowmobile clubs – the Milo Devil’s Sledders and the Monson Narrow Gauge Riders, had flared briefly earlier in the evening, but the combatants had been escorted out to the parking lot and the glass fragments and broken chairs had been cleaned up. Mary Jo Arnold, a regular at karaoke night, had been halfway through her weekly rendition of “Stand by Your Man” when the disagreement had broken out. Unfazed, she had simply sung louder to be heard over the commotion.

  In the far corner, at a small table for two, Don Robertson sat nursing his beer and watching the entrance. Ximena was already a half hour late, but he wasn’t surprised. Ximena was a top selling real estate agent in town, and she was having dinner with a potential client that Don had pointed in her direction some months ago. The interested buyer, a wealthy older man and an investor with Don’s financial consulting firm, was looking at a million-dollar property near Willimantic, at the western end of nearby Sebec Lake. Don suspected that the rich client was smitten with Ximena, and she had warned Don that she couldn’t rush things right now, as a nice fat commission was in the offing.

  Don had grown up in Dover-Foxcroft and he recognized a number of the people in the room. He had moved down to the coast more than a decade ago, and only occasionally returned to Piscataquis County. As a result, while he felt at home in the Bear’s Den, he stood out from the other patrons in a number of subtle ways: His teeth had been whitened, for example, and he sported a $70 razor cut haircut and a $200 fleece from Eastern Mountain Sports in Portland, along with a $700 pair of designer glasses from a boutique eyewear store.

  A big man wearing the uniform of a Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Deputy approached Don’s table holding a half-full pitcher of beer in one hand and a beer mug in the other. Smiling, he spoke loud enough to be heard over the din.

  “Aren’t you Don Robertson? Foxcroft Academy? We were both on the football team back then. I’m Jack Walker. OK if I sit down?”

  Don reached over and pulled the other chair at the table out for him.

  “Let’s see what I can remember Jack – you played tight end and were pretty good, but the team sucked, right?”

  “Ayup,” Jack responded as he filled Don’s glass with beer. “If I remember right, you left Dover right after graduation – went down to the big city and I heard you got rich. What brings you back to shire town after what, it must be fifteen years?”

  “Fifteen years exactly, Jack. But I’ve been back off and on, mostly to visit my folks. They moved into assisted living down in Camden last summer, and I’m thinking about renovating the family camp out on Sebec Lake – probably going to move back permanently.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Jack asked, clearly interested. His elbow slipped off the table and Don realized he had had a few. Don was feeling a beer buzz himself, and he remembered Jack now as having lots of friends and being a huge gossip in high school - always well informed about who was doing what. Looking at Jack across the table he realized that the deputy’s honest interest in what was happening around him had probably been honed into a valuable skill over the past fifteen years, and that Jack had not just randomly wandered over to his table. The deputy was checking out the new guy in town. It was inevitable, Don knew, that people would be curious about his return. Maybe it was a good idea to give Jack an overview of the mid-life crisis that had brought him back to Dover-Foxcroft, with the expectation that the deputy could serve as a town crier of sorts to fill out his profile.

  “Good question Jack. I guess I want to come home and start again. Things down in Portland were great the first ten years or so. Turns out I have a knack for investing – got interested in high school actually – from the stock market club. I worked for a brokerage firm for a few years and then went out on my own. My client base grew quickly and it didn’t take long for me to consider myself successful. I started moving in the right circles, got married to a smart, successful lawyer, and was living the good life. Then about five years ago it all slowly started to slip away, a little at a time. I lost interest in the social climbing, the dinner parties, and the competitive consumption. I even got tired of all the traffic on Route 1, all the tourists, all the strivers looking for the next step up, hoping for the brass ring move to Boston. It just didn’t seem to add up to much in the end.”

  Don noticed that Jack was listening closely and continued his soliloquy.

  “And then a few years ago my life really turned weird. My wife Rosemary got drawn
into a cult-like self-improvement group. It started with her dentist inviting her to a local informal gathering and introducing her to some other members of the group. Soon she started going to their get-togethers, and under the guidance of her dentist, a guy named Lee Lamen, who became her so-called ‘mentor,’ she became obsessed with identifying and cleansing ‘negatives’ or ‘obstacles,’ whatever those are, from her ‘essential soul,’ whatever that is. I mean, these people are into some pretty weird shit. She believed she was making good progress toward ‘ultimate clarity,’ which was their jargon for self-enlightenment, and even signed up for a weeklong ‘multi-layered cleansing.’”

  Don knew it was a good story, weird and a little scary, and knew he had Jack’s full attention.

  “When she returned from being purified, she didn’t really want to have much to do with me, other than pressing me to join in her quest for self-realization. We had a huge argument and her mentor - this Lee Lamen guy, soon labeled me a ‘suppressive person.’ Rosemary was warned that she might be identified as potential trouble if she didn’t cut contact with me. It didn’t take long for her to inform me that ‘disconnection’ was necessary. I got the message and moved out of our condo, which she owned. I haven’t heard much from her since - she’s probably figuring out how best to screw me over when we get a divorce.”

  With a stunned expression, Jack asked: “Just like that? There must have been more to it.”

  “Not that I could see - I figured she had a thing going with this Lamen guy, but I never called her on it.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do – an intervention or something?”

  “I thought about it Jack, but this Lamen guy made it quite clear that any efforts on my part to contact Rosemary or change her mind could seriously hinder her progress toward ultimate clarity, and they couldn’t allow that to happen. He said that I was close to being declared what they call ‘fair game,’ and that I could be targeted for many different forms of retaliation. At that point I figured it was a good time to cut my losses, get a divorce, and make a new start. Almost all of my interaction with clients and investment planning is done online or on the phone, so as long as I have internet, I can run my business from anywhere.”

  Jack filled Don’s glass again and was about to ask another question when Don looked past him, smiled, and stood up. Turning, Jack saw Ximena Lapointe making her way across the room, waving to people she recognized and shedding her snowmobile suit. Patting Jack on the shoulder in greeting, she threw her arms around Don’s neck and leaned in for a kiss. Standing now, Jack slowly retreated to an adjacent table, nodding his head and muttering to himself.

  “Ximena Lapointe – now there’s a very good reason to come home to shire town.”

  Jack and Don weren’t the only customers to notice Ximena’s arrival. She had been an avid runner and cross-country skier since high school, and the brightly patterned leggings and form-fitting running jersey she wore under her snowmobile suit showed off her athletic physique. Ximena noticed a booth opening up and grabbed it while Don went to the bar and ordered burgers and a fresh pitcher of beer. When he returned, he slid in next to her, stroking her thigh with one hand as he poured her a beer with his other.

  “Where were you? I was worried you weren’t coming. I hope you haven’t forgotten what I told you about your dinner companion. He might seem like a harmless geezer with a crush on you – but he’s not someone to take lightly.”

  “Sorry I’m late. It’s not the client. Nigel’s being the perfect gentleman. It was my babysitter. She was late again, and then my sled got stuck on the way here.”

  Don’s hand slid further up her thigh and he leaned in to nuzzle her neck.

  “I was thinking maybe we could head up to the cabin after we finish a pitcher or two here – get away from all the noise.”

  Ximena laughed and clicked glasses with him, her smile bordering on a leer.

  “I have to be home to relieve the babysitter by one or so, but that will give us plenty of time.”

  An overweight middle-aged man with a scruffy beard entered the tavern from the restaurant, taking a seat at the end of the bar. Glancing around the room he noticed Don and Ximena canoodling in the booth. Pulling out his phone he keyed in a number.

  “Hey Wes. It’s Gary. You asked me to call when I got here. Don Robertson and Ximena are in a back booth. They’re looking pretty horny. I’m guessing they’ll be heading out to his cabin soon.”

  Gary listened to the reply and then answered.

  “Sounds good. I’ll be here.”

  Twenty minutes later, as Ximena and Don were finishing up their burgers, Don felt a shift in the room. The Karaoke singer, an older man in a wheelchair, paused in his rendition of “My Way,” as the noise level dropped. Don looked up just as Wes Fuller, Ximena’s ex, slid into the booth, facing them. Conversation had gone quiet at adjacent tables, and Don noticed many of the men sitting at the bar had turned around and were looking toward their booth with interest that bordered on anticipation.

  Fuller was about Don’s size, maybe five ten, but probably outweighed him by twenty pounds, most of it muscle. Ignoring Don, Fuller folded his large hands on the table and focused on Ximena.

  “How ya been X? Haven’t seen you around lately.”

  Ximena did not look up as she whispered to Don.

  “Let’s go Don, I’m finished eating.”

  “Don’t leave yet. I just got here.” Fuller urged.

  Suddenly angry, Ximena looked across the table at Fuller and answered him in a barely controlled voice.

  “You’re a sick man Wes. You need help. I’m calling the cops to report you as soon as we leave. Or don’t you remember the protection from abuse order the court slapped on you? No indirect or direct contact with me is allowed.”

  “That order runs out pretty soon. Don’t be so stubborn.”

  “No way Wes. I requested an extension last week, and now for sure it will be renewed.”

  Fuller leaned across the table and reached for Ximena’s arm. Don grabbed Fuller’s wrist with one hand and cocked his other arm, clearly intending to punch Fuller in the face. Jack Walker, who had stood up from his place at a nearby table, suddenly loomed over their table and placed his hand on Don’s shoulder.

  “No need to nail him Don, he was just leaving.”

  Turning his attention to Fuller, he continued.

  “Wes, in case you forgot, I happened to be in the courtroom when Ximena’s protection from abuse order was issued against you. I’m ready to recount to the court what just happened here, and if Ximena wants to come by and file a complaint I will certainly back her up.”

  With an enraged expression, looking ready to lash out, Fuller pulled his hand away from Don’s grip. The deputy sheriff set his beer glass down on the table and spread his feet a bit, flexing his knees, and smiled at Fuller.

  “What’s it going to be Fuller? We got a cell just waiting for you down at the jail, and Debbie and her team can fix you up a real nice home cooked breakfast in the morning.”

  Staring at the deputy, doing his best to hose him with fear, Fuller finally slid sideways out of the booth and started to walk toward the exit, rasping out a final threat in Don’s direction.

  “You can count on it Robertson –you’re gonna end up a big-time loser. I’m gonna fuck you up.”

  After Fuller had left, Ximena and Don thanked Jack and decided to take him up on his offer to walk out with them. The wind had died down and a light snow had begun to fall. Starting their sleds, Don and Ximena pulled out of the parking lot, waved to Jack, and headed out east of town on ITS main trail 82.

  It was a beautiful night for sledding and the trail was well groomed and smooth - windi
ng through dark green walls of hemlock and white pine. They made good time and reached the cabin, located a few miles downstream from Sebec Village on the Sebec River, in less than an hour. Once inside Don fired up the kerosene heater, placed it in the fireplace for venting to the outside, opened the damper, and lit two large candles on either side of the hearth. Ximena dove under the down comforter on the bed before starting to undress.

  “Jesus Don, it’s fuckin freezing in here. Can’t we have a decent fire in the fireplace?”

  “No way lover. I have this bad reaction to wood smoke. Even a little bit messes up my sinuses and gives me an instant headache. But this cabin is really snug, and the heater warms up the place in no time. Plus, I can help.”

  Don stripped off his snowmobile suit, boots, and the rest of his clothes before joining Ximena in bed. She greeted him with open arms, and entwined, they giggled and gasped as their cold hands explored and the candles flickered in the dark cabin.

  Ximena and Don had been a couple for most of their last two years of high school, but they broke up when he moved down to the coast after graduation. When they ran into each other at the Whoopie Pie festival the previous summer, after fifteen years, there was an immediate and intense rekindling of their attraction. They had lunch at the Mill, and while Ximena called a babysitter for her son and watched the out-of-town throng stream across the Piscataquis River Bridge on their way to the festival, Don got them a room in the boutique hotel above the restaurant. They emerged briefly for dinner at Allie Oops before returning to their room to get caught up on their lives and see how much they had changed over the past fifteen years. Ximena knew immediately that they could have a future together, and by the morning, Don was also convinced. He told her all about his failed marriage and his potential move back to Dover-Foxcroft, and pressing up against him in bed, Ximena enthusiastically endorsed his plans.