Signs of Struggle (23 page)

“Say goodbye, Suzanne.”

“So long, Thomas. You’ve been one repressed, impolite, uptight, illogical, mildly amusing and inhospitable pain in the ass. May you fall down in a crowded pig pen and not be able to get up,” she said, hurling the ultimate Iowa insult, flinging open the door to her Toyota, flouncing in behind the wheel, slamming the door shut, gunning the engine, and spinning gravel as she left. My visitors like to spin gravel.

There was no way I would have given her an interview. Even if she had been polite, professional, and avoided cursing. Not only was she rude, she paid absolutely no attention to, and acted afraid of, Gotcha. Anyone with such a deep and enduring chasm in their social skills, anyone with such a lack of discernment did not deserve any special favors until they repented.

I walked back inside, set the shotgun on the kitchen counter, and dropped down to the floor and roughhoused with the big Bulldog, who loved it. It was her favorite group activity. A few minutes later, when we settled down, we fell asleep on the floor in front of the cold fireplace, shotgun nearby, Gotcha snoring sweetly at my side.

F
or the next two days, I searched for Larry Soderstrom. No one had seen him, and the clock was ticking with regard to the Trust. It was July 18th, two days before the deadline for his decision about whether or not to buy the land left by his brother. No decision from Larry would lead to bids for Hugh’s half of Soderstrom Farms, and a fresh 60-day timeline. I hadn’t heard a word. Carl Heisler would have let me know.

Payne called me. He had a search warrant and asked me if I’d like to go with him out to Larry’s place. “Are you kidding me?” I said.

I met Payne at the courthouse and followed him deep into the country, down a blacktop road that became a dirt road. On a curve, Payne turned into a gravel driveway leading to a soaring A-frame that looked almost new. There were no vehicles.

“Don’t touch anything,” Payne said as he knocked on the front door. No answer. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and we went in.

The house was well furnished. I figured maybe Wendy, as a helpful sister-in-law, had helped him out on that. Nevertheless, it was a mess. Clothes were scattered. A pair of boots lay toppled over on the floor. Stained area rugs, crusted dishes and filmy glasses in the sink next to an empty dishwasher all pointed to a pig. The refrigerator held plenty of cold beer and the cabinets revealed a few canned goods. Tuna, Spam, green beans. An unmade, king-sized bed with black satin sheets and pillowcases and a giant plasma TV dominated the master bedroom. A mirror looked down from the ceiling over the bed.

Harmon found nothing connecting Larry to his brother’s death or the attacks on me. He did find enough cocaine, pot and alcohol to keep Congress supplied for a fortnight, several flimsy female underthings and hygiene products, an extensive pornography collection (both print and video), proof of staggering gambling losses even though he did not bet on the Cubs, and a tardy slip from 7th Grade Home Room. I touched nothing.

“Whether he killed his brother or not, whether he ordered the hits on you or not,” Payne said as he finished bagging evidence, “we still have enough to put his butt in prison—not jail—for quite a while. It’s not against the law to gamble and drink, but he’s crossed the line with drug possession. I can’t wait to find him.”

“I’m not so sure anymore that you will find him,” I said. “Maybe he’s just bugged out forever. Maybe his bookies lost patience. Maybe he’s even now living in Sri Lanka and laughing up his sleeve at us while he dallies with heroin and pretty brown women.”

“Maybe your harsh treatment of his alleged hirelings cast dread over his existence, too,” Payne said, “and he decided his long-term prospects were better elsewhere.”

“On the other hand, abandoning fifteen to thirty million dollars of prime Iowa farmland doesn’t make much sense. Does he have any priors on the drugs?”

“The only priors are misdemeanors. Speeding, public intoxication, public urination, disturbing the peace, minor assault, stuff like that.”

“If Larry got himself a superior attorney and faced those drug charges, what would happen to him?”

“Larry would get himself a superior attorney. What would happen to him? I’d guess a heavy fine, long probation, maybe some community service. Seriously-dirty looks from his fellow citizens on the streets of Rockbluff, but he already has that. Maybe a busted nose from a fed up citizen. Stern warning, for real, from the court that if it happened again, he could start his orientation to the new Fort Madison State Penitentiary.”

“Then he hasn’t bugged out. So, where is he hiding?”

“It’s embarrassing to admit, being a law enforcement professional and all, but I haven’t a clue, other than to say he’s here and there, and the trail isn’t getting any warmer, even if the weather is,” Payne said as we walked together out the front door of the A-frame. The Sheriff closed the door behind us. There were woods on three sides of the house, and a hay meadow across the dirt road. Everything was green and smelled fresh.

“Well, I’m going to keep looking,” I said. “I guess I’ll just try being random and unpredictable. Might work. Just missed him twice at Shlop’s.”

“You’re already random and unpredictable.”

I smiled. Some people like to be noticed. Not me.

“May I offer a piece of advice as a life-long investigative type?” Harmon asked.

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you just get away from all this for the time being? Do something different. Let your mind take a deep breath. Might help your perspective. Sometimes I’ve gotten great insights when I wasn’t specifically focused on my most important issue at the time.”

It was a little after five-thirty. Good to be in the boonies, missing the growing push of rush hour traffic that I knew had to be converging on the bridge in Rockbluff right about now.

I looked around. Damn hot. Upper 90’s for sure. Iowa in July. Hotter than Belue, Georgia, but those people would never believe a state up north could be hotter than a city in the heart of Dixie.

I turned to the Sheriff. “Maybe I’ll take your advice. Maybe I’ll drive to Des Moines or Minneapolis and have a fine dinner someplace.”

“You might sample the wares a little closer to home. Try Whistling Birch. It’s been written up in the
Des Moines Register
and the
Chicago Tribune
as one of the best eating places in the Midwest. And it’s right here in Rockbluff.”

“The Whistling Birch Golf and Country Club?” I had seen their ad in the phone book, and heard it on the radio, but tossed off their bragging about their chef and wine cellar as small town pride in having a guy who did the serious preparation of corn dogs. And twelve bottles of Boone’s Farm on their sides in the basement.

“The same,” Payne replied. “You have to be a member, or the guest of a member, to play golf there, but the dining room and bar are public. They prefer reservations and plenty of cash. The last time I went it was forty-five dollars for dinner. For me. By myself. I went to the bar, not the lounge, afterwards for three quick brewskis and that was another eighteen bucks. You can spend more if you go early and have a drink in the lounge before dinner, or linger afterward and listen to their piano player while drowning your sorrows that come with the numbers at the bottom of the check.”

“I’ll give them a call when I get home.”

“You’ll enjoy yourself. And that piano player isn’t too hard on the eyes. She also sings well. College girl. Local. Only works summers and Christmastime.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“By the way, Thomas, don’t let your guard down until Larry’s accounted for. He’s a mean man, and he does carry a grudge.”

“I am ever vigilant,” I said, climbing into my truck, turning the ignition, and enjoying the sound of immense horsepower coming to life. That’s almost as good as instant air conditioning. I drove away.

When I got home I made a reservation for two the next evening at the Whispering Birch Golf & Country Club, prepared a dinner of cheeseburgers and Zesty fries and watched the Red Sox defeat the Blue Jays in Fenway Park in a slugfest, 11-8. After that, on a hunch, I grabbed the shotgun and got in my truck and drove by Larry’s house, hoping I just might catch him sneaking back. Nothing there. No lights in the house and no Corvette in the drive that circled around behind the house.

So I drove home, drank five beers, and went to bed and slept soundly, eased into dreamland by the rhythmic snoring of Gotcha at the foot of the bed on her tuffet. Nice to have a peaceful constant in my life.

In the morning, I let the big Bulldog out and back in, took the shotgun with me down the lane to pick up the morning paper, and hiked back up to the house. I placed the paper and the shotgun on the kitchen table, fed and medicated Gotcha, poured myself a tumbler of orange juice (with pulp), read the Sports Section, cleaned up, read the
Boston Herald
website articles on last night’s baseball game, and tidied up the joint in deference to Ernie.

Out on the deck I watched the morning light spread higher into the sky. It was cool out there, and I enjoyed the morning chill, knowing it would be hot soon enough.

Back inside, I plopped down at the kitchen table and picked up the
Des Moines Chronicle
and checked out the front page. In a box at the bottom left, sections of the paper and their stories were highlighted. Movies and Entertainment, Sports, Classifieds, and so on. I scanned through the list and something in the Op-Ed section caught my eye. “Violence comes to Rockbluff as…” it read. I fished out Section E and there, above the fold, a column by Suzanne Highsmith screamed the headline, “Violence Comes To Rockbluff” with a secondary line going on to state, “Bizarre Happenings Accompany Stranger’s Arrival.” I put the paper down and stared out the window.
Son…of…a…bitch!

The article, along with a photo of the double-arch limestone bridge in downtown Rockbluff, read:

Thomas O’Shea, an Iowa native returning to his home state after two decades in Georgia, is a rugged, close-mouthed stranger to Rockbluff, a newcomer who carries a loaded shotgun with him everywhere he goes.

Since O’Shea moved into his pricey hermitage south of Rockbluff in May, he has been involved in several violent, and tragic, events. He was “coincidentally” first at the scene on May 20th when Hugh Soderstrom, 28, was killed in what is being called, officially, a farming accident. O’Shea told this reporter he does not think Soderstrom’s grisly death under the blades of a rotary mower, the most gruesome fatality in decades in quiet Rockbluff County, was an accident. O’Shea thinks Soderstrom was murdered, although he would not say who he thinks the murderer, or murderers, might be.

A few days later, on June 1st, O’Shea was allegedly attacked in a local bar, Shlop’s Roadhouse, by two men, allegedly friends of Larry Soderstrom, brother of the dead farmer. O’Shea allegedly subdued the men in the name of self-defense.

On the morning of June 15th, at approximately 1:00 AM, two men from Dubuque attacked O’Shea on the town’s historic double-arch limestone bridge in the center of this picturesque village. According to O’Shea, the men said they were sent to kill him. Both men were seriously injured and are still hospitalized, one after being thrown by O’Shea from the bridge into the Whitetail River. As if that were not enough to concern Rockbluff’s citizens about their new neighbor, on the evening of the 15th of this month, while O’Shea was walking his dog in the woods surrounding his remote retreat, three more men, armed with untraceable handguns and driving a stolen car, broke into his house with the intent, according to O’Shea, to kill him.

O'Shea shot and killed two intruders. The third was critically injured. All three men remain unidentified. The survivor is hospitalized under Sheriff Harmon Payne's protection. So far, the wounded man is refusing to cooperate. And Thomas O’Shea is refusing to talk. Sheriff Payne said that, in each instance, O’Shea acted in self-defense. The Sheriff would make no other comment except to say that the Rockbluff crime wave is under investigation.

This reporter was successful in finding answers to many questions, but others go unanswered. Who is Thomas O’Shea, and why are all of these people trying to do him harm? Was Hugh Soderstrom’s death a homicide? Where is Larry Soderstrom? And, most importantly, when will this sleepy, beautiful little village in northeastern Iowa’s rugged hill country be able to go back to being the idyllic place it was before Thomas O’Shea moved in and people started to die?

I put the paper down and decided if Suzanne Highsmith were to show up at my front door at that moment, there would be another violent death in Rockbluff County, but not likely as quick and merciful as those previous. I might just set Gotcha on her and let it go. I looked at Gotcha, sleeping with her big tongue hanging out and becoming all dry and papery, the chunky dog relaxed on her recliner.