Signs of Struggle (15 page)

“I’ve ordered a couple of auxiliary deputies at the hospital, each with a sidearm and a shotgun. I’m also putting out an APB on Larry. In the meantime, I’ll see about getting a search warrant for his place and revisit the scene of Hugh’s accident. When I have the paperwork in hand, I’ll give you a call. This is beginning to smell to high heaven. Now, why don’t you get your non-injuries checked out and go home?”

“I’ll go home right now if it’s all the same.” I resisted the urge to touch my face. “By the way, there’s a knife back there somewhere on the bridge. Theirs. You might want it for that evidence thingy we talked about over lunch.”

Payne walked slowly back along the bridge, paused, then bent over and using two fingers, picked up the knife. He came back, showed it to me. Hunting knife. Seven inch blade, surgical steel. Bone handle. Lots of those around.

“One other thing,” Payne said as we walked off the bridge together to his car.

“And that is?”

“You got any weapons, any firearms?”

“Nothing serious any more, just a Stevens .410-.22 over-and-under. From my innocent boyhood, a gift from my father for my twelfth birthday.”

“I’d load it and keep it handy. Since the semi-pro muscle failed, maybe their employer will hire someone who provides full-time discouragement. If Larry’s the employer, he will be able to tell them where you live.”

“And where I live is where I’m going. Good night.”

“If you’d like to go with me when I take a look at Larry’s house, you’re welcome, but only as an observer. I don’t expect to find anything I can use in court, but I might stumble onto something else. Even a blind pig finds an occasional acorn.”

“Good luck,” I smiled a little, turning away to study the river so the Sheriff wouldn’t see my pain.

“You, too.” I heard him get into his car. The cruiser pulled away. During our conversation someone had taken away my sparring partners’ Jeep.

I watched and listened to the black water slip smoothly over the spillway as it had for well over a century. I wanted to put my face in the cool water for a while. Bits of light danced on the smooth surface, and it was beautiful. I walked off the bridge, retrieved my truck, and drove home. There were no other vehicles on the road.

Gotcha was happy to see me, begging for a Milk-Bone. I gave it to her, then she stood at the door until I let her out. In a minute she was ready to come in. She likes air conditioning. She flopped down on her tuffet on the floor at the foot of the bed. She does a stellar job of taking frequent naps so as not to be too tired to sleep when it’s time to go to bed for the night. The dog is smart.

I opened a hallway closet door and pulled out the Stevens, slipped it out of its case and retrieved two boxes of shells. I loaded a .410 shotgun shell and a .22 Long Rifle into their respective chambers, snapped the weapon shut, and sat down in a chair next to my bed.

After a minute, I stood and closed all the plantation shutters, locked the doors, grabbed two cold Heinekens from the refrigerator, held a bottle on each side of my face for a while, and drank them both.

I checked my e-mail. There was a message. Ernie. A brief note, the kind sent when he was tired and at the end of his day down in Belue, just before going to bed, the kind that prompted a short reply. There had been several since I moved, always checking.

We had once discussed a synopsis for
A Tale of Two Cities
in the movie section of the local paper’s television listings. It read, “Urban drama.” Two words for a classic. From that point on, we competed to see who could be the most succinct in reviewing movies, and other communications.
Field of Dreams
became “Rural drama.” We appropriated the truncated approach to our e-mails.

Ernie’s message:

How you?

My reply:

Active.

I had been in Rockbluff one month.

I
dreamed about fights, rivers and, briefly, my daughters. We were making popcorn in preparation to watch one of the old Muppet movies—I did not know where Karen was in the dream—and we were laughing and teasing each other and looking forward to the treat—a movie and buttered popcorn with parmesan cheese, garlic salt, and lemon pepper sprinkled over it. Annie called it “toxic waste popcorn.” A tradition.

When I awoke, I was disoriented. The dream had been real, vivid, in color. Alive.

Then I understood. I wept. So sue me.

“I wish I could get back in that dream,” I said out loud. I sighed, rubbed my face, and yelped. My face felt unfamiliar, bigger, painful. I swung my body out of bed. I made more noise than usual upon arising because Gotcha opened one eye and closed it, frantic with worry, yet never breaking the rhythm of her soft snore.

In the bathroom, I flicked on the light. When I saw my reflection I laughed, which hurt, and I laughed again, which hurt some more. I looked like an inept prizefighter the day after a few rounds with the young Joe Frazier. My lips were fat; my left eye purple, black, green, and nearly swollen shut; and a bruise on my forehead resembled the tread of a boot. With my thumb, I gently wiggled three teeth loosened from the kick. Not too bad. They would tighten up and survive.

I took a long, very hot shower, directing the spray onto every aching part of my body except my face; then I dressed. I skipped shaving. I shuffled into the kitchen, grabbed a Diet Coke, and headed for the front door. Then I stopped, returned to the bedroom, picked up the Stevens, and hastened out and down the half-mile drive to my mailbox, studying the woods and the road ahead. At the mailbox, I withdrew the
Des Moines Chronicle
and started back.

Halfway home, I remembered the other man on the bridge, my helper. Lunatic Mooning? Who else could it be? Dark out, no glasses, it could have been Sasquatch for all I could tell. But Mooning knew about the two thugs—he had warned me about them. When they left, he must have put Rachel in charge and walked down to the bridge, intervening when he thought it necessary. But would he ever own up to it?

Breakfast was quick; three heaping tablespoons of creamy peanut butter dipped one at a time into a jar of Iowa honey, a frosted strawberry Pop Tart at room temperature, a handful of salted cashews, and several glugs of whole milk straight from the jug. I chewed everything on the right side, sparing my loose teeth on the left.

I brushed most of my teeth, mouthwashed, and ran a comb through my hair. Cleaned my glasses. The right lens had a little scratch, but I could call my optometrist in Belue and have extras overnighted. I let Gotcha outside and let her back in. After grabbing my weapon, I dumped a handful of mixed shells in my pockets, snagged another Diet Coke, and left as Gotcha jumped into her recliner for her morning meditations.

The Grain wasn’t open yet, but the pearl-gray Packard was in its familiar spot. I walked around back to the door that led to Mooning’s office and peered in through a lone window. He was at his computer. I pounded on the door. He finished a few clicks on his keyboard and the screen went blue. He looked up. He let me in.

“What happened to your face? It is more interesting than usual,” he asked.

“You saved my ass last night, didn’t you?”

“When I cut off your beer, perhaps. Not likely, though, given your capacity,” he said. His eyes were dark, impassive, curious. “Of what do you speak, if not that?”

“I saw you on the bridge last night, taking out the guy in the camo outfit, you know, one of the guys that followed me out the door when I left.”

“I remember them leaving after you left. I gave it no more thought after that. I heard on the news this morning about an altercation. Two men in custody and hospitalized. You must have acquitted yourself well, considering
you
are not hospitalized, although you might explore that option. Your rambling suggests head trauma.”

“You were there. I want to thank you.”

“You mistook someone else for me. It was dark. Your glasses were knocked off.”

“How did you know my glasses were knocked off?”

“Your right lens is scratched. It wasn’t when you left. Simple logic. Something else you might explore. What happened?”

I smiled, winced. “You know what happened.”

“Humor me. Pretend that I speak not with forked tongue.”

I rolled my eyes. Even that hurt. “Okay.” I spilled the details, emphasizing my outside help. “I gotta go now. Anyway, thank you.”

“You have resources for a CAT scan. I recommend it.” He held up his hand with three fingers extended. “How many?”

“Eight,” I said, and left.

Three cars occupied the parking lot at Christ the King Church. I figured the Cooper belonged to a lay worker, the Camry was the church secretary’s, and the third, a silver Mercedes sedan, The Reverend Doctor Ernst VanderKellen’s. A muddy yellow mountain bike leaned against the building behind a well-tended bed of purple and pink flowers. Karen could have told me, but I think they were petunias and snapdragons.

Inside, an office to the right side of an expansive foyer beckoned. I went inside. Two women working. One, a teenager. Cooper girl. The other, in her fifties, sported short white hair with lots of spikey thingies. Camry woman. She studied me over the top of half-glasses. Her expression might have been mistaken for stern, but her face reflected humor and sense. I liked her immediately. Both looked surprised, and then I remembered what my face looked like. I addressed the woman.

“I was wondering if Reverend VanderKellen might be available to speak with me for a few minutes, please?”

The girl stared, but the older lady walked quickly to the counter that separated her from visitors. The closer she came, the more I realized this was a beautiful woman.

“You are?” she asked.

“Oh, sorry. Tacky manners. I’m Thomas O’Shea.”

“Good morning. I’m Eleanor Bixby, and this is Julie Dreusicke. I hate to be forward, but you look like you could use the services of a doctor.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’m a quick healer. I am here to see Doctor VanderKellen, though. Maybe he’ll fix me up. Would that be possible?”

“Doctor VanderKellen does not usually tolerate walk-in appointments, but I think he’ll make an exception if I lead the way,” she said.
Does not “tolerate” walk-ins?
“I’ll take you back to his study,” she said, coming around the counter. “I’ll be right back, Julie.”

“Nice to meet you, Julie,” I said to the girl, who smiled. I turned back to the older lady. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Follow me.”

We walked down the hall and took a right into a short hallway marked by a sign on a wrought iron arm sticking out over the top of a heavy wooden door. It read “Pastor’s Study” and, on the oak door, a brass sign was screwed in that read, “Reverend Ernst VanderKellen, D.Div.”

I pointed at the D.Div. and said, “I always thought that stood for someone who made great Christmas candy.”

Eleanor, enduring my attempt at humor, smiled patiently. She knocked on the door. Three short raps, military style. Eleanor waited, looking at her shoes, hands together in front of her. Ten seconds later, the resonant voice of The Reverend Doctor Ernst VanderKellen boomed out, “Enter!” He sounded annoyed.

Eleanor opened the door wide enough to stick her head in and announce, “A Mr. Thomas O’Shea to see you, Doctor VanderKellen,” and stepped back. She gestured for me to enter, the gesture exaggerated by a faint flourish. She gave me a quick look, then beat it back down the hall. I stepped in and closed the door.

The Reverend stood from behind a desk that could have served as a handball court except that it was mahogany. He did not come around to greet me; instead, he gestured to one of two chairs situated in front of the desk. The chairs were upholstered in blood red leather with brass studs. I offered my hand. VanderKellen reached across the desk and shook briefly, a look of recognition in his face, then released my hand as if it were sticky. The bearded Reverend Doctor was dressed as if golf were happening soon. His clothes fit his lean physique. He sat down and indicated I should do the same.

“What can I do for you, Mr. O’Shea, other than recommend a physician?”

“I just had some questions, and I do apologize for my appearance. I assure you, assuming this is a confidential conversation, it was not self-inflicted.”

“Oh, I know how it was inflicted,” VanderKellen said, stroking his Vandyke beard. “Small town. Word circulates, even if it isn’t gossip. I hear you emerged victorious in the altercation,” he said, eyeing me.

I realized Ernst was the kind of preacher who liked to make people feel uncomfortable. I returned the gaze without smiling. Liv Olson was right.

VanderKellen went on. “You were in attendance at Hugh Soderstrom’s funeral.”

“You have quite a memory.” The church had been packed, but my rugged good looks must have stood out.

“What did you think?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

A friend of mine, a former Green Beret down in North Carolina, once said to me, “Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer.” I decided to give Dr. VanderKellen a pass.

“Oh, I thought it was just fine,” I lied.

“Anything stick out in particular?” he asked, leaning back in his elegant leather chair and dropping eye contact to examine the fingernails on his right hand.

“Well, I thought your Doc Div robes were cool.”

“Doctor of Divinity,” he corrected.

“Yes. Doctor of Divinity. I think the embroidered scarlet Latin crosses on each side of the front were stunning, yet not overstated, shown to benefit by the basic black of the vestment.”

VanderKellen shifted his eyes from his fingernails to me, his look intense and probing. “And did you notice the scarlet piping around the black velvet panels and doctoral bars?”

“I did. Quite impressive, actually. Got my attention as you approached the pulpit.”

“Good! Yes, yes, you understand the importance of visual presentation,” VanderKellen said. “I doubt anyone else in attendance understood the significance of my robe. They didn’t even understand my old, Geneva robe. Most of the locals would only reference ‘Geneva’ as that lake in Wisconsin.”

“Your doctoral vestment is a big step up,” I said.

“I ordered it a while back, and it happened to get here the very day Hugh Soderstrom died. Good timing, one might say.”

“One might.”

“Notice anything else, Mr. O’Shea?” he asked, his gaze locked on my face.

While I tried to think of some other innocuous observation, the good Dr. VanderKellen rose abruptly from his desk and strode over to a beautiful, arched window that looked out on a woodsy neighborhood, and behind that, a backdrop of rugged bluffs. He began slowly rocking back and forth on his toes, seemingly lost in thought while I tried to come up with another observation.

Several expensively framed diplomas adorned the wall on one side of the window, and on the other side various awards, commendations, and photos of the man with other presumably important people I did not recognize. There were no family photos.

On each side of the study, books filled built-in bookshelves. A large sofa and coffee table, two wing chairs, and an end table with a pale blue porcelain lamp completed the furnishings.