Chapter LV

Maynard Vaughn had lived a peripatetic existence. He was born in the town of Dexter, Maine, but was always restless there. He left school at fifteen and joined the army at seventeen with the consent of his parents, who were happy to see him leave, Maynard qualifying as the definition of a difficult child. By eighteen, he was fighting in Vietnam, and his experiences there exacerbated the undiagnosed psychological conditions that had plagued his adolescence, including bipolar disorder and obsessive-compulsive behavior. Following a firefight at Lai Khe in December 1968, Maynard's company sergeant discovered him sitting in a deserted enemy bunker, arranging pebbles into a pyramid while holding between his teeth a grenade with the pin pulled. After a tense negotiation, the sergeant succeeded in restoring the pin to the grenade, and for the safety of multiple parties, Maynard was transferred to the care of the 98th Psychiatric Detachment—the KO team, as it was known—at the 8th Field Hospital in Nha Trang.

It wasn't obvious if Maynard had been actively trying to kill himself at Lai Khe, since his upper row of teeth was clamped down firmly on the strike lever when he was found. Later, during sessions with a civilian-trained psychiatrist, he admitted to a pattern of suicidal ideation since early adolescence, and confessed to passing idle evenings at home in Dexter by playing Russian roulette in the family barn with his father's Colt revolver. Maynard also revealed that he felt bad about shooting at the Vietnamese. Every time he fired his weapon in anger, he experienced a strong urge to turn it on himself immediately afterward. When asked why he had not done so, Maynard replied that having licked various bullets and grenades, he'd finally decided he preferred the taste of the latter. But he had detected subtle differences in flavor between individual devices and was determined to find one with a hint of licorice, this being a sign that he had located the ideal grenade with which to end his life. Following these revelations, it was decided that it might be best to ship Maynard Vaughn home.

In the years that followed, Maynard dipped in and out of employment, marriage, homelessness, and psychiatric care. With treatment, he ceased to contemplate suicide daily, not least because he was worried about leaving a mess for someone to clean up, and gained sufficient insight into his bipolar condition to recognize the importance of keeping up with his meds. In due course, he returned to Dexter, but any family he once had were long departed and few people remembered his name. Thanks to the combined efforts of social services, the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, and the Bureau of Veterans' Services, subsidized housing was found for him in the area and modest benefits secured. For the first time in his life, Maynard knew a version of contentment.

Maynard was very grateful to everyone who helped him and never failed to say thank you for a kindness offered. There was a gentleness to him, and a simplicity. When he went into one of his periodic declines, when he became angry and weepy and craved the taste of licorice, he would be taken by an officer of the Dexter PD to the Hometown Health Center, where he would be looked after. If he was very ill, he would be referred to the Togus VA facility in Chelsea, but some bed rest at Hometown was usually sufficient to set him to rights.

Maynard spent most of his waking hours doing odd jobs around town, collecting bottles for redemption, watching TV, and reading old comic books. Sometimes, when the walls closed in on him, he would sleep rough for a night or two, but he always returned to his little apartment; and even the worst of the local kids, as bored and frustrated by their surroundings as he had been once, left Maynard unbothered.

On this particular afternoon, Maynard crossed Lake Wassookeag on Grove Street, hung a right onto Bugbee Road, and followed it down to the lakeshore. His pack contained two cans of soda and two wrapped slices of pizza—one regular, one pepperoni—that had been handed to him as he passed the Dexter House of Pizza not long before. He also had in his possession a copy of that day's Bangor Daily News, rescued from a trash can, and a couple of Fantastic Four comics that he hadn't re-read in a while, including a Marvel Team-Up from 1975 in which Wyatt Wingfoot and the entire Keewazi tribe become possessed by the demon Dryminextes, and have to be saved by Daimon Hellstrom, the Son of Satan, and Johnny Storm, the Human Torch. Except, of course, Daimon also briefly becomes possessed by Dryminextes, which indicated to Maynard that Dryminextes was really something: it wasn't just any old demon that could go around possessing the son of the Hell-Lord. So Maynard planned to become reacquainted with Wyatt Wingfoot over pizza and soda at a quiet spot by the lake. Afterward, he might have himself a nap before heading back to town, because a man who couldn't appreciate the pleasure of forty winks under God's own ceiling on a clement afternoon was an idiot.

Just as Maynard was about to leave the fire road for the lake, he heard a car slowing behind him. He'd seen it around town earlier in the day and waved a greeting at the driver, but hadn't received one in return. Maynard wasn't too troubled by this. Some people considered the driver to be odd, which in Maynard's opinion involved a heap of kettles calling the pot black, because it wasn't as though Dexter was going to run out of odd anytime soon, Maynard himself included. In addition, the driver's family had been known to put work Maynard's way. They were private folk who preferred not to have their business broadcast for the diversion of others. Maynard, by virtue of his condition and his place in the hierarchy of the town, could be trusted not to talk out of turn. Probably.

Maynard hadn't spoken with the driver in a while, but the last conversation had earned him twenty dollars for standing in line for a few minutes, which was about the best remuneration Maynard had ever received in his life.

The car drew up alongside him. The window rolled down.

"Hello, Maynard," said the driver. "You got a few minutes? Might be I can make it worth your while."

Maynard shifted the pack on his left shoulder. He thought about the slices, the sodas, and the comic books. He recalled Wyatt Wingfoot and his battle against possession. He felt the breeze on his face. He had been anticipating an afternoon of leisure. On the other hand, he could do with another twenty right now. Maynard could always do with another twenty. He didn't know anyone who could not.

"I got time," said Maynard.

The passenger door opened. Despite the sunlight, the interior was very dark.

"Then hop in."

Maynard got in.

"Is it okay if I eat my pizza?" he asked. "I won't make a mess."

"Sure, you eat away."

And Maynard Vaughn started the last meal he would ever consume.