Dark Time: BOONE-BELL, #5

By Frederic W. Burr

Wracked with guilt over his failure to prevent the murder of his friend's widow, Mazie Tucker, and convinced it was dangerous for anyone to become close to him, Boone leaves Albany and everyone he knows behind, searching for anonymity and seclusion. He believes he has found such a place in the sparsely settled community of West Harper on the eastern shore of Chautauqua Lake.

But his black dog of depression, stalking him throughout his career in law enforcement and as a licensed private investigator, continues to hound him.

The death of a victim, or a friend, had always affected him deeply, causing Boone to consider himself an abject failure. As he sinks into a deep depression, he becomes convinced that suicide is the only way to end the pain. Eventually, it falls to Tom McAvoy, Boone's friend, and Trooper Alexandra Burton to try to convince Boone to return to Albany, and those who care for him.

At the same time, his partner Marianne tries to keep the office afloat, hoping to give Boone time to come to grips with Mazie's death. She hires a co-worker to assist her. Investigating a case referred by Clive Townsend, Marianne uncovers a smuggling operation that results in tragedy for her co-worker, and puts her own life in jeopardy.

Tom McAvoy tries to keep Marianne in hiding, staying one step ahead of those who mean her harm. As a consequence, she learns more about the sex industry than she ever wanted to know, and the Amish.

The smuggling operation uncovered by Marianne turns out to be something much worse than any of them could have ever predicted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederic W. Burr
• Release date: Sep 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223402855

Frederic W. Burr

A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, Fred enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen, and retired in the rank of Commander in the surface warfare community. He is a graduate of the University of Louisville and the Albany Law School of Union University. Retiring from the private practice of law in upstate New York, Pennsylvania and Kentucky after thirty-six years, he considers himself a fully recovered attorney. Fred and his wife Donna (who also writes) make their home in Kentucky.

Book preview

Other books by the author

Mutinies

The Ring

The Return

Lens Capture

For the Love a Pete

Grab an Egg

Uphill

Old Salts, New Navy

The Persian Paradox

An Uncertain Sea

Letters from Peru

Abby’s Maze

Abby’s Test

Journeys

Unaccountable

BOONE

Guardian Angel

Disguises

Unmasked

Depression isn’t just being a bit sad.

It’s feeling nothing.

It’s not wanting to be alive anymore.

~J. K. Rowling

ONE

WEST HARPER, NEW York was a complete change of pace compared to his life as a retired New York State Police detective and private investigator. Less than a week earlier, he was standing with the mourners at Mazie’s funeral. It was all Boone could do to remain erect, more or less. The hostility focused on at him by Mazie’s sister Alicia and the Tucker boys was unmistakable, almost palpable. And he would never blame them.

Mazie had called him for help after finding her husband Tuck dead with what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She begged him to investigate and disprove any suggestion Tuck had committed suicide. Weeks later, he was chasing down a safe deposit box rental that seemed important to the case. While he was questioning the bank manager, she kept trying to reach him. Believing he was close to solving the case, he ignored her repeated calls. By the time he knew the identity of Tuck’s killer, it was too late to save Mazie from the same fate that had befallen her husband.

Two days later, he loaded up his old Crown Vic with everything he thought he’d need for the foreseeable future. He left his laptop and iPhone behind to avoid any temptation to check emails or receive calls. The rent and utilities on his apartment and on the office space he shared with Marianne were all covered by automatic drafts from his bank account, funded by his state pension. He left voicemail for Marianne on the main office number to that effect and ended his message saying he would be in touch. Then, he fired up his beater and left his apartment in Latham for parts unknown.

Several days later, he drove into the hamlet of West Harper on the east shore of Lake Chautauqua in western New York State. Hungry, he stopped at the first place he came to for lunch. The Harbor Galley was set back thirty feet back from East Lake Road in a gravel lot. Although he could see the lake from the galley, there was no marina or harbor, so the name made little sense. Shaped like a bus, with pitted chrome wrapping the outside below the windows, it looked like a prototype of the American roadside diner. Only two cars were parked off to one side. Close behind the diner was an old-growth stand of evergreens.

The front door hung open behind a tattered screen door. He caught the scent of breakfast as he went inside. It was early in the day, and the place was empty, except for a heavy set waitress behind the counter wiping it down. Heavily processed blonde hair stuck out like dry straw on the sides of her white cap. Her blue and white waitress dress sported an embroidered patch above her left breast reading ‘Hazel.’ He wondered what she was considering as a name for the right breast but didn’t ask.

Instead of a table along the window side of the diner, he took one of the revolving stools on diner’s side of the counter.

What’ll you have, honey? she asked. He wanted a hot Pastrami on rye, but knew if it was available, it would be disappointing.

Burger and fries, he said.

How do you want it?

Medium well, with a slice of American and a pickle. And a toasted bun.

Anything to drink?

Coffee, black, thanks.

You got it, Hazel said. She made a note on her pad and poured a mug of coffee from the Bunn coffee carafe behind her. After setting the coffee down on the counter in front of Boone, she bustled through the swinging door into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she backed her way out through the kitchen door with his order in hand.

As she placed his lunch and silverware wrapped in a paper napkin on the counter, he asked her, Why is this place called West Harper when it’s on the eastern shore?

She chuckled. How’d you come into town?

I drove through Harper, and then, . . . Oh. I get it. West Harper must have split off from Harper at some point in the past, right?

You guessed it.

Where’s a good place to stay? he asked.

How long you planning for?

Not sure, he replied. I’m travelling, and no fixed destination at this point.

Hmmm. She laid an index finger on her cheek and looked up, as if an answer might be written on the stained tile ceiling. Then, folding her arms across her generous bosom, she said, Most people head south to Bayview, or north to Dewittville. There’s no place like that here. But if you just want a room for tempry like, you can try Howard Lubner at the Exxon.

He looked at her quizzically.

Oh, I know, she said, chuckling. It sounds funny, sure. But he has a room over his station where his worker stays. When he has a worker, that is.

What’s the room like? he asked.

Suddenly blushing, she replied, Don’t know, I’m sure. Then, stepping back, she added, I’ll let you get on with your meal. I got setups to do before the lunch crowd starts showin’ up. And without waiting for anything further from him, walked briskly down to the other end of the counter.

He ate lunch alone and in silence. After eating, he stepped outside the diner and looked up the road. The Exxon sign was less than half a mile distant on the lake side of the road. He got in his car and drove the short distance. After parking off to one side of the station, he stepped out of his car and took in a deep breath. The air coming off the lake was brisk even for early July, but sweet enough to eat. For the first time, he realized just how bad the interior of his car smelled. Stunk, actually. Remembering how much others had complained about a stench he never noticed, he wondered if this was a sign of personal growth.

He took his time walking around his car towards the front of the station. There were two pumps standing back to back on the short concrete island. The pumps offered only regular and mid-grade gas, no premium blend or diesel. Mid-grade was selling at $6.959 a gallon, with regular going for fifty cents less. There was a waste and windshield bucket, but no sign of paper towels or squeegee, and no sign of any cable running from the island to the station to power a bell inside.

Although there was no canopy over the pumps, the building itself, a small brick A-frame with large dormers sticking out on either side on the upper level, was in decent shape, especially considering its age. He could see the faded areas on the front brickwork spelling out ESSO, predecessor to the EXXON trade name.

To the left of the station stood a metal pole barn in rough shape, its hinged wooden door hanging open. Inside, there was a worktable supporting piles of abandoned air hoses, cables, orange electrical extension cords and assorted junk. Derelict shop machinery stood beyond the table in the middle of the barn. Against the back wall were old bikes, pieces of rebar, and what appeared to be an engine block. Assorted hand tools were hanging against some peg board on the far wall. Old fuel cans lay on their sides on the floor, some without caps screwed into place, along with cans, beer bottles and broken glass.

Walking to the front door of the station, the first thing he saw was a hand lettered sign taped on the inside of the door reading, ‘Credit Cards Only! No Cash on Premises.’ He let himself in, and a small bell fastened at the inside top of the door announced his entry. An older man sitting behind the small counter stood up and asked, Mister, can I help you? The embroidered name patch on his shirt read ‘Howard.’ A spare man, his work clothes might as well have been draped on a hanger. He parted his short-cut gray hair on the right.

Stepping up to the counter with his hand extended, Boone said, Carl. Last name’s Michael.

Howard shook hands briefly and said, Howard Lubner. I run this place. What do you need?

Hazel at Harbor Galley said you might have a room to let. Is that right?

Howard leaned back slightly, looking intently at Boone and sucking air through his teeth before answering. I might. But how long are you lookin’ to stay?

I told Hazel I’m just travelling, with no fixed destination. Could be a week, could be a month.

Howard shook his head. Sorry. I keep that room for my worker, . . . when I have one, that is. Right now is my busy season until mid-September. And no one wants to work anymore, it seems. Those federal stimulus checks have played hell with finding any workers.

Boon lifted and dropped his shoulders and tucked one thumb inside his belt. Are you hiring?

Are you asking?

Might be. What’s involved?

Mostly being here for night security and watching over the place when I’m gone to lunch. And I’d like to visit family in Pennsylvania for a week later in August.

Do you do any repair work here? I noticed the shop over there, he said, glancing to the left and back to Howard.

Nope. That’s not mine. What the owner does with it, I got no idea. It used to be with the station, but the people before me sold it off. All I do is gas, air, and the bathroom if they need it, and what you see.

Boone looked around. There were vending machines for soft drinks, chips, and candy. Hanging from a cup hook on a wall was a four-inch length of wood with ‘Bathroom’ lettered in heavy black marker by hand, attached to a key. An empty peg board was on the wall next to the bathroom key, with faded spaces where wrenches, pliers and other hand tools had once hung.

Wall-mounted shelving behind the counter displayed beef jerky, chewing tobacco and cigarettes, and cans of motor oil and gasoline additives, along with larger bags of snack foods that wouldn’t fit in the vending machines. Above the shelves were old rusted metal signs advertising MobilOil and Texaco nailed to the wall.

Do you have a security system, or an alarm of some sort?

You mean other than the front door bell?

Yeah.

Nope. Nuthin’ much goes on here. This used to be a general store kind of place that sold gas, Howard said. Now, we just sell gas and what’s in these machines, or on the shelf.

I didn’t see a cable running from the pumps to the station to alert you to a customer.

Hah! You mean our Clinton bell? We got rid of that years ago when we went to self-serve.

Where’s your cash register?

Don’t take cash. Just credit cards. Didn’t you see the sign?

I saw the sign, but . . . Boone shrugged without finishing his thought.

It’s simpler that way, Howard said, then opening a drawer in the back of the counter and pulling out a small credit card terminal. The only cash in here is what’s in those machines, he said, pointing at the vending machines.

If I stay at least until the end of August, would that be of any interest to you?

Maybe. How do I know I can trust you?

About the same way I can trust you. If you’re not interested, tell me now and I’ll be on my way.

You running from the law?

No. Just a bad run of luck. Things weren’t working out for me. Time to try something new.

With narrowed eyes, Howard looked up at Boone. You carrying a gun? I don’t like guns in my place.

No, Boone replied, thinking that the Colt 1911 style semi-automatic in the locked glove compartment of his car wasn’t on his person, so he wasn’t ‘carrying’ in the station. Technically speaking, that is.

Good, Howard said. You’re hired. Besides the room, I’ll pay you $50 a week.

Cash? Boone asked. I mean, no W-9’s, no health insurance? Like I’m just what you’d call casual labor?

Howard grinned to one side of his mouth, and said, Mister, I like the way you think.

Thanks. Can I take a look at the room?

Right this way, Howard said, walking around the shelving to a small staircase leading up to the next level. Boone followed the man upstairs. At the top of the stairs, Howard stopped, pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the door. Opening the door, he stepped inside and said, Here it is. Look around all you want. I’m going back downstairs in case someone comes in.

Boone walked into the room and took a moment to look around. Besides a good amount of space in the dormers, there was a small room towards the back of the building. On the right-hand dormer, a pair of windows looked out on the empty lot to one side of the station. Under the windows was a worn couch and a single end table. There was an old-style rotary dial phone on the end table and plugged into the wall jack. Picking up the receiver, there was no dial tone. He unplugged the phone, wrapped the wiring around the phone and tucked it on the shelf under the end table.

To the left was a small bookcase loaded with an assortment of well-thumbed paperbacks, along with a square table with three chairs around it. Beyond the table and chairs was a galley on the far wall, with a small four-burner range and gas oven, a sink, and a counter on the side opposite the range.

Above the stove were three cabinets and a large-scale microwave oven from the 1980’s. Inside one cabinet, he found three place settings of dishware. In the first drawer below the counter, there was basic stainless steel silverware. To the left of the galley was a short hall with a small bathroom on the left side. The shower looked impossibly small, but he figured he’d get used to it.

At the end of the hall, there was a small bedroom with a good sized chest of drawers and a twin bed with nightstand. Two windows close together looked out on a field behind the station, and the lake beyond. Although the furnishings overall were sparse, everything appeared to be solid and in decent condition.

He went back down the narrow staircase to find Howard taking a credit card from a sullen-faced young man, greasy hair hanging down over his forehead and eyes. The kid looked up and did a poor job of concealing his surprise at seeing Boone.

As Howard finished with the credit card, he handed it to the boy. You come back now, okay Jamie?

Yeah, whatever, Jamie said, and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Howard walked around the counter and opened the door. Gets close in here with the door shut.

Pointing up at the overhead fan and light fixture, Boone asked, What about the ceiling fan?

Don’t work, was the reply.

Boone nodded, thinking he might look at it sometime.

If it’s okay, he said, I’d like to move my stuff in upstairs.

Suit yourself.

Boone stepped outside, squinting against the late afternoon sunlight as he walked to his car. Opening the trunk, he grabbed his carryall and the small television set from his kitchen back in Latham and sat them on the ground. Then, making certain his travel safe, with the cash he brought along from the apartment, was still concealed, he closed the trunk.

He knew from experience that no one would bother his car, given its appearance. Boone had purchased it from a police auction quite a few years earlier. With its mix-and-match panels in different colors, the deteriorated upholstery, and the lack of even so much as a radio, his car attracted no attention in the rougher areas he sometimes used to go to on a job. With its rebuilt engine and tranny, it was in such great shape he was convinced it could be dropped nose first from a crane and still run. His cash would be safe. Safer than if he had it in his room. Checking the door handles to make sure the doors were all locked, he picked up the carryall and television and took them inside.

By the time he had everything unpacked and stowed, it was late afternoon. Finding no jack for cable, he sat the television set on the bedroom dresser, plugged it in, and let the wire antenna fall behind the dresser, hoping for the best. Turning on the set got him an episode of General Hospital on