Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  “What was Anderson? Not a deputy?”

  “He was a lawyer, private practice. Real estate, mostly. He worked with the county attorney, sometimes. When Bobby got into trouble and figured he better get out, he put up one of his good old boys to run. That pissed people off. Anderson jumped in at the last minute and got elected.”

  “A political wizard, huh?” Del said.

  Zahn smiled into his steering wheel as they bumped over the last set of ruts onto the highway, and turned south toward Broderick and Armstrong. “Never heard anybody use the word wizard around him,” he said. “He’s pretty much wholly owned by Barry Wilson, who’s the head of the county commission. That’s okay, most of the time. Doesn’t work too well when there’s an actual crime, or something.”

  THE TOWN OF Broderick was a few hundred yards down the highway, and Zahn took them through it at a crawl.

  The town was built along two streets that intersected the highway at right angles. A big four-square farmhouse sat on the north edge of town, on the west side of the highway. A sheriff’s car sat in the driveway, in front of the garage, and Zahn said, “That’s the victims’ place.”

  “Okay.” It looked like a rural murder scene on a CNN report, a lonely white farmhouse surrounded by snow, with a cop car in the yard.

  Farther south, still on the west side of the highway, they passed Wolf’s Cafe, which looked like a shingle-sided rambler; the Night Owl Club; and a building with a wooden cross fixed above the door and a bare spot where a sign had been pulled down. “That used to be the Holy Spirit Pentecostal Church—holy rollers,” Zahn said. “They eventually rolled out of town. Now a bunch of women work there. Like religious women, do-gooders, I guess. Some Catholics and some Lutheran women from Lutheran Social Services, and I heard one of them’s a Quaker. One of the Catholics is a looker. The other ones are the blue-tights kind.”

  Scattered among the buildings were a half-dozen small houses, a couple of trailer homes, a corrugated-steel corn silo with a cone-shaped roof, and a red barn.

  The east side of the highway was sparser: a Handy Mart gas station and convenience store; Calb’s Body Shop & Tow, in a long yellow metal-sided pole barn; Gene’s 18, an over-the-road truck rehab place; and two more houses.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, that’s the town,” Zahn said, as they rolled out into the countryside.

  Del asked, “What’s with all the truck places, the body shops? Isn’t that pretty heavy industry for a place like this?”

  “Naw . . . I don’t know. Would you drive your car nine miles to get it fixed? We’re nine miles from Armstrong.”

  “I guess I would,” Del admitted. “Actually, I know I would, ’cause I have.”

  “And it was an inheritance deal. Gene inherited the body shop from his old man, and then he added the truck rehab business. Truck rehab, you can do anywhere. He does pretty good. He’s why the town started coming back. Most everybody who lives here works for him. Not a bad guy.”

  “A long way out,” Del said.

  “Some people like it lonely,” Zahn said. “Some people don’t.”

  Then they were out of town, out in the countryside. A crow or a raven was flying south, parallel to the highway, a fluttering black speck against the overcast sky, the only thing besides themselves that was moving. Del said, “Jesus Christ, it’s flat.”

  They rode in silence for a couple of minutes, then Zahn started a low, unconscious whistling. Lucas recognized the tune, probably from an elevator somewhere. “What’s that song you’re whistling?”

  “Didn’t realize I was whistling,” Zahn said. He thought a minute. “It’s that thing from Phantom of the Opera.”

  “That’s right.” After a second, “You don’t seem to be too upset, you know, by the bodies.”

  “Well, you’re with the Patrol, you learn not to be a pussy, like a homicide cop or something,” Zahn said.

  “All right, pussy,” Del drawled from the back seat.

  Zahn glanced over the seat and said, “Every time I go out to an accident and there are a couple of high school kids bleeding to death right in front of my face, and screaming for their dad or their mom, I know them. They’re kids from down the street. You do that for a few years and a couple strangers up in a tree won’t bother you much. Unlike some homicide pussies.”

  4

  KATINA LEWIS GOT out of bed at one minute to ten o’clock in the morning, the goose bumps like oranges in the chilly morning air. She padded barefoot across the cold wooden floor, into the bathroom. She was a round woman who no longer fought the roundness, thirty-six years old, five years divorced. With her dark brown hair, she was a rarity in this corner of the country, where it seemed everybody was blond or towheaded. She had good English skin from her father, a short nose and a bow lip from her German mother, and she had her hopes and her religion.

  She desperately hoped for children, though she felt the time running out. She prayed to the Lord to help her, and had faith. More than faith: she had fine discriminating morals—she could run drugs for God, knowing that she was on a mission of love, knowing that God was love.

  Katina Lewis wasn’t silly about love, didn’t walk around with a moony glow on her face, and she could get as cranky as the next woman. She simply thought of love as something real and tangible and everyday, like crackers or soap, that she simply hadn’t been able to acquire. But if you looked for love long enough, she believed, if you kept the idea in your heart, if you had faith, you would surely find it. God would not keep it from you.

  Now she’d found it in this unlikely place—this bleak, gray, flat prairie. As she headed for the bathroom, she glanced back at the bed and the top of Loren Singleton’s towhead.

  She loved him, she thought.

  He’d make a good father, if he let himself go. If he loosened up. But she wouldn’t want him to loosen up too much. She loved that cowboy thing, that sandpaper jaw in the morning, those bitten-off words, the stoicism that rode on his face. She loved the look of him, lounging with a shoulder against a wall, feet crossed, showing his boots, a Marlboro hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  She’d begun to talk to him about it. She’d talk more, maybe today, or someday soon. Time passed—that was one thing she’d learned in her twenties, and in her first marriage. Time passed and was gone and you couldn’t get it back.

  LEWIS HAD SET her alarm clock for ten. In her urgency to make it to the bathroom, she’d forgotten about it. At ten o’clock exactly, the hourly livestock report trickled out of the two-inch speaker, five feet from Loren Singleton’s ear.

  Quietly.

  As though a strange man had stolen into his house, to whisper in his ear, “ . . . slaughter steers, choice two to three, 1,125 to 1,637 pounds, sixty-one dollars to sixty-two seventy-five. Select and choice two to three, 1,213 to 1,340 pounds, sixty-one to sixty-one ten . . . ”

  The voice took a minute to penetrate, and then Singleton stirred, squeezed his pillow around and cocked an eye at the clock, and the man said, “That’s the South St. Paul stockyard report. Ed Wein will have updates through the day, right here on your feeder-cattle central. Now, from our news bureau, we have a report here from Broderick, Minnesota, where two people have been found hanged in a grove of trees just north of Broderick. The first reports said that two people, a black man and a white woman, were found hanging . . . ”

  The words were so flat and so unbelievable that they took a few seconds to connect. When they did, Singleton’s head popped up: “What?”

  Lewis called from the bathroom, “Did you say something?”

  “Shut up,” he shouted back.

  The man on the radio said, “ . . . Anderson confirmed that two people were dead, but deferred further comment until the medical examiner could reach the scene. We will follow this story during the day, so keep your dial set here to North Dakota’s All-News Central . . . ”

  The voice was both tinny and tiny. Singleton rolled across the bed, grabbed the clock, tri
ed to find the volume control, heard the weatherman come up and say, “You never know what life’s gonna bring, Dick . . . ” and then his voice was lost in the noise of the flushing toilet.

  LEWIS CAME OUT of the bathroom, pulling her cotton nightgown down over her hips, her heavy legs jiggling at him: she was annoyed. She didn’t like being shouted at, being told to shut up.

  She opened her mouth to say so, when Singleton, still staring at the radio, said, “Did you hear that?”

  “I heard you shouting at me,” she said, letting a little of the annoyance seep into her voice.

  “Somebody killed Deon and Jane,” Singleton blurted.

  The irritability vanished. “What?”

  “Gotta call . . . ” he said. Over his shoulder he added, “They were found hanged in a tree.”

  He trotted naked out of the bedroom and down the hall. Nothing bounced or bobbled when he moved: he was solid. Lewis looked at the radio, which was now firmly into the weather. More gloom. That was the essence of it. Cold and gray and maybe, if we were unlucky, a lot of snow, followed by more cold and gray.

  Jane and Deon? She called after him, “What did the radio say? What did they mean, hanged?”

  Then she heard him talking on the phone, and turned around, like a dog in its bed, looking for her jeans, couldn’t find them, and heard the phone clatter back on the hook. A moment later, Singleton came back. “Deon and Jane were found hanging in a tree across the Nine Mile Ditch. That Letty kid found them. This morning, about two minutes after I went off duty. They were naked and dead. Somebody beat the shit out of them before they were hanged.”

  “No.” She was astonished, but not distraught.

  “Yup. People are coming in from all over. State police are flying in from St. Paul. They might already be here. Ray Zahn’s going up to meet them, take them around.” He had a few more details, but not much.

  “I’ve got to go,” Lewis said. She turned her back, stepped toward the bathroom and he said, “You smell like vanilla,” and she said, absently, “That perfume . . . I wonder if your mom knows anything?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Katina hadn’t known Cash or Warr very well, and hadn’t liked either one, but their deaths could create problems. “I’ve got to get down to the church. We had some sisters getting ready to make a run. I better call Ruth right now.”

  She disappeared, half-dressed, down the hallway, and Singleton stood there, puzzling over it, staring at the very expensive cowboy boots that sat at the end of his bed. Deon and Jane?

  Lewis came thundering back. “She already heard, five minutes ago. I gotta get down there. What’re you doing, cowboy?”

  “I don’t know. Still gotta get some sleep. Then maybe see what’s going on.”

  SINGLETON SAT DOWN on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair, worried. What the hell had happened? Hanged? He couldn’t get past that part. Maybe he should go look, but too much curiosity . . . who exactly knew that he’d spent time with Jane and Deon?

  Katina knew some of it, of course. Calb knew some of it, knew that he’d been at their house a few times. Maybe some of the other body shop people—the shop was just down the highway, and they may have seen him turning in Deon’s driveway.

  But he’d taken a little care not to be seen. When he was there, he’d always parked on the slab beside the garage, where you really couldn’t see the car. That hadn’t been a matter of foreboding, but just common sense. Now the common-sense care might pay off.

  WHAT’RE YOU DOING, cowboy? Lewis had asked.

  Loren Singleton was a cowboy, though without a horse or a ranch. He wanted to like horses, but horses always tried to bite him, sooner or later, and he’d quit trying to ride. Besides, Cadillacs were even better—old, over-the-top, seventies and eighties Cadillacs, which, for a cowboy, was close enough.

  In his own mind, Singleton was a cowboy and an artist with automotive lacquer, and only in a secondary, unimportant way, a sheriff’s deputy and a lookout for a band of car thieves. He knew, though, that something was missing in his life. He felt that all the details were there, but not the color. He felt like a black-and-white photograph—only when he met Katina did a little color begin to bleed into his life.

  In other people’s minds, Loren Singleton was, when they thought of him at all, a loner, a familiar outsider, a man always standing on the edges. A few women had tried to talk with him—he wasn’t bad looking, and the cowboy clothes seemed to give him some kind of personality—but they’d found him unresponsive, emotionally stunted. As a deputy, he had a reputation for casual brutality that seemed to go with his essential coldness. Even his cars, his Caddys, tended to cold, brilliant colors that could set your teeth on edge.

  Everybody nodded to him on the street; almost nobody spoke to him.

  THEN KATINA LEWIS had arrived to work with the nuns. Singleton wasn’t sure that he’d ever loved anyone before he met Lewis. He thought about it sometimes. He probably loved Lewis, he thought—there was no other explanation for the way he felt when he was around her—but did he love his mother? Had he ever? She was the only other possibility for love in his life, and everyone was supposed to love his mother. People got “Mom” tattooed on their arms. People ate at places called “Mom’s,” because Mom would never hurt you, would always have that extra piece of pie for her little boy.

  But Singleton’s mom had whacked the shit out of him for years; had beat him up so badly when he was six months old that an uncle had taken him to the hospital, told the doctor that he’d crawled out of his playpen and had fallen down the stairs.

  His father, Edgar Singleton, had died in a live-steam accident at the chipboard plant when Loren was two years old. Singleton had heard his mother telling stories, with some relish, about “poached Eg,” how his father had been poached from the neck down when a steam line broke in a processing tank, and how he lay in the hospital, burned over 95 percent of his body, waiting to die, without pain, but also without a mind: he’d rambled on for seven days about haying on the old farm, then he’d died.

  When Eg was gone, Mom began dressing Singleton in girl’s clothes. She’d wanted a girl; girls were more manageable. She did her damnedest to make Singleton into one—would have done better if the nosy old school principal hadn’t gotten a restraining order against her, requiring her to dress her kindergartener in gender-appropriate clothing.

  Singleton vaguely remembered all of that. After the court order, she still made him put on a dress, occasionally, and serve tea at one of her ladies’ poker parties. That ended when he was eleven, big for his age. She’d ordered him into a dress, and he’d refused. She’d begun to hit him with a broomstick that she’d used to beat him in the past, and he’d fled into the winter darkness.

  When he came back, she was in the bathtub. He’d gone into the bathroom, and she’d screamed at him and tried to cover her nakedness, but he didn’t care about that. He, a big, tough, abused eleven-year-old, had grabbed her hair and shoved her head under water. She’d thrashed and fought and clawed at him, but he’d held her under until she quit struggling.

  Then he held her under for another fifteen seconds. When he finally let her up, she lay back against the end of the tub, apparently without breath. Then, she breathed in, a small breath, and then another one. In five minutes, still weak, she tried to climb out of the tub. Singleton heard her, came back in, shoved her head under water again, until she passed out a second time.

  The second time she revived, she was quiet about it: crept over the edge of the tub and crawled to the bathroom door and managed to get it locked. She lay there, naked, until the next morning, when she heard him whistling out the door on his way to school.

  When he came home that night, he found she’d locked him out. He kicked the back door until the lock broke, found her crouched inside with a baseball bat. He pointed a finger at her, the eleven-year-old did, and said, “Don’t fuck with me anymore.”

  They spent their next seven years together, with t
he bedroom doors locked at night.

  AFTER HE GRADUATED from high school, Singleton had enlisted in the Air Force, had been trained for the Air Police, and had been sent to Eielson Air Force Base outside of Fairbanks, Alaska. All he could remember of the place were the clouds and the cold: better than two hundred days of cloudy skies every year, bone-chilling for seven months, cold for another three, mosquitoes for the final two.

  Just like home.

  Out of the Air Force, he worked in East Grand Forks for a while, moving lumber around a home improvement warehouse, then heard about a deputy sheriff’s job in Custer County. His AP background got him in. But he didn’t try very hard, at anything, and after two years was assigned to permanent Sunday-through-Thursday night shift. If he’d take it, he could stay, the sheriff said. Otherwise, it was the highway. He took it.

  There was almost nothing to do at night in Custer. In twelve years, there’d been three house fires that started on his shift, and maybe once a month he’d get a medical emergency, which only required that he show up. He’d stop a few speeders on country roads, jail a few drunks, break up the occasional barroom fight with his casual brutality.

  Given his work hours, he didn’t have a social life. He followed no sports teams, didn’t hunt or fish or ride ATVs or snowmobiles, didn’t garden or read or pay attention to music or go to movies. Didn’t even watch much TV.

  His only real interest were the old Cadillacs. He’d get one in his garage, do the mechanical work that would bring it back to life, and then lovingly and carefully strip it down to bare metal. After months of preparation, he’d move it to Gene Calb’s auto-body shop, where he rented the equipment to do the paint. He changed cars every year or so, driving one while he rehabbed a second one. His current ride was an ’82 Eldorado Biarritz with a custom Rolls Royce grille. The finish was a hand-polished flame-orange flake over a deep mocha base.