Free St. Albans Fire by Archer Mayor Page A

rows in this fashion, his tension increasing with each flash of his light, when he suddenly heard the loud crash of a door opening far behind him, making him jump.
    “This is the police,” came a shouted, nervous voice. “If anyone’s in here, come out with your hands up.”
    Ledoux swore under his breath. Things were not improving. Hedging his bets between remaining silent and letting out a shout, he turned his radio back on and murmured into the mike, “It’s Leon. I’m in the Ames store. I got him cornered. Block the door so he can’t get out.”
    Instead of the answer he was hoping for, he heard, “Unit calling. I can’t copy.”
    He was about to respond, bluntly and loudly, when a small sound drew his attention. He looked up the aisle beside him, just in time to see a shadow flit past its far opening.
    He gave up the radio and bolted down the aisle. At its far end, he turned toward where the shadow had been heading, assumed a shooter’s stance—one hand holding the gun, the other the flashlight—and shouted, “Police. Don’t move.” He then switched on the light and captured Rick Frantz out in the middle of the room, one hand holding a small canvas bag.
    Damn, he thought, I got you.
    But it wasn’t to be. A split second later, bank by bank, in rapid succession, the ceiling’s rows of fluorescent lighting stuttered awake, causing both Ledoux and Frantz to instinctively freeze, their eyes cast heavenward.
    With the light came a burst of shouted voices, causing them both to whirl and face the side entrance.
    “Don’t move.”
    “Police. Freeze.”
    “He’s got a gun.”
    To his horror, Ledoux saw not one but four of his colleagues on either side of the door, all of them with drawn weapons, half of which were pointed directly at him.
    “It’s me,” he shouted, and waved his hands.
    It was the wrong thing to do. One shot rang out, the bullet thudding into the shelf unit by his head, followed by another, which only elicited a small grunt from Rick Frantz.
    Ledoux spun back in time to see the boy crumple to the floor, dropping his small bag.
    “You stupid bastards,” Leon screamed, fighting the impulse to return fire. “It’s me.”
    He ran over to Frantz’s side, seeing a pool of blood already seeping out from under the body.
    He came to a stop in his stocking feet, holstered his gun in an embarrassed quick gesture, and stared at the end result of his evening’s work.
    “Shit.”

Chapter 8
    GENERALLY SPEAKING, BODIES AREN’T BURIED DURING the winter in Vermont. The ground’s hard, covered in snow, and the expense of dealing with both is too great. Most people attend a service away from the cemetery, comfort the grieving family, and bid farewell to the casket, not considering that the body will spend the rest of the season in cold storage before being quietly interred a few months later.
    Most people were not Marie Cutts, however. Despite the family’s financial misfortune, she was sparing no expense. Her son was to be buried properly and promptly, with no practical discussions being broached.
    The morning following Leon Ledoux’s series of poor decisions, Joe Gunther parked behind a long line of vehicles—mostly pickups—that was tucked against the embankment of a narrow dirt road at the top of a hill. He got out, turned up the collar of his coat against the chill morning air, and made for a small metal gate in the wrought-iron fence ringing the cemetery.
    It wasn’t large, as burial grounds go, but it was perfectly perched on the hill’s very cap, so that as he climbed the path toward the backs of the assembled crowd, Joe felt the sky opening up all around him. And as he reached the crest, this faintly biblical impression was only enhanced by the view suddenly yawning at his feet. Instead of seeing more hills, which was the norm in a state as geologically lumpy as Vermont, he was faced with a vast and dizzying emptiness, sweeping away into the Lake Champlain valley, across the flats