by Mary Logue
“It was like Brad said.” Jenny didn’t want to have to talk about her mother’s death. Everything had started then. Everything had ended then. It had been the worst day of her life.
“Can you elaborate?”
“Mom was putting the sorghum in the press, and Dad pushed her. You know the rest.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Beats me. You never knew with Dad, how he’d take something, what would make him mad. Mom had been saying she was going to leave him. I don’t think she meant to, maybe she was just bugging him, but I think that made him mad. He liked to have power over everyone in the family.”
“I think your mother was trying to leave, Jenny. She had called Pit Snyder and had asked him to help her.”
Jenny felt her heart break open. What if they could have gotten away from Dad? What if Mom had just piled them in the car that morning and gone away? She would still be alive. Dad would still be alive. Brad wouldn’t be in jail. Oh, what could have been. Jenny felt as if what had not come to pass was freezing her up. She didn’t know what to say.
“Jenny?”
She spit out: “Well, it didn’t happen.”
Claire looked at her with sadness in her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Billy jumped in with some questions. “What happened after your mother died? Did your father change in his behavior toward you?”
“Well, like we told you, he threatened to kill us. But then it was like that never happened. Right around the funeral, he was pretty nice to us. There were other people around and all. The grieving family. That routine. But when it was just us and him again, he got meaner. We never pleased him. He yelled at us.” Jenny looked at Billy to see if he’d understand. “Mom wasn’t around anymore to take it for us, so he took all his anger out on us.”
Billy nodded as if he knew what she was talking about and kept up the questions. “Did he ever hit you or hurt you in any way?”
Jenny felt the hurts welling up in her, all the things that he had done over the years pushing to get out and be told. But she kept them in. “Not me. But he and Brad got into a fight, and he broke Brad’s arm.”
Claire made a note on a pad of paper in front of her. Then she asked, “He did? When was this?”
“About a year ago.”
“Did Brad go to the doctor?”
“Oh, yeah. Dad took him in. Brad wasn’t much use to Dad with a broken arm.”
“Good. There’ll be a record of that.” Claire leaned toward Jenny and put a hand out to her, but didn’t touch her. “Jenny, is there anything else you want to tell us that happened with your father?”
“Not much more. He’d yell at us, threaten us, but that was about it. Sometimes he could be all right. He was always pretty nice to Nora. But she saw what went on. It was hard on her too.”
Claire asked the next question, because it was something she had been wondering about. “Did your father ever do anything sexually inappropriate with you?”
Jenny felt words push into her head, into her mouth, but she managed to avoid them. She shook her head and kept her answer short. “He was a creep, not a pervert.”
“Now, Jenny, can you tell us what happened the night your father was killed?”
And so Jenny went over it again. She had already told much of it before. How they had all gone together in the car, how Nora had stayed home, how it was Lola’s idea, how they went their separate ways at the dance, then how she and Brad ran into their father.
“Jenny, before you told us that your father was already stabbed when you saw him again, but after what Brad has told us, that wasn’t true, was it?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Well, he was by the johns, and Brad had just found me, and then we ran into Dad. Brad was trying to persuade me to go home. He thought I was too out of it. Dad didn’t want to leave yet. They got into a fight. Dad called Brad some names. He started yelling at Brad.”
“Was this unusual?”
“Not at all. Dad was always telling Brad he was a piece of shit. I can say that, can’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Brad tried so hard to be good and not get Dad riled, but I think that’s what bugged Dad the most. That Brad was kind of perfect.”
“What happened next?”
“I think Dad took a swing at Brad. Brad just ducked. But then Brad punched him in the face.”
“Hard?”
“Pretty hard, I think, because then Dad started to hold his head.” Jenny remembered how black it had been all around them. Like they were standing in a pool of oil.
“Jenny, can you tell us what happened after that?”
“You know, that’s when it gets pretty fuzzy. I don’t think I even knew Brad had stabbed him. The next thing I remember is Dad lying on the ground, and my hands were covered with blood. I was trying to stop it from bleeding. Brad pulled me away. We went and washed our hands.”
“Did Brad say anything?”
“Not really.”
“Did you and Brad talk about what had happened to your father after that?”
“No. I don’t think we wanted to. After we left the hospital and we were driving home in the car, we didn’t even talk about him.” Jenny smiled, thinking about that night. “I don’t know about Brad, but I was so happy I could have died.”
This time of night was hard. Ten-thirty. Meg was sleeping. The dishes were done, the kitchen straightened. Claire had checked that the doors were locked, the windows shut and latched. Left the new night-light burning in the hallway. It was time for her to go to bed and try to sleep.
Claire stood next to the window in her bedroom and looked out over the town. She had started hating going to sleep, which was an odd feeling, since it had always been a refuge for her. But the dreams. She never knew when the dreams would come. The one of the woman with no hands haunted her during the day as no other dream had.
Even now, with Brad Spitzler ready to plea-bargain his case, she felt unsettled by the Spitzler ordeal. What had triggered Brad Spitzler’s stabbing? What had Jed finally done that Brad could no longer tolerate? Claire wondered if it had something to do with Brad being in his last year of high school and not wanting to leave the two girls alone with Jed. What had gone on there? Claire had asked about sexual abuse, and Jenny had said there had been none, but still it niggled at Claire, the possibility of it.
Jenny hadn’t been much help. But Claire had been glad to hear about the broken arm and had called before she left work and requested that the medical record be sent over to her tomorrow. She would pass it on to Brad’s attorney.
Claire was actually pleased they had gotten as much out of Jenny as they had. When she had gone to pick the girl up, she had seen that Jenny was pretty wasted again.
After they had finished the interview, Jenny had asked to see Brad. Claire had called down to the jail and asked the guard to bring him up. But the guard had called back a few minutes later and said that Brad didn’t want to see her.
Jenny had taken it pretty hard. She looked like the air had been knocked out of her. Then she recovered, and Claire drove her home. She didn’t say much of anything for the whole drive. Poor kid.
The phone rang. Claire let it ring twice, hoping it wasn’t work, and then grabbed it on the third ring. “Hello,” she said, sitting down on her bed.
“Did I wake you?” Rich’s deep voice came over the line.
Just the voice she wanted to hear. She put her head on her pillow and stretched out on the bed. “No. I was just contemplating my pillow. It’s a new meditative mantra my therapist has me doing.”
“I know I’m not supposed to be calling, but I wanted to see how you were doing. If you still existed and all.”
Claire chuckled. He had such a good memory. “Rich, there are no rules for this. I’m sorry if I made it sound that way. You can’t really do anything wrong, because I don’t know what I’m doing myself. I’m glad you called. After all, I was the one who stopped over the other
night.”
“Yes. I remember that.”
“I do exist.”
“Good.”
“I interviewed Jenny Spitzler today. We brought her into the station and grilled her for an hour or so. Just needed corroboration for Brad’s story.”
“How did that go?”
“It’s such a sad story, Rich. Those poor kids with that awful man. Still, after I was done talking to her, I couldn’t help feeling that I hadn’t gotten it all. I don’t blame her for not wanting to talk about it, but we need it as background for this case. However, I don’t understand why Brad killed his father. Why that night? What made it different from any other night? I feel like Jed must have done something to trigger it.”
“Well, we know it wasn’t for money. Jed didn’t have any.” “Right.”
“How about to protect someone?”
The answer struck all too close to Claire’s own dilemma, why she had shot and killed her partner. She killed him to protect her sister and her daughter. “Yes, that would be a good reason. A very good reason.”
There was silence on the line. Claire didn’t want to say good night. Even listening to Rich breathe made her feel safer. “Okay, I’ll let you go now,” he said, “but first I will tell you what the French say to one another when they go to sleep. My mother used to say it to me. Fais des beaux rêves, rêves de moi.”
“I didn’t know you spoke French.”
“I don’t—that’s about all I know how to say.”
“What does it mean?”
“Have beautiful dreams, dream of me.”
You don’t know all of it.
I never imagined I did.
It didn’t happen the way I told you. I’ve told that story so many times it’s become nearly the truth. But it’s not the way it happened.
Would you like to try again?
I should tell you something about myself. I’m an unusual law enforcement person, if you will. I don’t believe in the death penalty.
I don’t talk about this very much. It’s not a popular point of view among my fellow workers. It isn’t that I’m religious about it. I’m not very religious. But now that I think about it, maybe I am religious about this. If there is a God, then that force, that power, should make such decisions.
I just don’t think we have the right, we humans have the right, to take away a human life. To kill someone because they’ve killed someone seems contradictory to me. Do you agree?
My sentiments are similar to yours.
Good. That might help you understand the rest of this. Understand how I’ve been feeling about what I’ve done. First, let me go over the particulars.
My husband was killed. We thought it was a drug gang hit. I later found out it was a hit.
My daughter saw the killer. He tried to kidnap her. He did kidnap my sister, but she got away.
I found out who had masterminded all of this. This is the part you don’t know. It was Bruce, my partner.
He was behind it all. He was the leader of the drug gang. He had my husband killed. He lied and lied to me. He wanted me all to himself. He said he loved me. But I found out. I found out who he really was. He did kill the drug dealer named Red. That part’s true. But Red didn’t kill Bruce.
I did. I killed Bruce.
After he shot Red, he turned toward me with the gun still in his hands. I don’t know what he would have done. Maybe he wasn’t going to shoot me. Maybe he would have put his gun down. Maybe he would even have surrendered to me. I don’t know for sure. I’ll never know.
But I couldn’t take the chance. I was afraid for my daughter, I was afraid for my sister. If he killed me, I was afraid he would kill them. I wouldn’t be able to protect them. I felt like I had no choice.
So I shot him.
I killed him.
Then I lied about it. To save his reputation. To save myself. It was as if there were two Bruces, and I had to protect the one I had loved.
But you shot him in self-defense, didn’t you?
It could be seen that way. But I felt like I went into the situation, which I had set up, gunning for him.
Have you told anyone?
No.
It’s time to start talking about it. It will make you sick if you don’t. It already has made you sick.
Who should I tell?
Well, you’ve started already. You’ve told me. And I’m a safe person to tell. Find one or two other people who are safe and tell them. Then be quiet for a while. That might be enough.
Telling the true story will begin to set your life back in order. I think you will feel better.
But I killed him.
Yes, but he didn’t kill you. You saved yourself. What a brave woman you are.
24
SHE’S disappeared, and I’m afraid something awful might happen to her.” Ella Gunderson was so glad to get the woman deputy on the line. Claire Watkins would know what to do.
“Who is this?” Claire’s voice sounded puzzled.
“I’m sorry. This is Ella Gunderson. The school just called. She didn’t go to school. Jenny. She’s gone.” Mrs. Gunderson knew she should slow down, but she was so upset. The last week had been a very hard one, and now she was so afraid for Jenny.
“When did you last see her?”
Mrs. Gunderson thought about the morning rush, getting the girls fed. She hadn’t said much to Jenny, wishing she would dress a little nicer. She was happy to see that she was even ready to go to school. “She got up this morning like usual. She looked awful, but she was dressed and even ate some breakfast. She left when it was time to catch the school bus. That was two hours ago. Then the school called about five minutes ago. She never made it there. They’re not even sure she was on the bus.”
“Where do you think she is?”
“I don’t know. I wonder if she even got on the bus. She might be hiding out somewhere around here. She has been very upset about her brother being in jail and all the goings-on.”
“I’ll ask everyone to keep a lookout here in town. I’ll check in with the school. Call me if she shows up. Hang tight.”
When Mrs. Gunderson put down the phone, she wondered how one did that—hang tight. Keep a hold of oneself. She always did the best when she was busy. But as she looked around the kitchen, she didn’t see much else to do. She had already finished the breakfast dishes.
The horror of what Jenny might be doing to herself kept flashing into Mrs. Gunderson’s mind. Maybe gone off someplace and taking those pills to kill herself—it was almost more than Mrs. Gunderson could bear to think of.
She remembered how she had felt after receiving the news that her husband had been killed in Korea. They had only been married two months when he had left to fight. She had not wanted him to go, but he had teased her and said he would be back so soon she wouldn’t even miss him. He was wrong. She had gone on missing him for forty-six long years, and her time was not over.
She didn’t want Jenny to die. And what was worse was that she felt responsible. She had said she would leave them. How could she have done that when the losses that Jenny had suffered were so great?
She didn’t think she could quietly sit and wait. She felt too anxious. She decided to go upstairs and check Jenny’s room. Was it possible that Jenny could have snuck back in the house and gone back to bed? Wouldn’t that be a relief?
Mrs. Gunderson went to the bottom of the stairs and grabbed the handrail and stepped carefully up the stairs. She walked down the hallway and pushed open the door to Jenny’s room. The room was a mess. She had straightened in here once, but Jenny hadn’t appreciated it, so she had left it alone ever since. There were clothes strewn across the floor, and the bed was in dissarray.
When Mrs. Gunderson walked up to straighten out the bed clothes, she saw the note, a piece of paper resting on the pillow. She picked it up and held it close in front of her face, but couldn’t make out the words. Maybe it was some homework that Jenny had forgotten. But she had a bad feeling about it.
She walked hurriedly down to her room and found her magnifying glass, then went and stood in the flood of sunlight from the window and was able to make out the note:
Dear Brad and Nora and Mrs. Gunderson,
I’m sorry. I can’t do it anymore. It’s all my fault. Dad’s death is all my fault.
Jenny
Mrs. Gunderson felt her knees start to shake. She had to find Jenny before she did something bad to herself. The note sounded so final. How could she find her in time? Where might she have gone?
She set down the note and her magnifying glass and ran to the stairs. She started down them, and then what she had always feared would happen, did. Halfway down the stairs, she missed a step and tumbled.
“Brad, you have to help me,” Claire said to the boy as she opened up the door to his cell and let herself in.
Brad was stretched out on his cot, reading a car magazine. He looked up at her. He had a short growth of peach fuzz on his cheeks, and his hair was dark with grease and messed up. He didn’t look as pulled together as he usually did. But jail often did that to people—brought out the worst in them.
Claire perched on the edge of the table in his cell. “Jenny’s disappeared. Mrs. Gunderson just called. Jenny never made it to school.”
He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, then stretched down an arm and set the magazine on the floor. He groaned and sat up. “Not Jenny. I need to be home to make sure she doesn’t go off the deep end. I don’t think Mrs. Gunderson can handle her.”
“Do you know where she might go? Is there any place that you can think of that she might have gone to? A favorite hangout?”
Brad lifted his head up and said, “I know one place she might be. A place she’d run off to when things got to rough with Dad. Kind of a retreat for her.”
“Is it on your farm?”
“Yes, she would walk out to the edge of the coulee.”
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
“I’ll draw you a map.”
Claire handed him her notebook and a pen. Brad talked as he sketched out the map. “Here’s our mailbox down by the road. You walk straight out into the field from there and head toward the trees. When you get to the treeline, you’ll find a path, it’s pretty winding, but follow it until you can’t go any farther. You’ll be at the coulee. She should be somewhere near there.”
