There was still Astrinsky, of course, but de Gier refused to think about Astrinsky. The realtor would fit in later. Right now he had a headache and he had thought enough. The car picked up speed as his foot came down. One last look at Cape Orca and he would drive back to the jailhouse and enjoy supper and have an early night. The commissaris would be coming in the morning and they would have a grand counsel. A sign flashed past, a square yellow sign on a white stick. There was one word on the sign: HILL.
"Too fast," de Gier said and touched the brake gently. The car was skidding. He pressed the brake hard and the car turned around, then around again. De Gier sang. The theme of "Straight, No Chaser." He hummed it over and over as the car made several full turns. He saw the tree coming and he felt the car turn over. For a few seconds the Dodge rode on the edge of its roof, then it fell on its side and rested against the tree. De Gier stopped humming. He turned the key and the engine cut off. It was quiet on the road. A bird screamed further down in a ravine. He could hear a brook gurgle under the ice.
"Shit!" de Gier said. He used the English word. It seemed more appropriate than its Dutch translation. He was upside-down, held by the safety belt. He began to move about carefully and managed to unlock the belt. The driver's door was closed, probably forever, but the passenger door still worked.
He walked down the rest of the hill until he saw a light shimmering through the snow-covered evergreens. He found a path leading to a cabin. He knocked on the door.
"Come in."
"Ah, it's you," Reggie said. "Out for a walk?"
"I just busted the sheriff's department's brand-new Dodge," de Gier said.
"You did?"
"I did."
"Well, come in. An open door is the last thing we want at this time of the year. You aren't worried about the car, are you? That car is insured. Who cares about a police car anyway? To them a car is just wheels. If the wheels go they get other wheels. They waste the taxpayer's money, we pay them to waste it, and everybody is happy. Sit down. Drink?"
"Yes," de Gier said. He knew he should have refused. The fox's brandy was still in his blood. He shouldn't have driven the Dodge. He thought of the excuses. The commissaris had played along with the fox, accepted the suspect's brandy to make him talk. De Gier had played along with the commissaris, but he also liked to drink. He could have left the brandy in the enamel mug. He could have pretended to drink, taken little sips, spat some back. But he had drunk it all. Technically he had caused a total loss while under the influence, although he would never be charged. Technically the insurance company wouldn't have to pay, but it would.
Reggie poured bourbon, a big glass. "On the rocks?"
"Please."
"What are you driving around the cape for? It's dark."
"Lost my way. I was trying to get out."
Reggie grinned. He looked the perfect country gentleman, in his tweed jacket and sturdy trousers. The cabin was rough but comfortable. The fire in the big fieldstone fireplace crackled. The cabin's paneling was old, showing the dull shine of pine that has matured for a hundred years, a deep orange, almost reddish, shine. There were good thick rugs on the floor, and the low bed in the rear of the cabin was covered with sheepskins. The only decorations, hanging from hooks on the low, handhewn tamarack beams, were tools and weapons. A rifle, a shotgun, a bow and arrows, a crossbow, several axes with delicately curved handles, a machete in a gray green canvas sheath, a blowpipe.
De Gier pointed at the blowpipe. "A trophy from the jungle?"
"Sure. The mountain people use them in Vietnam. They tried to teach me, but the poison worried me. I did better with the bow and arrows. The crossbow is American. I've used it on the woodchucks a few times, but it can't beat my squirrel rifle. Come here. I'll show you my real trophies."
De Gier got up and looked out a side window. The view was a small yard with a high fence around it. Reggie picked up a flashlight and pressed it against the glass. "See?"
De Gier saw a tableau made out of barn boards, framed neatly by weathered two-by-fours. The tableau grinned at him out of many small dark eyes. Small skulls, white in the light of the torch.
"Count them."
Rows of ten, five down. Five full rows and the sixth row had only four skulls.
"Fifty-four of the little bastards, and room for another forty-six. When I fill it up I'll start a new one."
De Gier felt Reggie breathing next to him. Reggie's breath was short and sharp, the breath of a man in anger, or in heat.
"Took me a few years to catch fifty-four of them, but I'm getting clever at it now. Woodchucks are the worst threat on the estate. They tunnel and dig, interfere with the roots, and eat the shoots. I had to start the azalea gardens twice over. You hear that? Twice. They ate all the little plants. They would sit up and whistle at me. I swear they even waved their filthy little paws. I always shoot them in the chest. Doesn't do to damage the skull. I need the skulls. But I don't have too much time, and they get busy when I'm busy. In the spring when the garden needs my time. But I get them all the same. Now they rest. They're in their holes, fast asleep. If I know where the holes are I can dynamite them out, but I don't want to do that. I need their skulls. Dynamite blows them to bits, and the bits are deep down in the earth. Another drink?"
"Sure," de Gier said. "Please."
Reggie poured the drink and pulled out the drawer of a bureau next to his bed. "Here, this is the map. See?"
He was whispering hoarsely. His finger pointed at certain areas. The map showed Cape Orca and Jeremy's Island. It had been drawn by hand, very carefully, and colored in several shades of green and brown. Its different hieroglyphics indicated trees and plants and grass. Reggie was explaining, still in the same hoarse whisper, "This isn't a garden, this is an estate. Not as big as the estate the Rockefellers donated to Maine further down the coast, but more beautiful. More love has gone into it, more work. My love. Here are the azalea gardens. I know every plant. There are the cedar trees, and here is the white pine reserve. I've cleaned the reserve myself, I do it every year. I rake and rake, and when I don't want to disturb the pine needles I go down on my hands and knees and I crawl around with a plastic pail and I fill the pail with twigs. The reserve needs a golden carpet and the needles are gold when the sun touches them. And it needs clean moss so that the gold shows up better. I rake the moss with a bamboo comb and sometimes with my fingers. The white pine reserve covers an acre. It takes me weeks to go through it. A few weeks, every spring. The others won't do it. They don't care, they're clumsy. Leroux is good, but only when he can mow the lawn and sit on a tractor. Some of the local girls are good at picking the dead leaves off the azaleas. But they don't see details. And they don't care about the woodchucks destroying their work. They think the woodchucks are cute. Cute. The bloody little bastards. They are bastards, you hear? With their big gnawing teeth and their sharp beady eyes. They never miss a shoot or a bud. There are others. The geese eat the rhododendron flowers, pick them off. They rob an eight-foot bush in a few minutes. They'll jump for the high buds, but I shot the geese a long time ago, every single one of them. The geese are big and clumsy. The woodchucks are quick, and their colors blend with the landscape. Another forty-six and then another hundred. I'll kill them all."
The hoarse whisper had become a hiss. "You hear me?"
"Yes," de Gier said.
Reggie's voice became calmer, but his breathing was still disturbed. He had switched off the torch and was warming his back at the fire. "Sit down, be my guest. Yes, the woodchucks. I can't stand them. Janet hates them too. Tell me, where did your accident happen?"