A Dangerous Remedy Read online

  A

  Dangerous

  Remedy

  A Sheriff Matt Callahan Mystery

  Russell Fee

  Boreas Press

  This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, organizations, associations, institutions, locals, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2016 by Russell Fee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

  Published by Boreas Press, Oak Park, Illinois

  ISBN: 978-0-9985119-0-0 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-0-9985119-1-7 (paperback)

  Cover design by Erik Offerdal

  Cover photos © by Erik Offerdal

  E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  For Joan,

  Always

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy.

  —Guy Fawkes

  History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

  —James Joyce, Ulysses

  Prologue

  Once more he practiced in his mind what he must do. It would be quick. When they passed, he would open the car door, call her name, and when she turned, toss the liquid from the jar.

  It was dark, even with the light from streetlamps; and he could not see in the side view mirror the features of the people who approached until they were almost abreast of the car. He had to be sure it was her. He reached down and touched the glass container on the floor between his feet.

  “Patience, Jawad, we will know when she has left the restaurant and is coming.” The older man in the driver’s seat held up his cell phone. “What you do tonight will bring honor to your family and preserve it for generations to come.”

  They had held out to him a chance for greatness and glory in Pakistan. But he must be pure and the reputation of his family unsullied. She had brought unbearable shame to the family. Her brazenness had turned to outright disobedience and rejection of the traditions that kept their community strong in a country that was beginning to despise them.

  The driver’s cell phone hummed in vibration on the dashboard, and its screen lit up. “They have left the restaurant. They will be here soon,” said the driver.

  Moments later, in the mirror, he saw a couple turn onto the street and start walking toward him. The woman was his sister; he was certain. Even at a distance, he recognized her gait and could tell by the lightness in her step that she was happy. She had procured her happiness at the cost of his, and it inflamed his rage against her.

  When she and the man beside her were even with the front fender, he jumped from the car and yelled her name. As the two looked back, he hurled the acid into their faces.

  The rising pitch of their screams cut through the whine of the car’s acceleration as Jawad squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears.

  Chapter 1

  Callahan opened the front door of the cottage just as a faded-blue Toyota Land Cruiser coasted by and pulled into the gravel drive of the sheriff’s station next door. He walked toward the car gripping his mug of coffee and wondered who the hell would need his services at seven o’clock in the morning on a practically deserted island where, he had been assured, almost nothing happened. When he heard the driver’s door thud shut, he yelled, “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here for a job.” The young female voice heralded the appearance of a blond head just above the roof of the Toyota. Callahan watched, curious about the rest of the driver, as the head jounced along the edge of the roof toward the back of the vehicle. What appeared, smiling with her hand outstretched in greeting, was one very attractive girl. She wore tight jeans and a loose-fitting blouse with her hair pulled back in a simple pony tail. She wore no makeup; yet, she had a beauty that needed no enhancement to be breathtaking.

  Callahan slightly turned his head as he reached out to take her hand. Her grip felt firm and confident. Still holding his hand, she leaned to the right and peered at the left side of his face. He heard her utter a quiet “Hmm.” Then she looked straight at him and said, “My name is Amanda Gillespie. I want to be your deputy.”

  She sounded as if she were announcing a fait accompli instead of expressing an ambition, and Callahan almost laughed. “Nice to meet you,” he said, “but your timing for a job interview is a bit off. This is my first day reporting for duty, and I haven’t even opened the station yet. In any case, I’m not in the market for a deputy at the moment. Sorry.”

  “You should be. You need someone who knows this island. I was born here. I know the water and the woods, the beaches and the roads, the outer islands and the weather. I know just about everyone who lives here by their first name and can tell you who’s related to whom and by what degree. There’s not much I don’t know about this place. You need me.” She said all this in one breath as if she had rehearsed it. Callahan suspected that she probably had.

  “Even if I did, I can’t afford you. There’s no money in the budget for a deputy,” said Callahan, starting to step around her.

  She blocked his way and said, “I’ve seen the budget. It’s a public document. The position of deputy has been funded.”

  “If I need one. Right now I need to use that money to modernize the department. From what I gather, the current inventory of equipment is obsolete, broken, or nonexistent.”

  “You need me more. This is what I’ve wanted to do since entering high school. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Please, I could be your best asset,” she pleaded.

  Callahan took a long look at her and then asked, “How old are you?”

  “I’m almost twenty.”

  “That means you’re nineteen. You’re a teenager for God’s sake. You’re too young to be a deputy. Come back when you’re old enough.” Callahan feinted to the left, and as she tried to step in front of him again, he dodged to the right and slipped past her. He quickly unlocked the door to the station, opened it, and then firmly closed it behind him.

  “I’m old enough now. You only have to be eighteen to become a sheriff’s deputy. Check for yourself,” she called after him. “And I’ve passed the state’s deputy sheriff’s exam,” she shouted.

  * * *

  Callahan ignored Amanda’s muffled pleading outside the locked door and set about inspecting the premises. He flipped the light switch. The two rows of hanging neon bulbs that spanned the ceiling flickered and then held, revealing the narrow interior of the station. Empty except for the bare necessities of a functioning law enforcement department, the space gave Callahan the impression of an Anasazi cliff dwelling—mysteriously abandoned and unoccupied for centuries. To his left was a closed door that he assumed opened into his office, and to the right was an open doorway that he guessed led to the detention cells. He lifted the hatch to the counter that separated the work area from the entry foyer and headed for the door on the left. He had guessed correctly.

  The office was even sparser than the rest of the station and devoid of any trace of its former occupant. A me
tal desk and chair occupied its center; a steel safe filled a corner; and a framed map and clock hung on opposite walls. That was it. Callahan sighed. At first, it struck him that stripping the office bare was meant as an intentional affront to any newcomer, like the scorched earth policy of a retreating army. But then he smiled. By ignorance or design, he had been left a tabula rasa on which to make his own mark.

  Three files lay on the desk along with a set of keys, a phone with its message light flashing, and a handwritten note. Callahan picked up the note and read it. It was as unembellished as his office. It merely informed him that the files required his immediate attention and that the keys belonged to the cruiser in the garage attached to the station. The combination to the safe was scrawled at the bottom. The note contained no salutation, no proffer of good luck, and no signature.

  Callahan rolled the chair back from the desk and sat down. Alone, he could shed his disguise. He removed the flesh-colored mask that covered most of the left side of his face and placed it on the desk. A year after the acid attack and after multiple skin grafts and countless hours of burn therapy, he had forced himself for the first time to stare into a mirror. Half of the face he saw had melted like molten wax and congealed into a raw violaceous mass. His left ear was a puckered hole. Two years on and the visage had not changed. It never would.

  Callahan pushed the message button on the phone. A computerized female voice notified him that he had two new messages and that to retrieve them he should press 1. He did. The first message was from a distraught woman who identified herself only as Betty and railed that the animal control on the island was disgraceful, that coyotes were constantly in her backyard terrifying Heidi and Heinz, and that something had better be done and done fast. She left no address or telephone number. The second message was left by an obviously drunk man who ranted that his dinghy had been made off with, and why hadn’t the sheriff found the low-born, treacherous miscreant who took it and punished the bastard to the fullest extent of the law. This caller didn’t even leave his name.

  Callahan hung up the phone and reached for the nearest file. He removed the activity log and checked the last entry. It noted an interview with a Dorothy Parks regarding an altercation and property damage at a party at her neighbor’s house. He returned the activity log and slid the file to the side of his desk. The next file was much thicker than the first, and the activity sheet was several pages long. It involved the investigation of the death of a teenage girl, and the last entry recorded the storage location of a rape kit. According to the log of the third file, a boy had died in an apparent hunting accident.

  Callahan spent the next three and a half hours examining the entire contents of each file and taking notes. When he finished, he got up from his desk, picked up his mug, and started for the cell room hoping that it contained a coffee maker and the semblance of a kitchen. He’d never seen a law enforcement facility that didn’t have a means of producing a constant flow of freshly brewed coffee. He wasn’t disappointed by this one. A two-pot coffee maker stood on the counter next to the sink across from the cell. Beside it someone had left an open can of Folgers and a box of filters.

  Callahan slid a filter into the basket and filled it with coffee until a smooth mound rose above the brim. Next, he poured water into the well, being careful not to splash any over the rim. Then, with a flourish, he pushed the On button and leaned back against the counter to wait for the first gurgle. When it came, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Nicolet County Sheriff’s Office was now officially in business.

  * * *

  Callahan took another sip of hot coffee and sat down at his desk. The warmth and aroma of the brew somehow made his new environment seem intimate and familiar, and he felt himself settling in. He was just about to delve into the file drawers of his desk when the phone rang.

  “Sheriff’s Department, Callahan speaking. How can I help you?” he answered.

  “What the heck is going on over there, Matt? Nearly a dozen people have called me wondering why Amanda Gillespie has been sitting on the steps of the sheriff’s office half the morning,” said Tom Breslin.

  “I’m not sure, but I think I have an idea. I’ll get back to you shortly,” said Callahan.

  “Please do,” Breslin responded and then hung up.

  A week earlier, he had arrived on the island and been met by Breslin at the ferry dock. A large florid-faced man with a wild mane, Breslin had grabbed Callahan’s hand, pulled him to his chest, and slapped him on the back while declaiming his delight in meeting him. Although he had been forthright in his application about the mutilation and its effect on his appearance, Callahan had suspected then that such ardor may have been a cover for Breslin’s shock on first seeing him. When he finally released him, Breslin had gestured toward the dock’s entrance and said, “The interview’s at O’Malley’s just across the street. We’re rather informal here on the island. Hope you don’t mind.”

  At O’Malley’s, Breslin had introduced Callahan to the other members of the Board of Commissioners who were to interview him: Fin Gallagher, the editor of the island’s paper; Hank McDaid, head of the Chamber of Commerce; and Collin O’Donnell, a real estate developer. Callahan had noticed that they made a concerted effort not to look away as each shook hands with him. The interview had continued through burgers and beer, and before the check was dropped on the table, the commission members had voted to appoint him sheriff of Nicolet County, Michigan—a decision that surprised him as much for its timing as for its result.

  Callahan grabbed the note from his desk and walked over to the safe. He entered the combination and opened the steel door. Inside he discovered what he had expected. Laid out on the single shelf were a sheriff’s badge and gun belt with a holstered Sig Sauer P220.45 and a magazine pouch with two clips. In smooth, practiced motions, he drew the pistol from the holster, locked back the slide, inserted a magazine into the well of the grip, released the slide, and engaged the safety. He held the semi-automatic in his hand for a moment and then returned it to its holster. After picking up the badge and pinning it to his shirt pocket, he buckled on the belt. Finally, he replaced the mask. Now he was ready for Amanda Gillespie.

  Chapter 2

  “Well, don’t you look the part,” Amanda said, glancing up over her shoulder at Callahan from her perch on the steps.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Don’t you know? It’s an Irish thing,” she said, standing up and facing him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In ancient Ireland, someone who believed that he or she—Amanda emphasized the second pronoun—had been wronged would sit and fast at the threshold of the home of the person who had caused the grievance. If the alleged wrongdoer allowed the person to starve to death, then the town’s people would consider him guilty of the wrong and shun him for the rest of his life. The tradition survives today. You’ve heard of the Irish hunger strikes,” she said.

  “Well, your ploy is apparently working. A good portion of the town has already called Tom Breslin about you. Come on,” he said, walking past her down the stairs.

  “Does this mean you’re hiring me?” she asked.

  “No. It means I’m going to feed you. I’m taking you to lunch,” he said, heading for the garage.

  “The Arranmore Pub is a good choice,” she said, running after him.

  * * *

  The Arranmore Pub rested on the other side of the bay at the edge of the water. Noisy tourists crowded the booths and tables, and that suited Callahan just fine. Oddly, he’d found that when he was in the midst of a crowd, his deformity drew far less attention. Amanda’s beauty produced the opposite effect. The second they entered the restaurant, all eyes, both the men’s and the women’s, locked on her. She seemed oblivious of the gawkers or pretended to be. A waitress seated them at a table by the window that gave them a panoramic view of the bay. Even with Amanda across from him, Callahan found it hard to resist the scene. The latitude’s slant light deepened the blue of the water, which held the reflected clouds in startling relief, making the bay a silvered mirror of the sky.

  “Who’s Betty?” he asked, turning away from the window and focusing his attention back on Amanda.

  Amanda looked up from her menu, thought for a moment, and then said, “There are several in town and about the same number out of town and scattered around the island, but if you, as sheriff, are asking about a Betty, it’s probably Mrs. Elizabeth Grant. She’s a widow, owns two pugs, Heinz and Heidi, that she’s obsessed with, and a huge house in Pine Dunes on the west side of the island.”