Heaven's Fury

by Stephen Frey

  Their dialogue is so scripted and rehearsed it’s painful for me to listen to. I’ll bet that whole thing with Davy crumpling up the piece of paper was part of the act, too. I bet there’s nothing on it at all. I ought to look at it. I ought to demand it right now. “What do you mean?”

  “More feet on the ground with experience in this kind of thing,” Frank chimes in. “Come on, Sheriff.”

  My deputies are driving at two possible concerns as indirectly as they know how. Either they think I can’t figure out who murdered Cindy and Clements on my own, or they think I don’t want to figure it out. Whichever one it is, it’s a pretty terrible indictment of my ability as a police officer—or my morals.

  I tap the table nervously. I’m losing control of these guys, I can feel it. “Gentlemen, I think we need to—”

  The storage room door opens and I expect it to be Bear coming back to the meeting because he’s realized how stupid it was of him to storm out the way he did. If only because when he’s present he can have some control of what’s said—and what isn’t.

  But it isn’t Bear, it’s Cam.

  “Sheriff Summers, there’s an urgent call for you from the precinct. You can take it in my office.”

  I stare at Cam, wondering why Mrs. Erickson didn’t call my cell phone directly. It’s probably because she wanted to tell him something before she spoke to me. After all, Cam’s the one who decides what her raise is every year. He’s the one who approved of her getting extra options on her phone before I did. He’s really her boss, not me.

  “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I say to Davy as we whip past my house in the Cherokee. The urgent message was that Lewis Prescott wants to see me at his estate on the Boulder as soon as possible. “This is a tough time and I need everybody’s support right now.” Vivian is supposed to be at work, and though I don’t have to worry about Darrow Clements anymore, I check the driveway. I’m still worried about someone breaking into my house. “I heard what you said back there at Cam’s place.” I buried the strongbox back in the woods last night after I got home from watching the Jenkins tape at the precinct. But people could still plant incriminating stuff in the house to frame me, and maybe they could follow my prints back to where I buried the box. Especially if they know I’m going to be busy for a while. “I know you guys are worried about the investigation, but it’ll be all right.” I breathe a shallow sigh of relief when I don’t see anything suspicious at the house. Of course, that doesn’t really mean anything. “I just want you to understand that I trust you, Davy. Very much.”

  He looks over at me with a hesitant grin. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  Davy’s suddenly busting with pride and I semiregret what I’m about to do to him, but it has to be this way. “So let me tell you something,” I say as my voice gathers strength. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that on me again.” I actually hear him swallow hard over the whine of the tires on the road. “No more sneak attacks in front of the other guys. You hear me?”

  “Sir?”

  He’s gone from a high to a low in record time, which is exactly what I wanted. “What the hell got into you? To put me on the spot like that. If you’ve got a beef, you come to me on your own. Now what was all that really about back there?” He swallows hard again. I glance over and see his Adam’s apple go up and down like a piston inside an engine. “Huh?”

  “Um, just what we said it was about, sir. We’re scared. We’ve had two murders in Dakota County in just a few days. Ritual murders at that, and we’re scared that we can’t stop what’s going on. We’re scared for our families and our friends. The guys and I think we need to call in as many people as possible. You know, get as much experience as possible on top of the situation as fast as we can.”

  “Is it that you guys don’t think I can handle the investigation myself? Or that for some reason I really don’t want to find out what’s going on in our county?” I can be direct when I have to. A lot of people can’t, but I don’t have any problem with confrontation when it’s necessary. “Because I have a conflict?”

  “Oh, God, oh, God, no,” he stumbles. “It’s ah, it’s just that … I mean this is a—”

  “What if I told you I was about to make an arrest, Davy? Would you believe me?” I know that second question’s a tough one for a subordinate to answer, especially if he doesn’t, but too bad. I’m actually more interested in his tone and his demeanor when he answers than in what he says. I know what he’ll say. He has to.

  “Yeah … I believe you. I, I mean of course I believe you, Sheriff.”

  His answer was purely predictable, but his body language isn’t giving me much of an endorsement.

  “How long you think before you make the arrest?”

  “A day or two at the most.” I pull out my cell phone when it starts ringing. “Hello.” I’m on the phone for less than thirty seconds and the news is terrible. “All right,” I mutter, pursing my lips. “Thanks for letting me know.” Unfortunately, I sort of expected it.

  “Who was that?” Davy asks as I bury the phone back in my jacket.

  He seems nervous. He’s fidgeting like mad with the zipper on his jacket, and he isn’t the kind of guy who fidgets. “What’s the problem?” I ask, trying to make him even more uncomfortable. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I point at his hands. “What’s wrong with your zipper? Is it broken?”

  Davy looks down at it. “What? Oh, no,” he says, letting go of it. His hands rest in his lap for all of two seconds, then he goes for the Velcro on one of his pockets, ripping it open time after time. I’ve never seen him like this before. “Who was that on the phone?” he asks again.

  “A nurse from the hospital over in Superior.” I hesitate, not certain I should tell him what I just learned. But I do anyway. “The boy I found out at the cabin the day after the storm died this morning.”

  Davy lets out a long, sad sigh. “God, that’s awful.”

  I stare at the road ahead, thinking about carrying the kid back to my house over those snow-covered ridges. How at one point during the trek I thought I was going to pass out from exhaustion. How I wanted to reunite the boy with his mother so badly, but now that’ll never happen. The worst part for her is that she’ll never have closure. She’ll never know what happened to her son, because there’s no way we can figure out who he belongs to. For a long time she’ll hold on to a desperate hope that a miracle will happen and her son will come walking back through her door one day, as any mother would. But then she’ll finally accept it. We put a picture of the boy out on several missing person websites, but we’ve gotten no responses.

  Davy and I ride in silence until we pull up to the Prescott estate.

  “Do you know why Lewis Prescott wants to see you?” Davy asks as we climb out of the Cherokee.

  “No.” Davy’s anxious. It’s like his head’s on a swivel he’s so nervous. Maybe it was my imagination, but for a moment it almost looked like he was reaching for the pistol on his hip. “He didn’t say.”

  “Maybe I should stay out here,” Davy suggests, his eyes flashing around as he stops in his tracks. “Outside, I mean. There aren’t any cars in the driveway. That makes me a little nervous, you know? Why don’t you go in and I’ll stay out here? Just in case, Sheriff.”

  Jesus Christ. Davy thinks I brought him out here to kill him. I can’t believe it. This is insane. “Now look, Davy, I’m getting—”

  “Sheriff Summers!”

  My eyes zip to the front door and there’s Lewis Prescott. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come inside, Paul!” he orders. “Hurry up!” He points at Davy. “You stay where you are, son. The only person I want to talk to right now is the sheriff.”

  Davy clearly isn’t insulted by the snub. In fact, he looks relieved. Like the governor just called and he’s gotten a reprieve from the chair. He hustles back to the truck and pulls out a pack of cigarettes as I head toward the front door.
I didn’t have a clue that he smoked. I guess I really don’t know him very well at all.

  When I’m through the mansion’s doorway and into the foyer, Prescott actually shakes my hand. I’m shocked. I don’t think we’ve ever shaken hands before. At least, I can’t remember it.

  “Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice,” he says. “I know you’re busy.”

  It occurs to me that Prescott might not even know about Clements. That he might think I’m just busy in general. He seems stressed. He seems like he’s under the crushing stress of a man whose fortune is crumbling around him. Not the shock-stress a man who just heard about an associate being murdered by a cult of devil worshipers is feeling. It was one of his assistants who called Mrs. Erickson, and I didn’t ask her if she told the assistant about Clements.

  “Do you know about Darrow Clements?” I ask. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  Prescott looks at me like I just climbed out of a UFO. “Of course, I know. Why the hell do you think I’m here? I left Minneapolis as soon as I heard about it.” He puts both hands up and a frustrated expression comes to his face. “Sorry for the tone, Paul,” he says. “It’s been a difficult couple of weeks.”

  It’s hard to believe that this is the same man who manipulated, tortured, and controlled me for more than twenty years. Who often seemed to take pleasure in the pain he caused me. Like the night he wouldn’t let me into his Edina compound. I heard him chuckling on the other end of the line with the guard and I could tell the guard felt bad for me.

  “What’s going on?” I demand. “Why’d you want me to come out here?”

  “I didn’t want to be seen with you in town.”

  I raise one eyebrow. He must have realized how bad that sounded, because he groans and puts a hand on my arm.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. God, what’s wrong with me today? What I meant was that I didn’t think it would be good for either one of us if we were seen together in Bruner. You know, given what’s going on.”

  I don’t have a clue what he means by that but I don’t ask.

  Prescott takes a deep breath and gathers himself. “I need your help, Paul.”

  “Help?”

  He gazes at me for several seconds without blinking. “Look, I can’t have it get out that my daughter was killed by a cult. I can’t have people think Cindy died that way, especially her mother. I don’t want my wife going through the agony of remembering how her daughter was tortured to death every time she thinks of Cindy. It would destroy her. And I don’t want the newspapers down in the Twin Cities to pick up on the story and drag Cindy’s name through the mud by speculating that she was somehow involved with the cult. We all know how those God damn beat reporters can be. They’re just trying to write stories that’ll sell as many copies as possible.”

  It’s my turn to stare back at him. I understand exactly what he’s saying and I hate that I do. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I treat him like the bastard he is? Why do I have this flaw that makes me have sympathy for people who’ve caused me so much pain? Maybe it’s because I’m impressed that he’d care about his wife’s feelings at all, and it reminds me that Mrs. Prescott was always pretty nice to me. A mother having to cope with the loss of a child is bad enough. She shouldn’t have to think about her daughter’s throat being slowly cut open inch by inch as she’s nailed to the floor—which is how Schmidt told me it probably happened. The uneven sawing serration marks on Cindy’s throat indicated to him that the killer took his time and that she suffered for a while.

  “It’s already out there,” I say quietly. “I mean, I think some of the locals may know that Cindy’s murder at least appeared to have been ritual killing.” I grimace. “The woman who works for me is a huge gossip and she’s been spilling it.”

  “Then you’ve got to deny it.” Prescott’s eyes are suddenly burning. “Hold a press conference or something.”

  “That’s a double-edged sword,” I point out. “If I deny it, people might dig into it even deeper, they might ask even more questions, especially the reporters.”

  Prescott points a trembling finger at me. “I don’t care what you have to do, Sheriff Summers,” he says, his attempt at a bedside manner evaporating, “but I want you to head off any rumors that Cindy and Clements were murdered by a cult. Do whatever it takes but do it. Lie if you have to, I don’t care, but do it. Do you understand me?”

  I’m sitting at my desk at the precinct in the dark, with only the glow from a few computer lights faintly illuminating the office. The screen’s dark because I haven’t used the computer in a half hour. In fact, I haven’t used anything in the office. I’ve just been sitting here staring straight ahead, contemplating my life. It’s after eight o’clock and, though I told Vivian on the phone that I’d be home late tonight while I was on my way back from the Prescott estate with a visibly relieved Davy, I’m surprised she hasn’t called to see where I am.

  I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes reflecting on my career as a law enforcement officer, thinking about how I’ve been going backward ever since I dropped out of the University of Minnesota. How I could look at it the other way around if I wanted to delude myself. I mean, I went from a city force to a state force when I went from Minneapolis to Madison. In most people’s minds that’s a step up. And when I came to Bruner I went from being a captain to sheriff. Again, a lot of people would say that was a promotion. The thing is, I know better. And the worst part about that backward career track is that I’ve been controlled the entire way. I’ve been a pawn for a long time, shoved into this north-country closet by a bully. And the desperation of being completely controlled is finally catching up with me.

  A rap on the precinct door finally distracts me, and I rise from my chair and steal into the reception area. “Who the hell can this be?” I mutter. I glance through the window beside the door. “Sara?” I open the door a crack, and I’m met with a rush of cold air from the darkness. As the weather people had predicted, the temperature is diving. “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Sara and I haven’t spoken since we “happened” to meet in the woods and she led me to the cabin. As the hours have gone by I’ve become less convinced that our meeting was coincidental. I know it would have been difficult for her to find me out there, even if she’d gotten some help with regard to which direction I was headed, but I’m not putting it past her. She has abilities most people couldn’t understand. I don’t fully understand them, but I accept the fact that she has them.

  “Let’s do it tomorrow,” I suggest.

  “No, it has to be now.”

  It sounds like she’s slurring her words. “What’s in that?” I point at the Pepsi bottle she’s clutching like a preacher clutches a Bible.

  She laughs. “Pepsi.”

  “What else?”

  A smirk lights up her face. “Just let me in.”

  And I do. I don’t know why, but I do. “Let me see that.” I reach for the bottle when she’s inside the precinct and the door’s closed behind her.

  But she pulls it away with a giggle and a whoop.

  “Come on, give it to me.”

  “You know what I’ve always liked about you,” she says, holding the bottle out for me and tilting her head down seductively, “other than those beautiful eyes and that wide chest?”

  “What?” I take a sniff of the bottle and cringe. It’s just like I thought. The bottle’s full of rotgut, homemade moonshine. Three or four swallows of it and you’re on your ass.

  “You treat me with respect; you don’t treat me any differently because I’m a Chippewa.” Her expression turns mean. “Everyone else thinks they can dis me and call me nuts whenever they want to. Even your wife.”

  Sara’s very drunk. “My wife doesn’t even—”

  “Your wife better watch her step,” Sara interrupts, holding up her hand.

  “Why?”

  Her sneer turns sinister. “Because maybe Cindy Prescott
wasn’t her real rival. Maybe your wife shouldn’t assume she’s taken care of all of the women who might steal you away from her.”

  “My wife didn’t take care of anything.”

  Sara stares at me for several seconds. “You sure about that, Paul?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Sure you aren’t protecting her somehow?”

  “What do you mean by—”

  “I hear Caleb Jenkins is missing some videotapes,” she cuts in, flipping her long black tresses with a sexy shake of her head. She unzips her jacket. “You know anything about that?”

  “Why would I know anything about it?”

  Sara takes off her jacket and drops it on the floor, then pulls her sweater over her head with one quick move and drops it on top of the jacket. She’s not wearing a bra.

  “Put your sweater back on.”

  “What’d you see on that tape, Paul?” she asks, taking a step toward me. “Did you see someone look back into the camera real quick?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, did you or didn’t you?”

  “Okay, I did.”

  Her eyes are flashing. “You saw me,” she whispers, “didn’t you, Paul?”

  I hesitate for a few moments, then nod. “Yeah, I saw you, Sara. I sure did.”

  “I bet you liked it, too. I bet that mind of yours conjured up all kinds of silly things about me, didn’t it?”

  I move close to her, so our faces are just inches apart. “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember Bill Campbell’s son coming into the Saloon one night a few years ago before I got to be sheriff.”

  A curious expression comes to her face. “Maybe. Why?”

  As I turn to head to the Cherokee after locking the precinct front door, a hulking figure looms out of the darkness in front of me. “Jesus!” I almost go for my gun as I step back against the door, then I realize it’s Bear. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “Just the opposite, Professor. I’m trying to make sure you stay alive.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I saw Sara leave here a minute ago.”