Heaven's Fury

by Stephen Frey

  Harrison’s one of those can’t-miss guys. He’s got dashing good looks and a light-up-the-room charisma about him. Even though he’s only a first-term congressman, he’s already being mentioned in the Midwest as a potential presidential candidate.

  Cindy hasn’t had children and neither have I. We haven’t because Vivian can’t. I don’t know why Cindy and Jack haven’t.

  “You want me to look around?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and moves toward me until she’s so close I can feel her warm breath on my face. “No.”

  “Then I better get going.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she says firmly, slipping her fingers into mine.

  “I’m not?”

  “No. Those guys in the van might come looking for me. We both know what they wanted.” She shakes her head hard. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t feel safe out here by myself tonight.”

  I hesitate. It looked to me like Cindy slid off the road because of the snow. I assumed it happened that way because the van was parked slightly behind the BMW, as if the men had pulled off when they saw what happened in front of them. If they’d run her off the road, the van should have been farther down the road than the car. Of course, they could have pulled back to make it look like she’d run off the road but they didn’t seem that smart.

  “You didn’t want to press charges,” I remind her. They still could have threatened her even if she did slide off the road. Which is what I figured happened. It’s just that I’ve been trained to notice inconsistencies like that in people’s stories and it makes me suspicious when I hear them say things that don’t add up. “If you thought they might come after you, why didn’t you want them locked up?”

  “What could you have locked them up for?”

  “I would have figured out something.”

  Cindy looks at me like she doesn’t know what to say. I understand what she’s going through. I’ve seen that same expression on women’s faces before in Dakota County after their husbands have beaten them. It’s a look that tells me they’re caught in the middle. They want to do something but they don’t want their husbands being even bigger bastards the next time because they had to spend the night on the cold cement floor of a jail cell. The middle is a bad place to be.

  “Why didn’t you want me to do that?” I press. “Why didn’t you want me to lock them up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I shake my head. “They aren’t coming here, Cindy. I called Sheriff Wilson down in Hayward while I was following you here. He sent one of his deputies to the county line to see who they were and to make sure they didn’t turn around. He’ll find out who the driver was. Everything’s taken care of. He and his crew won’t bother you again.”

  “Thanks,” she murmurs.

  It’s almost as if she’s disappointed. “You’ll be fine,” I say confidently.

  She squeezes my hand hard. “At least stay for dinner. I’ll fix something good. It’ll be fun.”

  Cindy doesn’t know the first thing about cooking. What she means is that she’ll take me to Duluth and buy me something good to eat. She’s saying whatever she thinks will get me to stay because she has something important to tell me. I know her so well. “Why’d you come up here by yourself?”

  “I needed to get away, I needed time to think.” She bows her head. “It’s just that … well, Jack’s been … he’s been, oh, God, I—”

  The rest of her sentence is swallowed up by several sharp sobs. She thrusts her arms around my neck and squeezes hard. It feels good. The same way it did when she ran up to me out on 681.

  “Please don’t go,” she begs. “Please don’t.”

  “What’s Jack been doing?” I demand. This could just be today’s feature presentation, I remind myself. “What were you going to say?”

  She takes a deep breath, pulls back a little, and gathers herself. “Jack’s been hitting me.”

  “What?” She hikes her sweater up to her neck and I see that her left side is bruised. I grit my teeth as she lets the sweater fall back down. “Son of a bitch,” I hiss. “How long’s this been going on?”

  “A while, but it’s getting worse. And it’s happening more often.”

  “Have you told your father?”

  “I tried,” she whispers, “but he didn’t want to listen. He doesn’t want anything to get in the way of Jack’s future. I think he’s looking forward to spending nights at the White House more than he is to having grandchildren.”

  I wouldn’t believe her except I know that Cindy’s father is one of the coldest men on earth. “You need to call the Minneapolis police. I still have friends on the force down there. I’ll give you the name of one of the guys who I used to—”

  “I can’t call the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Of course, you can. If you don’t, I’ll call them for you.”

  She shakes her head. “I told you. If I ever did anything that might put Jack’s political future in jeopardy, I’d probably have a bigger problem than getting hit.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Nothing.”

  “Cindy, I can’t just sit here and let—”

  “Kiss me, Paul.” She rises up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine, then runs her long fingernails down the sides of my neck. “Please.”

  Her hand slides down my arm to my leg and I feel her fingertips moving across the top of my thigh and it all comes rushing back to me. But somehow I’m finally able to pry myself away. If I let her touch me like this for too long, there’s no telling where it would end up.

  She looks up at me like I’m crazy. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then make love to me. We’ve got the place to ourselves. It’s perfect.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m married. Jesus, come on, Cindy. Vivian’s waiting for me.”

  “You hate Vivian,” Cindy snaps. Suddenly she’s cold and impersonal, focused on making her point. “Everyone does. She’s a bitch and a little off.” Cindy twirls her finger round and round by her right ear. “A lot off, actually.”

  “I don’t hate her. Don’t say that.”

  “Scrape her off,” Cindy says callously.

  Down deep Cindy has a lot of her father in her.

  “She’ll drag you down if you don’t. Get rid of her, Paul. Seriously.”

  “Why?” I ask, spreading my arms wide. “So you can toy with me any time you want?” I point at her. “Why don’t you get rid of Jack?”

  “It’s not the same,” she says condescendingly.

  Like her world is so much more important than mine. I’m the sheriff of an insignificant county at the northern edge of Wisconsin. She’s a member of one of the richest and most powerful families in the Midwest. The situations are entirely different and I should understand that.

  “Why did you come on to me like that?” I ask.

  She gazes straight into my eyes. “Because I love you, because I’ve always loved you.”

  It’s my turn to take her hand. “Then divorce Jack and marry me.”

  She jerks her hand from mine, like she’s been hit by a violent shock. “My father would never approve of that.”

  I figured that was how she’d react. “Do you really care?” Which is exactly why I said what I said; I wanted to get her on the defensive. She would never seriously consider marrying me. We both know that. “How could you? He doesn’t care about Jack beating you.”

  “Would you really get rid of Vivian?”

  “Maybe.” I’m playing the game because I want to see how far Cindy would go. Or how far she’d say she’d go.

  “How?”

  “I’d figure it out.”

  “You know she’s not going to give you a divorce.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Cindy rolls her eyes. “She might be a nut job, but she isn’t stupid. She know
s she’ll never catch anyone as good as you again.”

  I look down and kick at something on the rug. “Well, I—”

  “How far would you go, Paul?”

  “Huh?”

  “How far would you go to get rid of her?”

  My eyes move back to Cindy’s. I see a strange gleam in them I’ve never seen before, and I can’t believe she just asked me that question. I can’t believe she’d even think it. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t pushed. “Cindy, you can’t be—”

  “See,” she snaps. “You aren’t serious.”

  “Hey, I can’t just—”

  “Enough!” She closes her eyes tightly for several moments, as if she’s really considering everything. Finally she exhales heavily and leads me into the living room, to a big comfortable couch. The mansion’s already warming up and it feels good. “Sit,” she orders gently.

  I do, like I’m that sixteen-year-old kid on the Boulder River all over again, instantly willing to do whatever she commands. She straddles me and gazes down at me seductively. It’s going to take every ounce of willpower I have to resist her.

  3

  THERE’S NO REASON to sneak around when I come into the house, no reason to think I can avoid a confrontation. By the time I left the Prescott mansion there were fourteen unheard messages on my cell phone. Vivian’s been watching from our bedroom window for two hours like a hawk, counting every set of headlights that passes from the south, and fuming when they don’t turn into our driveway. So I act normal. I make a little more noise than usual to throw her off, to make her think I don’t think it’s a big deal that I’m late.

  I pull my boots off on our back porch and kick them to a corner, then pad into the kitchen. Sure enough, she’s standing in front of the stove, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me with that look on her face. The one that means it’s going to be a long night and the only way to avoid the fight is to leave. But this is my house, too.

  Middle age is coming on fast, but Viv’s still pretty. She has delicate facial features, a slim, pretty figure, and her body’s stayed well toned into her thirties despite the fact that she never works out. Faint lines have come to the corners of her eyes and mouth and she’s always been self-conscious about her lower teeth, which are a little crooked and slightly discolored after years of smoking. But, overall, she’s still very pretty. She’s not on Cindy’s level, but then most women aren’t. And I honestly don’t care, I really don’t compare them. I’m still very attracted to Vivian. But, of course, she doesn’t believe me.

  I made the mistake of saying that to her one night a few years ago when we were arguing—that I didn’t think she was as pretty as Cindy. It was a stupid and inconsiderate thing to say, but I was exhausted because my deputies and I had been up for three straight days looking for two kids who’d gotten lost in the woods while they were camping. After we finally found them I went home and Vivian started in on me before I could even take my jacket off. She didn’t give me a kiss, she didn’t congratulate me for finding the kids, she didn’t even have a hot meal waiting for me. She just started right in on me, accusing me of being gone because I’d been with Cindy, which was ridiculous because Cindy was in Europe. So I said it even though I didn’t really mean it. At least, I didn’t mean that it mattered to me. But Vivian’s never let me live it down. Every time we fight she makes it sound like I said it to her the week before, even though I’ve only ever said it once and that was a long time ago.

  For several months she’s been dyeing her brown hair midnight black, parting it in the middle of her head and letting it fall straight down both sides. It’s kind of creepy, but I haven’t asked her about it yet because I don’t want to start anything. She’s taken to wearing no make-up, too. A couple of weeks ago I suggested that she go to one of the nice places in Duluth and spend some money on herself. She took my suggestion to mean that I thought she was looking old and we didn’t speak for two days. On top of that we haven’t been intimate in two months and it’s the longest we’ve ever gone without sex. I miss it, but I’m starting not to miss her.

  “Where’ve you been?” she demands.

  She loves candles and she’s lighted lots of them here in the kitchen. This will be the battleground. I can tell they’ve been burning for a while because there’s a buildup of melted wax on the plates she’s set them on.

  “We had a problem with some guys from Hayward.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  She seems pretty composed, which isn’t necessarily a good thing, because it’s probably just the calm before the storm. “They were harassing some folks on 681 south of here,” I explain, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “A couple of people from one of the River Families who were heading to their estate. Sorry I was late,” I mutter as I move to the refrigerator. “I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?”

  “Which estate were the people going to?”

  She’s not going to let me off the hook that easily. “Why?”

  “Which one was it?” she repeats, her irritation growing. “Which River Family?”

  “Uh, the Campbells,” I answer, reaching into the fridge for what’s left of last night’s lasagna. Vivian’s a better cook than Cindy—everybody is—but the lasagna’s still not great. The thing is I’m so hungry at this point I could eat anything. I wolfed down a Danish on my way into the precinct this morning, but that’s all I’ve had today. “A couple of older women in the family were driving up together and these guys started following them as they were leaving Hayward,” I explain, putting the plastic container down on the table. “They slid off the road a few miles south of here when it started snowing. I’m glad they called the precinct when they did. I got there just in time. After I ran the guys off, I followed the women back to the estate and helped them settle in. They were upset. You can understand that.”

  “What time did you get to the women?”

  “Around four-fifteen.”

  “Then you followed them back to the Campbell estate. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Damn it. In my attempt to seem casual about everything I screwed up. “Yes,” I respond quietly.

  Vivian’s expression sours. “That’s ridiculous, Paul. Can’t you come up with anything better than that?”

  I’ve been spooning lasagna onto a paper plate so I can stick it in the microwave. I stop and stare at her, hand poised over the container. “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound innocent.

  “You said the women ran off the road south of here, but the Campbell estate is north of us.”

  She caught my mistake right away. It was so basic, too. “So?”

  “I was watching for your SUV.” She nods toward our driveway. “I saw you go south around four-fifteen, but I never saw you go north. If you’d followed the women back to the Campbell estate, I would have seen you pass by. You’re lying, Paul.”

  I exhale heavily. Why can’t life ever be easy?

  “Where were you?” she demands, heels clicking on the floor as she moves toward me with her arms still crossed tightly over her chest. “Don’t lie this time.”

  I can’t tell her the truth, not when she’s in this state. That would be suicide. “It was police business.” In fact, when it comes to Cindy, I can never tell Vivian anything.

  She grabs her hair, shuts her eyes tightly, and shrieks at the top of her lungs. “Damn it, tell me where you were!” But she springs at me without waiting for my answer, nails clawing at my face.

  I grab her wrists hard and force her back. I’ve had enough. There’s only so much a man can take.

  As she tumbles back against the refrigerator I think about how angry I was at Jack Harrison for beating Cindy. How all I wanted to do was kill him when I saw the bruises on Cindy’s body. And here I am doing this.

  Vivian steadies herself, then hunches down and forward like a cat getting ready to pounce. “You bastard!” she screams, leaping at me again. “I hate you!”

  This time I reach out with my left hand and grab he
r slender neck before she can get to me. She flails violently, but it’s no use. I’m much too strong for her—she’s a foot shorter than me and more than a hundred pounds lighter. The soft flesh of her throat feels vulnerable and good and suddenly I understand how wild animals feel when they kill.

  “Get off me, let me go!”

  She kicks me in the shin with the sharp toe of her shoe and pain knifes through my leg. I remind myself that she’s out of her mind with jealousy because somehow she’s found out that Cindy’s in town. That’s the only explanation. Someone’s told her. But my leg’s killing me and I feel myself losing control. She tries kicking me again but I squeeze hard and her knees buckle.

  “I hate you,” she gasps, her fingers prying desperately at mine. “I hate you for lying to me. You’re awful.”

  My right hand slips inside my jacket and I smoothly draw the pistol from its holster. I can’t believe it but I force her down on her knees and press the end of the barrel to her forehead. She drops her hands to her sides submissively and lets out a pathetic moan as the gun touches her skin. I chambered the first round after I pulled the pistol from the glove compartment on 681, but I never removed the bullet. The gun’s ready to fire and my finger’s on the trigger.

  4

  BILLY BROCK IS one of my deputies—and my best friend. His nickname is “Bear” because he reminds people of the black bears that roam the dense pine forests of Dakota County. I’m a big man but I look average-sized standing beside Billy. He’s six feet seven inches tall and weighs 280 pounds. Probably even more than that lately, thanks to his steady diet of cheeseburgers and fries. His wife, Karen, left him a little less than two months ago, on Christmas Eve, after he’d passed out in his lumpy old easy chair watching some college bowl game. He’s eaten almost every meal since Christmas at the Kro-Bar or the Saloon.