Point No Point

by Mary Logue

  “Can’t a few of us guys go looking for him?”

  The sheriff motioned to him to head back to the government center. “I think that’s a good idea. If nothing more than just to check on him and make sure he’s all right. After all, he’s tried to kill himself once. I’d suspect he might try again. In fact, you might want to go see if he’s on the bridge over the Chippewa.” Then the sheriff shook his head. “Although I don’t think it’s high enough to kill anybody if they went off of it. Who knows what he might try to do? I’d sure feel better if he was back here in our custody.”

  “Where would you suggest we start?” Bill held the door open for the sheriff who thanked him and walked through it.

  “Geez, Chet could be anywhere.” The sheriff thought about it for a moment, then continued, “If he makes his way over to the Tiffany Bottoms along the river, we’d never find him if he didn’t want us to. In this warm weather he could stay out for weeks. Chet knows all this land around here like the back of his hand. He’s hunted just about every square inch of it. And hunter that he is, he can live off the land for as long as he needs to.”

  “He’s been gone about a half an hour.” Bill looked at his watch. “Might not be in the best shape of his life after what he did to himself. I’m thinking we form a circle about four miles out from Durand and try to catch him that way.”

  “Wait a second here. First of all, I’d check a few places in town. Just to see if anyone has seen him. Don’t go skipping over the easy stuff. Let’s talk to Claire before we go off half-cocked.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Now if he’s serious about this—if he really wants to go disappear—it’s not going to be easy to find him. He won’t be on the roads or anything. He’ll cut right through the woods. He can swim the Chippewa for that matter.”

  “How many deputies can I have to do this?”

  “Why don’t you take Frank, Red and Amy?”

  “Frank and Amy took Claire to emergency.”

  “Well, they’ll be back soon enough. Oh, in the meantime, why don’t you take Jeremy?”

  “Jeremy? He doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”

  The sheriff shot him a look. “That’s why this would be good for him, Bill. In fact, I’d like to see you take him under your wing. Teach him some of your good-old expertise.”

  Bill knew he should have kept his mouth shut.

  “We don’t need to go crazy, but try to find Chet.” The sheriff leaned against the wall right outside his office and shook his head. “This isn’t looking good for him, this running away.”

  * * *

  Rich stretched out on the twin bed in the cabin and stared at the beadboard ceiling. How had he gotten here? Hard to backtrack and go home again after all he had said to Claire. Not that she made any big plea for him not to leave her, but she had tried to explain why she had waited to tell him about Chet.

  His thoughts kept returning to Chet and Anne. Anne dead and Chet trying to kill himself. What had gone so very wrong? Rich hadn’t seen Chet much lately, just the time of year, so much to do at the end of summer. Haying, getting the pheasants ready for market, harvesting the gardens.

  The last time they had been together was down at the Fort. About a month or so ago, Chet had called him up and asked if he wanted to go have a beer or two and shoot some pool. They had played a few games, drank a couple brews, then sat and talked for a bit afterwards.

  He didn’t remember much of what they talked about, the usual—weather, crops, animals—but just as they were leaving, Chet had turned to him and said, “So how are things with you and Claire?”

  The question had surprised him. They didn’t tend to talk about their relationships. Rich had said fine.

  Chet had taken a swig off his beer bottle, then asked, “You guys still getting some exercise in the sack?”

  What a weird way to ask if they were having regular sex, Rich had thought at the time, plus, none of your business. He had nodded noncommittally.

  “We’ve slacked off,” Chet said.

  Rich had mumbled something about getting older, these

  things happen. Then he had asked Chet if he’d been doing any fishing.

  Now he wished he had not changed the subject, but had asked Chet what was going on with them. The one thing he did know about his friend was how important the physical side of love was to him. Before Chet married Anne, he had had a number of woman friends, even some coming down from the Cities. He would mention from time to time how good they were in bed, not going into any gory detail, but letting Rich know that he was a satisfied man.

  Rich wondered, as he had constantly for the last two days, what had happened the night Anne died, if it had had anything to do with the slacking off of sex between them. He just couldn’t imagine Chet going to that length to get rid of her.

  If she hadn’t killed herself then it had to have been Chet who shot her. Rich supposed there was a possibility that someone had come over to the farm while Chet went for his walk and shot Anne and then Chet returned and thought she had killed herself. But not likely.

  Trying to understand what happened to Chet and Anne—if their relationship could have gone so very wrong—Rich couldn’t help but think about Claire. He knew it was to be expected that the sex thing died down a little, and actually that wasn’t a big problem for him. They connected often enough for him to remember how intense it had once been. A mellower, gentler love-making suited him just fine.

  What rubbed him the wrong way with Claire was that he felt taken for granted. Much of what he had admired about Claire when they first met had started to wear thin: how focused

  she was on her work, her need to always be right, the way she had to be in charge. Claire wasn’t like that in bed—not that she was submissive, but she let him call the shots whenever he wanted to. Maybe that was what was important.

  Just thinking about her in bed made him think it was time to head back home, at least for a night or two.

  From his vantage point on the bed, Rich could see under the footstool on the opposite side of the small room. There was what looked like a crumpled Kleenex in the shadows.

  Rich got off the bed and reached down to see what it was.

  He was so shocked by what he found in his hand that he threw it back on the floor and said, “Goddamn, Chet! What were you thinking?”

  Inside the Kleenex was a condom that had obviously been used.

  CHAPTER 14

  Durand was located about sixteen miles upriver from the mouth of the Chippewa River, at the point where it turned and headed south toward the Mississippi River. Chet stood in the shadow of a brick building just south of the Highway 10 bridge, facing the river. He needed to take a breather before his next move, which would be to cross the river.

  A few cars were parked along the back street. Chet sank down in the shade of a big oak tree close to the river. He knew they would be looking for him. Claire hadn’t followed him across the highway, he figured she had gone back for reinforcements. He hoped she hadn’t been too hurt when she fell. What had he started? But he needed to get away from everyone and figure out what he was going to do.

  The horrible thing was Claire thought he killed Anne. He wasn’t sure he could dissuade her of that. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

  All Chet knew was he needed time to think. And he always thought well while walking in the woods. He could follow the Chippewa river down to the Tiffany Bottoms and disappear for a day or two. Just enough time to sort things out in his mind.

  Figure out if it was even worth continuing to live in a world without Anne.

  A fifteen minute rest was all he could afford to take. Chet checked the street behind him before he let himself stand up and walk down to the river. He followed the river out of town, heading southwest toward Lake Pepin, past the Bauer Built offices, then past the small subdivision of Pleasant Ridge to where the river curved away from the town and he would be out of sight of any houses.

  When he was safe
ly past the last house, he looked at what he was wearing, the clothes he had worn when Anne died: his wrinkled khaki pants, a light shirt and running shoes. He knew if he looked closely he’d find some spatters of blood, but he didn’t want to see them.

  He took his shoes off and tied the laces together, then hung them around his neck. They would get wet, but at least they wouldn’t weigh his feet down. Chet strolled along the river bank. The silty sand was the color of the limestone bluffs that surrounded this area, golden creamy as butter.

  The wet sand felt good on his feet. He used to go barefoot all summer long when he was a kid. What had happened to those carefree days? When had he stopped taking his shoes off?

  The water was rushing past him like quicksilver. He rolled up his pants and walked in up to his knees. Cool but not cold. Even the fast, cold waters of the Chippewa had warmed up during this hot spell. He walked in further until the water was up to his waist, and then he dove in. He didn’t make a great effort to get to the other side—he let the water sweep him along and carry him downstream. He turned over on his back and floated.

  It was a nice way to travel. As he watched Durand disappear around a bend in the river, he was surprised at how quickly he was moving away.

  Chet floated low in the water, which he had done since he was a skinny kid. Nose, mouth and chin stayed above water, eyes and chest if he lightly paddled. If anyone happened to see him, they might think he was a muskrat or a beaver, making a watery trail.

  After about fifteen minutes in the river, he came to an island he recognized, close to Silver Birch Lake. He wanted to make it down to past Ella, where he could walk out and follow county road N past Little Plum Creek and down to Back Valley Road. He figured the river was flowing at about three miles an hour and if he gently swam along with it, he could travel about four to five miles an hour, which would put him at Ella in another hour or so.

  He knew of an old shack just off of Swede Rambler Lane where he could camp out for a day or two. A friend of his used it for a hunting cabin, but Chet was sure no one was there now. It was only about a mile or so from the river. It wouldn’t take him long to walk there and then he could rest. If he guessed right, there was probably a decent supply of canned goods to make something to eat.

  As he did a lazy crawl down the river he thought of Anne.

  If Anne were still alive they would be dancing right now. This was the afternoon that they went to the Moose Lodge to polka and waltz and fox trot. They had met dancing in Red Wing and it had continued to be a part of their lives together.

  He swam close to the shore and watched the river birch glide by. No more dancing for him ever again.

  Bill stood on the bridge and watched the water flow beneath him. This was the only bridge across the Chippewa for miles: about twelve miles downstream Highway 35 crossed it and then eight miles upstream there was another bridge. He was betting on Chet trying to come across the bridge.

  Staring down into the water, Bill couldn’t imagine anyone trying to cross the river by swimming. The current wasn’t too strong, but the river was filled with debris and looked the color of weak coffee. Who knew what was in that dark brew: sewage, silt, and slimy carp.

  Only problem was there was a small chance that Chet might have already crossed the bridge before Bill got to his post. It had taken him some time to gather the troops. He sent Jeremy south on Highway 25 in a squad car to watch the road. He asked Red to stay in town and ask people if they had seen Chet.

  He had called Amy at the hospital and told her to join him on the bridge when she could get away. She said that Claire was doing fine. They had set her arm and given her one of those new-fangled plastic casts. The doctor had also given her a Vicodin. Amy laughed at that point and said Claire was feeling no pain. In fact, she said, Claire was talking on and on about all sorts of stuff, not all of which made any sense, but she seemed happy. Someone in her family was going to come and get her, Amy thought, but she’d stay until they showed up.

  Sounded as if Claire might be out of commission for a while. He wasn’t quite the next in command but he was getting

  up there. He was happy that the sheriff had put him in charge of this search party and the way he looked at it, if he caught Chet, then he might get to do more of this type of work. Maybe Claire would be so bad off that they’d make him temporary chief investigator. He hated to think that way, but he didn’t see how else he’d advance as the department was so small. He’d thought of moving and joining a bigger force, but now, with Amy in his life, it might be more difficult.

  As minutes passed Bill began to feel stupid just standing up on the bridge. Chet wasn’t going to come close to it with Bill standing there, plus he had this feeling that Chet was long gone. He could have hitched a ride out of town minutes after they found Claire.

  Bill crossed to the far side of the bridge and then walked down into the weeds off to the side of the road. The bugs were buzzing away this time of day. The full sun made his head feel heavy.

  Might be smart to tuck himself into the shade under a sprawling oak tree. From there, he could see anyone approaching the bridge from either side. It was a perfect location.

  Out of the sun, he was more comfortable, but there was still a warm, sultry wind that blew over the land. The constant movement of the water of the Chippewa hypnotized him. He felt his eyes grow heavy and the sound of buzzing in his ears lulled him to sleep.

  In his dream he was running and running after someone, but they were always a few steps ahead of him and they would never turn around so he could get a look at their face and be sure of who they were.

  Then something tickled his nose. He brushed it away. Tickled again. His eyes fluttered open and Amy was looking down at him.

  “Hard at work?” she asked.

  “Holy shit. How did that happen?” He jumped up.

  “Don’t you know you’re never supposed to sit down on the job?”

  “Amy, please don’t tell anyone. What time is it?”

  “You could only have been sleeping a few minutes. Don’t worry. I’m sure he didn’t sneak by you. Claire told me what she wanted us to do.”

  “Claire?”

  “Yes, remember. Our chief investigator?”

  “But I thought she was out of commission.”

  “Oh, I think she’s going to take the rest of the day—a little Vicodin vacation—but I expect to see her at work bright and early tomorrow. She’ll want to know that we did what she wanted us to do.”

  “Heil Claire.”

  “Hey, don’t be nasty, Sleepy. Or should I call you Dopey?”

  “So what does she want us to do?”

  “Pretty much what you’ve done, but send someone to Chet’s house and tell Rich to be on the lookout.”

  “Can you do that?” Bill asked.

  “Nope, I’m meeting the wife of Mr. Bloaty, or Mrs. Swaggum as she should be known. I’m not looking forward to it. I’ve never had anyone ID a body before.”

  “Does she have any idea why he might be down here?”

  “I’m not sure. She said this isn’t the first time he’s disappeared. I got the idea he was kind of a wild man.”

  Bill said, “Sounds like you could have your hands full.”

  * * *

  Meg wasn’t sure why her mom had called her for a ride since she knew that Meg couldn’t drive yet. Though Meg had just turned sixteen, she still had to take behind-the-wheel lessons and pass the test to get her license. All she could guess was that her mom felt out of it and didn’t want to have to arrange anything. Her mom had sounded loopy on the phone so Meg told her not to worry, she’d take care of it. Just to sit tight and someone would come and get her.

  First Meg tried to call Bridget. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be home; Meg almost had her aunt’s schedule memorized, but she tried there anyway. If she remembered right, she had her regular babysitter today.

  Rachel answered the phone and said, “Hello, who is this?” her four-year-old voice sounding so
ft and high.

  “This is your cousin, Meg.”

  “My Meg?”

  “Yes. Is your mom home?”

  “Nope. She working.”

  “Can you tell her I called?”

  “Do you want to talk to me now?”

  “Rachel, I would love to, but I’m busy.”

  “I’m busy too. Goodbye.” The phone clicked off.

  So then Meg decided she would try Curt. She hated to call over to the Hedberg’s. His mother always sounded put out when she did. Mrs. Hedberg liked her well enough, but she also thought Meg was corrupting her son.

  “Hedberg’s residence,” a young girl’s voice answered.

  Oh, good, it was Nelly, Curt’s seven-year-old sister. “Hi, Nell. It’s Meg. Is Curt around?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I think he went with Dad to get some stuff from town.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Nope.”

  Nelly was a nice girl, but not real talkative.

  “Could you ask him to call me when he gets home? It’s important.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks.”

  Meg hung up the phone and shrugged her shoulders. Hopefully Rich would have his cell phone on. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  He answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Rich. It’s Meg.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, it’s Mom. She’s fine.”

  “What’s going on? What’d you mean she’s fine?”

  “She is. It’s just she’s in the hospital. She broke her arm.”

  “What? How?”

  “I guess she fell, but she’s fine. I talked to her.” Meg hesitated, then asked, “Do you think you could go and pick her up?

  She wants to come home. Says she’s too doped up to work.”

  “Of course. Why didn’t she call me?”

  “Who knows? She’s a little out of it. I think the only number she could remember was home.”