by Stephen Frey
When I come out of my office, Mrs. Erickson’s finished with her call and she looks up from her dated issue of Cosmo. She’s a stocky woman with white hair, a naturally tough expression, and a large mole on one cheek. We’ve had a tense truce ever since I was called into that emergency session of the town council four years ago, but it’s still obvious we don’t like each other.
“Are you going out to meet Cindy at the Prescott estate?” she asks with a smug smile.
“I’m just going down 681 to check on her, I’m not going to the estate.” She knows who called because she has Caller ID on her phone. I don’t because there isn’t enough money in the budget, according to the town council. “She says she’s being followed by some guys in a van.”
A feigned look of deep concern comes to Mrs. Erickson’s face. “Poor little rich girl. I do hope she’s all right.”
Mrs. Erickson doesn’t give a fat rat’s ass about Cindy. Like most of the locals, she despises the River Families. She despises their mansions and their expensive cars but most of all she despises their arrogance. I can’t say I blame her but I’m caught in the middle on this one. During the long winters when the estates are vacant, my deputies and I patrol them to make sure no one breaks in. So the River Families treat us differently than the other locals. We get respectful nods from them and I get an off-the-books bonus. It’s usually pretty healthy, too. At least a few thousand dollars in cash subtly slipped to me at the end of the season by whichever River Family was nominated to take care of me that year. A few thousand dollars goes a long way up here, and I count on that cash at the end of every summer.
“I’m going out there to make sure she’s all right.”
A knowing smile replaces Mrs. Erickson’s look of concern. “I bet you are.”
I know what she’s thinking and it pisses me off, but I just change the subject. I’ve learned that it’s the best thing to do. “Have you heard any news on the storm?”
“Yes.”
She says nothing more, she just stares at me. I hate it when she plays this game. I spread my arms. “Well?”
“This one’s not going to be too bad. A friend of mine talked to somebody up north near International Falls and it’s already starting to taper off up there. Most of the heavy stuff is going south of us, down into Iowa and Illinois. We’ll get a few inches, but that’ll be it.” She holds her hand up. “But there’s a Clipper behind this one that’s going to dump at least a foot and a half on us, maybe more.”
One thing Mrs. Erickson is usually spot-on about is the weather. No rumors here. It’s as if she knows she has to be straight up about something to make her lies seem more credible. “When?” I ask as I slip into my parka. It’s a bone-chilling twelve degrees outside.
“It’s supposed to start late Sunday night or early Monday morning.”
“One hell of a way to start the week,” I mutter, heading out without saying good-bye.
I hustle across the parking lot toward my white Jeep Cherokee that has dakota county sheriff blazed down both sides in big, black letters. Ice and crusty snow crunch beneath my boots as I jog. At six-four and 230 pounds I crush things easily. I work out five days a week in my tiny home gym, so even at thirty-nine I’m still in decent shape.
At the stoplight in the middle of town I turn left off Route 7 and onto 681. Now I’m heading south toward Hayward. My wipers slap back and forth across the windshield as I pass a campground on my left that’s run by Ike Mitchell’s younger brother, Mickey, and just like that, the dense forest closes in around me and Bruner fades into my rearview mirror. The trees are so thick on both sides of the road you can’t see more than a few feet back into them. I’ve often wondered what’s lurking in there. Deer that will jump out in front of a vehicle with no warning and plow through the windshield, hooves flailing. Solitary black bears, wolf packs, and lots of coyotes, too. But I’ve always sensed that something else is lurking in there, too, something sinister that someday I’ll have to face.
A mile down the road I pass the first River Family gate on my right. It’s the Campbell estate. Old Bill Campbell is from St. Paul and owns a cable television network. I’ve heard he’s worth over five hundred million dollars. That amount of money so boggles my mind I don’t even bother thinking about it anymore. I used to wonder what it would be like to be that rich every night as I passed the Campbell entrance on my way home, but no more. It made me so bitter by the time I walked into my house a few minutes later I could hardly stand it. It was really starting to get to me, so I learned to let it go.
The thing is, for all of his money old Bill’s a pretty unpleasant guy. He doesn’t just keep his distance from the locals, he can be downright nasty to them even when he needs something. Last summer he had Bat McCleary do some work on one of his cars, his favorite Cadillac he keeps at his estate, but he argued about the charge when he came to pick it up, and he was an arrogant son of a bitch about it, too, I heard. So Bat took 20 percent off the tab just to get the guy out of his station. Apparently, old Bill was laughing about the whole deal with his son as they got into the car and drove off and that really got to Bat.
Bill’s wife lost both of her prized poodles later that summer. No one knows for sure what happened, but we’ve all got a pretty good idea. Getting even is very important to people around here. Even to a good-natured guy like Bat.
I pass three more estates on the right, then my house on the left. My place is one of only two homes on the east side of 681 outside the town limits of Bruner and Hayward. It’s composed of a four-bedroom log house and that drafty old barn across the yard my father and I built Intrepid in. Both the house and the barn are set back from the road on a slight rise. All in all it’s twenty acres, only two of which are cleared. It’s the place my father bought for our family when he moved us here from Los Angeles the autumn I turned fifteen, and the place I bought when I came back here four years ago. My family had long since moved away when I became sheriff of Dakota County, and at that time it was owned by an older man whose wife had just died.
I don’t bother to look up the driveway to see if my wife’s home as I race past. I figure if I don’t see Vivian’s car, she won’t see mine.
I’m wrong. My cell phone rings right away and it’s our home number flashing on the tiny screen. Vivian must have been looking out for me from the window in our second-floor bedroom, expecting me, since I told her I’d be home a little after four and it’s now four-fifteen. She can only see about fifty feet of 681 through the trees from our bedroom, but the Cherokee is pretty recognizable with that black, block lettering down the sides.
I don’t answer her call and I can’t tell her later it’s because of bad reception. My cell phone antenna still gets one bar here and Vivian knows that. So I’ll have to come up with another excuse for ignoring her. Otherwise not answering could explode into an all-night war. I just hope she doesn’t call Mrs. Erickson. Mrs. Erickson won’t call her, but if Vivian calls in, Mrs. Erickson will be happy to tell her what she thinks is going on. She likes my wife even less than she likes me.
Vivian calls me four times in a row. I’ll have to come up with a damn good excuse for why I didn’t answer now.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror as I check to make sure Vivian hasn’t jumped in her car and come after me. I’ve got dark hair with a few silver flecks, gray eyes, thin straight brows, faint crow’s feet, full lips, and a three-day growth because I hate shaving.
Just as I refocus on the road, a doe leaps in front of me and I have to whip the Cherokee into the oncoming lane to avoid her, but there’s no danger. She’s the only creature I’ve seen since I left town. I haven’t passed a single car coming the other way.
A few miles farther south I spot Cindy’s car ahead on the left. It’s a new BMW 7 Series. It’s off the road in the snow in front of the tree line at a strange angle. I’m sure it’s hers because there’s no chance anyone else in Dakota County would be driving such an expensive car at this time of year. There’s a blue v
an parked near it with its right tires in the snow and its left tires still on the pavement.
I swing the Cherokee around 180 degrees and come to a skidding stop behind the van. Then I flip on the emergency lights, reach into the glove compartment, grab my 9mm pistol, chamber the first round, hop out, holster the gun, and move carefully ahead, one hand over my eyes to shield them from the falling snow. I give the rusty van a wide berth as I move past it, aware that there might be more men inside. I should have called for backup, but I didn’t want my deputies to know that what I was doing involved Cindy. It seems like everyone in Dakota County suspects Cindy and me of being more than just friends—including Vivian.
Four men are milling around the BMW, two on either side. The man by the driver’s door is leaning down with his hands in his pockets. His face is just inches from the window. We’ve only got a few minutes of daylight left so it’s hard to tell for sure, but it looks like the window is open a little. The men eye me with contempt, like I’ve spoiled their party.
“What’s going on here?” I call loudly from the road. “What’s the trouble?”
The man standing by the driver’s door straightens up. “No trouble, officer,” he answers in a friendly voice. “We got everything under control.”
The men are rough looking. They’re gaunt beneath their threadbare jeans and old jackets and they have long stringy hair, unshaven faces, and hungry looks in their eyes. Hungry looks that tell me they’ve never come close to touching a woman as beautiful as Cindy Prescott. I press my arm against my body, feeling for the pistol in my shoulder holster, feeling for exactly how the holster is positioned against my side. “Anyone inside the car?” I call, watching them glance at each other uneasily.
“Yeah,” the guy by the driver’s door answers.
This one is clearly the leader, the one I’ll have to take down first if things suddenly go wrong. I’ve shot men before, I don’t have a problem with it. Some people might even say I like it and that it’s one reason I’m sheriff of Dakota County and no longer a lawman in a more important place. “How many?”
“Just one.”
“Man? Woman?”
“Lady.”
“She all right?”
The leader looks around at the other men like he’s stalling for time, like he’s hoping one of them will come up with a good answer because he can’t. “Yeah, yeah,” he finally says. “She spun off, you know? Slipped on a patch of ice, I guess. We’re gonna help her get her car back on the road. We got the situation under control. You can get going.”
“Great, thanks.” I take a few steps toward the Cherokee, then turn back. “Before I go, why don’t you do me a favor and open the driver’s door?” The leader straightens up quickly and his head snaps back around. He had been leaning down toward the glass again, thinking he’d gotten rid of me. “Open the door,” I demand, my voice turning steely. “Now.”
“I told you,” the man answers defiantly, “we got everything under control.”
One of the guys on the passenger side of the BMW starts to reach into his jacket, but before he can make his move I’ve got my pistol leveled at him. I don’t know why but I’ve always been able to draw like chain-blue lightning, and hit what I’m aiming at. See, that’s the key. A lot of people can draw fast, but they miss. I don’t.
“Don’t be stupid,” I advise the guy. He throws his hands in the air without even being told to. God, I hate a coward. I almost wish he’d gone for his gun. I swing the pistol to the left, at the leader, and he throws his hands up, too. “Open the damn door.”
When he does, Cindy comes tumbling out of the car like something stored in an overhead bin that’s shifted in flight. She sobs as she scrambles to her feet, then races toward me and throws her arms around my neck.
“They told me they’d hurt me if I yelled, if I tried to get out of the car,” she whispers. “They told me they’d kill you, then drag me into the van and … well … I can’t even think about that.” She pulls me even closer. “Thank God you came, Paul.”
“It’s all right,” I assure her. “You’re safe now.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Run ’em in.”
She gasps. “Oh, God, no, I don’t want to press charges.”
“You don’t have to. I will.”
“But I’ll have to testify.”
I nod, keeping a sharp eye on the men. “Yes, you will.”
“Then they’ll really come after me,” she says. “Just get them out of here, Paul. Please!”
She’s not thinking straight, but I understand. “Okay, okay. Go get in the truck.” She bounds away like that scared doe I almost hit a few miles back. When I hear the passenger door of the Cherokee slam shut, I nod at the leader. “Where are you boys from?”
“Hayward,” he answers, looking like a hyena who’s missed a scavenge. His head’s down and there’s a frustrated look on his face.
“Well, you guys better get on back there,” I say forcefully, keeping the pistol trained on the leader. “Right now.”
“Yes, sir,” they all mumble with their heads down.
All of them except the leader. He stares at me sullenly.
“You got a problem, son?” I say “son” but he’s probably my age, if not a little older. He needs to understand that I have no fear of him at all. “Well, do you?”
“Nope.” He gestures at the rest of the gang as he saunters past. “I guess they don’t appreciate Good Samaritans up here in Dakota County, boys.”
I ought to check his ID, but I don’t want to rile him up any more than I already have. During my two decades as a lawman I’ve learned to evaluate people quickly and my analysis tells me he’s dangerous. I’m outnumbered four to one and even for a lawman who’s as good with a gun as I am, those are terrible odds. Not in the movies, but here in the real world of northern Wisconsin I could quickly find myself in real trouble. And I don’t want to end up in the Superior morgue tonight wearing a toe-tag.
So I just watch them get in the van, turn around, and roar off. Like I said, getting revenge is very important to people around here.
2
THE PRESCOTT MANSION is huge. It’s three floors and ten thousand square feet, not including a finished basement it seems like you could park a 747 in. Also on the grounds are two guest houses, two tennis courts, a par-three golf hole, a heated pool and spa, a squash court, and a garden with a hedge maze that’s big enough to get lost in.
I know because I did. It was the summer I was sixteen, the summer I met Cindy on the river. One moment she was standing beside me in the maze, the next she was gone and I was alone with just the ten-foot-high hedges towering over me. They were so thick I could barely see through them, much less pry them apart. She let me wander around in there for fifteen minutes before magically reappearing, and she thought the whole thing was hysterical. There were tears running down her face, she was laughing so hard when she finally came around a corner, clicking her camera at me over and over. I actually disliked her in those moments for making such a fool of me, for making me yell her name over and over like a lost child in a department store calling for his mother. I wanted to get back at her, but I never did. I didn’t even give her a cold shoulder. I was too scared she’d turn her back on me and I’d never see her again.
My cell phone rings as I ease the Cherokee to a stop in front of the mansion’s main entrance. Vivian’s calling and it’s the tenth time she’s tried to get me since I sped past our house on my way out here. She’s alone in our house and she tells me all the time that it scares her to death to be there by herself, especially after dark. She has this recurring nightmare that she’s going to be murdered in the house. I feel guilty but I’m still not going to pick up. She’d be yelling at me before I could even say hello. I might as well wait as long as I can to face that storm.
One of the mansion’s double doors swings open and Cindy appears, beckoning for me to come inside. After I got her car back o
n the road, I followed her here. She peeled off to the right back down the driveway where it splits, and she headed to the garages on the lower level as she stabbed her hand out the window pointing for me to go straight and come here. I won’t stay long. I told myself that a hundred times on the way over.
I hop out of the truck without cutting the engine and jog toward her through the falling snow. Her smile widens as I move past her through the tall door, as though she’s won some kind of victory. I smell oil burning. She’s already turned up the heat from the fifty degrees her father keeps it on during the winter to keep the pipes from freezing.
I look around as I step into the foyer. The place is amazing, just as I remember it. Huge rooms full of expensive-looking furniture. It drips with wealth. Cindy’s great-grandfather founded a commodities trading company a century ago that the family still owns. It’s one of the biggest in the country, so this place has everything imaginable, just like their compound in Minneapolis does. From June to early September family and friends come to the estate here on the Boulder, but Cindy’s father shuts the place down after Labor Day and they go back to the city ahead of the first cold wave, which usually hits before month end. Occasionally they use the mansion for Thanksgiving or Christmas, to celebrate an old-fashioned holiday if the weather forecast isn’t too bleak for those few days. And sometimes family members come up on weekends by themselves to get away from the city, like Cindy has this weekend. Otherwise, the mansion stays empty until late spring.
Cindy gazes at me like she’s a love-struck princess and I’m her knight in shining armor. She’s so beautiful. She’s thirty-eight but she looks ten years younger. She has long blond hair, sculpted cheeks, and a comely shape that’s apparent despite the frumpy sweater and baggy jeans she’s wearing. And she has dark blue eyes that seem innocent and mysterious all at once, along with a smile that seems like it could light up the Twin Cities by itself.
She’s married to a United States congressman named Jack Harrison who joined the Prescott family business just after their wedding a decade ago, then went into politics last year. Harrison’s family owned another big commodities company, which merged into Prescott Trading a month after he and Cindy were married. I’ve never figured out which was the dowry: Harrison’s company—or Cindy.
