Heaven's Fury

by Stephen Frey

  “Am I? Am I really? Are you also going to try and tell me I’m imagining the fact that Dakota County has a cult of devil worshipers?”

  “See. You don’t know—”

  “Or that I’m imagining how Cindy was nailed to the floor of the mansion crucifixion-style and her throat was slashed when Davy Johnson found her. Or that she had a pentagram carved into her forehead. Or that there were candles circling her body,” he keeps going, his voice getting louder and more excited with each new fact. “Come on, Sheriff. That sure sounds like a ritual killing to me. It sure sounds to me like you’ve got a cult up here.” Clements’s eyes narrow and he takes a quick look at the door. Like he’s gauging whether he can get to it before I get to him. “Are you involved with it, Sheriff? Are you in it?” He straightens up and sticks his chin out, gaining confidence with every second I don’t charge around the desk at him. “My God, you’re probably the leader of it.”

  “Shut up!” I yell, banging my fist on the desk. Trying to make it clear that if he pushes me any further I might come around the desk at him again. The problem is that I’d indict myself if I did. This is the nightmare scenario, the absolute worst outcome I could have. I think about threatening Clements with being locked up for interfering with a police investigation like Schmidt suggested—which Clements is clearly doing—but that would probably backfire on me at this point. I wouldn’t be able to keep him behind bars long, and in the end locking him up would just make me look guilty. “Have you told Lewis Prescott all this crap?” I ask, reining in my tone, keeping it tough but steady.

  “All but the part about you having sex with Cindy,” he replies, shifting uncomfortably in the chair, then leaning back into it. “I haven’t decided if I want to do that yet.”

  Clements can’t wait to tell Prescott I was having an affair with Cindy. It’s just that he doesn’t want to tell Prescott about Cindy having an affair with me. For the same reason Peter Schmidt didn’t want to say anything. He doesn’t want to be the messenger. But if Clements can prove it was my semen inside Cindy and get a rumor going that I’m involved with the cult, then he can tell Prescott I raped Cindy as part of some awful ritual murder. He can tell Prescott and Jack that I forced Cindy to have sex with me and that she isn’t a cheater but a victim. I can see the wheels spinning in the bastard’s brain as he gazes at me. Schmidt must be right. There must be a huge bonus in this for Clements if he can get me arrested. It would be such perfect cover for Prescott and Jack if they could frame me for the crime.

  “I’m going to get you to take that blood test,” Clements continues, “if it’s the last thing I do, Sheriff Summers.”

  It dawns on me that I need to get that strongbox out of my house. The one that has the Bruner Washette ticket I found near Cindy’s body and the bloody steak knives. If Clements got a search warrant to go through my house, he’d find the box very quickly and it wouldn’t take him long to open it, even without a key.

  “The very last thing,” he says in a hushed voice. “I swear it.”

  I don’t say anything for a few moments, I just stare at him. “Are you staying at the Friendly Mattress?” I finally ask.

  He nods, obviously surprised by my question and probably even more so by my tone of resignation. “Yeah, why?”

  “I’ve got a lot of things to do today so I don’t have time to deal with this now. Come back tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I’ll give you my answer about the blood test then. Just give me twenty-four hours. Okay?”

  He hesitates, thinking over my proposition. “Okay.”

  “One more thing,” I say, leaning over my desk and putting the tips of the thumb and forefinger on my left hand into the exhausted corners of my eyes.

  “What?”

  “Don’t say anything to anyone around here about what Schmidt told you until at least tomorrow morning. Don’t say anything about Cindy’s body or what the crime scene looked like. Can you at least do that for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Look, you and I may not like each other, but you’ll be doing the right thing if you listen to me. You understand?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Clements agrees after a few moments as he waves a warning finger at me. “But you better be here tomorrow morning, Sheriff. You better not be screwing with me, because you’ll be sorry if you are. If you aren’t here in the morning, if it’s one minute past nine o’clock and you’re not in this office with me, everyone in this part of the world is going to hear about what I’ve got on you.”

  I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling through glassy eyes when Clements is gone. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

  At ten-thirty Mrs. Erickson knocks on my office door. Her signature three heavy bangs startle me.

  “Sheriff, Maggie Van Dyke is here to see you.”

  I take a deep breath. When it rains it pours. But I can’t turn Maggie away, I have to see her. She has every right to ask me about what’s going on with the search for her sister, Karen. The truth is I should have called her by now. She shouldn’t have had to come here. The problem is that I don’t have anything to tell her.

  “Show her in,” I call, standing up.

  A moment later Maggie’s chubby, smiling face fills my office doorway and I nod at the chair Darrow Clements has been sitting in lately more than anyone else. “Have a seat.”

  “You look so tired, Sheriff,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Maggie, but thanks for asking.”

  “Why don’t I run home and make you something to eat? You’re starting to look too thin.” Her expression turns from happy to sadly compassionate. “Cindy’s murder must be putting so much pressure on you. I’m sorry I—”

  “It’s all right, Maggie.” I stare at her for a few moments. “Look, I’m sorry but I don’t have anything to tell you.” I don’t even bother sitting down because I know how short this meeting is going to be. “The counties I sent the information to on Sunday haven’t responded. I was just giving them some extra time because of the storm. But I promise I’m going to go wider with the search tomorrow.”

  She breaks down and starts crying out of nowhere. “Thank you, Sheriff,” she sobs. “You’re such a nice man.” She buries her face in her hands. “I’m so worried about Karen. I’m so worried something terrible has happened to her.”

  22

  “LET’S GO TO lunch.”

  I glance up from my desk, from a report I was filling out. Bear’s in my office doorway with a very determined look on his face that has a glint of mischief in it, too. My eyes sweep to the wall clock. It’s not even noon yet. “I’d like to, Billy, but—”

  “Come on, Professor,” he says, striding in and pulling me out of my chair by my elbow like a guy yank-starting a lawnmower, though he probably doesn’t think he’s being that rough about it. “Don’t argue with me,” he warns in a friendly way when I’m on my feet. “We’ll call it a working lunch. Okay?”

  He wants to get us out of this bad-karma thing we’ve fallen into, and he knows the best way for us to do that is to talk it through. Whenever we’ve had a problem in the past, that’s what we’ve always done. Sometimes it’s just a few words, some uh huhs and a couple of nods, but it usually works right away and it sets us back on a good course. I just hope it can today. There’s more at stake right now than there’s ever been. Much more.

  I figure we’re going to walk over to the Saloon after he pulls me out of my chair. When we climb into his Cherokee, I assume we’re going to take a quick ride across town to the Kro-Bar because he wants better food than Sara’s greasy stuff. But then we whip past the Kro-Bar, roll over the Boulder River bridge and we’re headed west toward Superior.

  “Where we going?”

  “Somewhere the folks of Dakota County won’t be able to bother us,” Bear answers. “We’re going to the Champlain Room.”

  “Oh, Christ.” The Champlain Room could turn into an all-afternoon thing. It has before. “I don’t have time for—”
r />   “No arguing, Professor. I’ll take you there by force if I have to,” he teases.

  I let my head fall back and smile despite everything that’s going on. “You would, too, wouldn’t you? You’d take me there by force.”

  “Of course.”

  “It might not even be open,” I point out. “Shank might not have cleared the lane yet.”

  “It’s cleared,” Bear assures me. “I called him.” He grins. “Don’t worry. He’s ready for us.”

  The Champlain Room is a tiny restaurant with incredible food that’s out by Shawmut Lake, which is halfway between Bruner and Superior, and though it’s only average-sized, it’s deep and cold and home to some of the biggest walleye around. Fortunately, not many people know how big the fish there are, so Bear and I usually have it to ourselves. We’ve pulled some monsters out of this one particular cove on warm summer evenings. One gill-heaving example in particular last July that probably would have set a state record. But recording it with the state DNR would have given away our honey-hole to the general public, so we took some pictures and released it back into the dark waters without any other fanfare.

  The Champlain Room is off Route 7 at the end of a narrow, winding, potholed road called Biskerstaff Lane. The owner and chef is a fifty-something Irishman named Shank McAllister who claims he moved from Vermont to Wisconsin a decade ago because he was “having lady troubles.” I figure the real story is that he’s wanted by a local jurisdiction somewhere in New England for something, but I haven’t put his name and picture out on any of the lists those authorities could check because I like him too much, and he hasn’t done anything wrong around here as far as I know. He gives Bear and me boating access to Shawmut Lake from his property, which has the only decent put-in on the entire shoreline, and he’s a great cook with a good sense of humor.

  Like I figured, Bickerstaff Lane isn’t plowed. What Shank meant when he told Bear it was cleared was that he’d been able to get his Hummer out to Route 7 and back a few times so we have tire tracks to follow. But it turns out that’s enough. It’s amazing how much snow has melted thanks to the warm spell that’s hung around since the storm hit. The temperature’s going to climb into the upper fifties this afternoon, which is almost unheard-of around here in February. But the mercury is supposed to plunge again this weekend and the weather people are predicting another storm for the area. Nothing like the one we just had, but it’ll probably dump another six to eight inches on us.

  Shank’s waiting for us when we pull to a stop beside his Hummer. He’s leaning against the railing of the Champlain Room’s open-air front porch with his arms crossed over his barrel chest smiling. He’s a red-faced, silver-haired, overweight, middle-aged bachelor whose main goal at this point in life seems to be finding the next good time. He claims he starts each morning with a shot and a smoke, and that he’s never been to a doctor in his life and doesn’t see any reason to break that tradition now, even though he is starting to feel a few sharp pains in his chest every once in a while. He probably won’t make it to his sixtieth birthday but he understands that and seems to have come to terms with it.

  “Hello, gents,” he calls out in a heavy Irish accent that’s probably not a hundred percent authentic. “Good to see you.”

  “Hello, Shank,” Bear calls as he climbs out of the truck. “Thanks for taking us on such short notice.”

  “No problem. Glad to have the company after all this weather.”

  It’s like someone’s home inside the Champlain Room because it is. After Shank moved here he converted his living room into a small restaurant with three very private, very comfortable booths all in a row along one wall. Each booth seats up to six people, and they all look out from behind floor-to-ceiling windows over what’s still a frozen, snow-covered Shawmut Lake. Seating is by appointment only; he reserves the right not to accept your reservation if he doesn’t know you or, worse, doesn’t like you; some days he’s open and some days he’s not, and what you have to eat is entirely up to him. Sometimes it’s pasta with a hearty salad and sometimes it’s a sirloin steak dinner Morton’s of Chicago would be proud of. The thing is, every meal I’ve ever had here was incredible.

  “What’ll it be to drink, gentlemen?” he asks as Bear and I slide onto opposite sides of the middle booth.

  “Grey Goose and tonic,” Bear orders, then he looks at me. “That okay, Professor? Just one?”

  I nod. “As long as you let me drive back to town and you take the rest of the day off.”

  Bear breaks into a big grin. “There’s a deal I don’t have to think about too long.”

  “Sheriff?” Shank asks.

  “Coke. Big glass with lots of ice.”

  “Come on, Professor,” Bear says quietly as he leans across the table. “Have one beer. We’ve got a lot to talk about. It’ll help.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  I’m still thinking too much, my paranoia’s still in high gear, and suddenly I’m sorry I agreed to come out here. What I should have done during lunch was go back to the house, get that strongbox that has the washette ticket and the knife inside it, and bury it somewhere back in the woods. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m worried that Darrow Clements agreed to back off until tomorrow morning way too fast. I’m worried he’s got a plan. I’m worried that while I’m all the way out here with Bear he’ll show up at my house with something that looks like a search warrant and get inside because Vivian won’t realize that what he’s showing her is a forgery. Then he’ll undoubtedly find what I’m trying so hard to hide.

  “Come on,” Bear pushes.

  “No.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bear says in a frustrated tone, glancing up at Shank as he leans back. “I’m still having my vodka and tonic.”

  Shank nods and starts whistling loudly as he heads off down a hallway toward the kitchen.

  I gaze at Bear, suddenly suspicious that this is all part of a plan designed to keep me away from my house so Clements can get in and take a look around. Suddenly I wonder if he and Clements are working together.

  I take a deep breath and gaze out at Shawmut Lake. Christ, Maggie’s right. The stress of the past week has been too much for me. I must be losing my mind to think all that about my best friend. About a guy who’s saved my life twice and wouldn’t hesitate to put himself in harm’s way to save me again.

  “Look, I’m sorry about—” Bear stops himself when Shank comes back down the hallway still whistling the same tune.

  “Here you are, gentlemen,” he says, putting vodka down in front of Bear and a Coke in front of me. “To our health,” he says, bringing a shot glass to his lips and turning it upside down. Then he’s gone again.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” Bear says after several gulps of his drink. “That was a crappy thing for me to do. I should have helped you change that tire. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “You were pissed off at me for telling you not to give orders to the other guys,” I say. “I know that and it’s partly my fault because I—”

  “Why do you think Shank calls this place the Champlain Room?” Bear asks, looking around.

  I know why he’s interrupting me so rudely. He made his apology and now he wants to move on. He’s always had a hard time saying he’s sorry, and once he’s done it he doesn’t like to dwell on it. “Is it some kind of play on words?” Bear asks. “Like strip clubs have champagne rooms? You know, the private rooms in the back where the girls—”

  “He’s from Vermont,” I interrupt. “I’m guessing he lived in the western part of the state near Lake Champlain, which is a big lake for out East. Not for around here, of course, but for them it’s huge.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Bear says loudly. “I bet you and Shank didn’t even talk about that. I bet you figured that out all on your own.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But I still wonder about that play on words because—”

  “Naming it Champlain probably reminds him of the good times he left, Bil
ly.”

  Bear chuckles. “The Professor. How’d you get so smart?”

  Fortunately Shank’s back with an appetizer. I’m as bad at accepting a compliment as Bear is at apologizing.

  “Here’s some venison sausage with brie cheese,” Shank says, setting a big plate down on the middle of the table, then a basket of bread beside it. “This ought to tide you guys over until the main course. It’s really good,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads away again. “I’ll be back with more drinks in a minute.”

  The scent of steaming sausage and melted brie is so powerful that the sides of my mouth actually ache. I pick up one of the sausages and wrap it inside a piece of the warm, butter-drenched sourdough bread, then shove the whole thing into my mouth. Suddenly, I’m in heaven. At this moment in time it’s easily the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth, and all my problems seem to fade away. Maggie was right again. I’m not eating enough and I need to pay more attention to the basics of life despite everything going on around me.

  “I know you think I had something to do with Karen disappearing this past Christmas,” Bear says quietly after finishing what’s left of his drink. “I know you do.”

  I guess heaven can only last so long. Bear’s shattered my beautiful moment, so I grab another piece of sausage and bread and put it into my mouth. But the second piece of sausage never tastes as good as the first one does, nowhere near as good. It’s like a law of physics or something. “What are you talking about?” I grumble.

  Before Bear can answer Shank’s back with more drinks. But he doesn’t stick around this time, he doesn’t have a shot with us, he doesn’t even say anything. He just puts the glasses down and goes.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Bear snaps. “That’s what you were getting at when we were outside your house, when we went to see if that snowplow had come by when the storm was over. When you told me about Maggie wanting you to start an investigation into Karen’s disappearance. Come on.”