Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries)

by Tom Hilpert

  Dan Jensen came over. “How is he?” he asked the EMT, nodding at me.

  “What is with you people?” I said. “I wasn't shot in the throat. I can talk, you know.”

  Jensen shook his head sadly. “No better than usual, I see.”

  “I'm about done here,” said the EMT. “I'm sure you'll be fine, but you really ought to see a doctor. You'll be hurting, and I think a doctor would get you some pain meds and antibiotics.”

  Chief Jensen thanked him, and he started to pack up his stuff. “Jonah, I'd like to hear your version of what happened here. When we're done, you two love birds can go on.”

  He looked at Leyla and me. We didn't look at each other or him.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “What's the matter? What's going on with you two?”

  I glanced at Leyla, and found her looking at me. “It's complicated,” we both said at the same moment.

  Jensen groaned. “You have got to be kidding.” He looked from Leyla to me like a stern elementary school principal. “When I was your age, you liked somebody, you dated. You didn't like 'em, you broke up. If you kept liking 'em, you kept dating, and eventually got married and had kids and everything. We didn't have any of this 'it's complicated' crap. What is wrong with you two?”

  “Dan,” I said, “you're only like four years older than me.”

  “Exactly my point,” he said.

  The EMT was staring at Leyla in open admiration. Without turning to me, he said, “Seriously, dude, how complicated could it be?”

  “Well,” I said “that's a good point.”

  Leyla had the grace to blush very prettily.

  The EMT finished packing up and then left.

  “Why don't you give me your story?” Jensen said to me. He looked at Leyla. “Sorry, but this isn't for the press yet. I let you in because of him –” he nodded in my direction “ – but could you just give us a minute, please?”

  Jensen had me tell him everything I knew, which wasn't much, while Leyla moved away and made a few phone calls. He took notes with a little notebook and pencil. His face tightened when I told him about the shootout.

  “I suppose it's too much to ask for identifying features?” he asked when I was done.

  “Other than the fact that they all called each other by their full names – including middle initials – and the leader had red hair, only one hand, and a big scar on his face, there is no way I could ever identify them.”

  Jensen chewed on his pencil for a moment. “You're going to need those pain meds in a minute,” he said.

  “Sorry, maybe my problem is that I need them right now. No, they all wore black, all wore masks. One of them was a lot shorter and smaller than the others. One was medium sized. One was a pretty big guy. And one had a kind of high, light voice – I don't know which one. Not really anything to go on.”

  “We think you hit one of them with Arne's revolver,” he said. “There was a bit of a blood trail going out to the curb.”

  “One of them flinched and yelled when I was shooting,” I said. Honesty got the better of pride. “It wasn't the one I was shooting at.”

  Jensen nodded. “Handguns aren't like rifles. Pretty hard to be accurate in those circumstances, especially without training. Normally, I'd chew you out for doing it, but with them shooting at you in the first place, it seems like maybe you did the right thing. Plus, if you did hit one, and he goes to a doctor, we'll hear about it.”

  My leg had started to throb. In fact, I realized I could count my heart-rate by the pulsing pain in my calf. I thought about Ethel Ostrand's money, and noticed that my head hurt too. Jensen was looking at my face. Leyla had returned and was standing near.

  “Probably about time you got to your pain meds. Why don't you two get your complicated selves out of here?”

  He and Leyla helped me to my feet. With my arms around their shoulders like an injured football player, I hobbled into the brisk autumn air and over to Leyla's car.

  “What about my car?” I asked.

  “We'll figure it out,” she said.

  I slid into the passenger seat, while Leyla stayed outside the car, talking to Jensen for a moment. I pulled out my cell phone and called the church. Julie answered.

  “I don't think I'll be in the rest of the day,” I said. “I just got shot in the leg.”

  “What, again?” she said.

  There was a brief silence.

  “I was expecting a bit more sympathy,” I said.

  “Leyla already called and told me about it,” said Julie. “She said it wasn't serious, but that pretty soon you'd call me, and be whining and complaining like a little girl, and expect a lot of sympathy.”

  “She said that?” I was slightly shocked.

  “Well, not exactly. She said you'd been shot, but that it wasn't serious. I figured the rest out myself.”

  “It's good to know you are so perceptive.”

  “I knew you'd appreciate it,” she said. There was another pause. “Seriously, are you really OK?”

  “My life isn't in jeopardy, if that's what you mean. I'll be fine. It does hurt a little, though.”

  “See, I knew it.”

  “I give up,” I said. “Anyway, I won't be in today. Hopefully I'll be OK for tomorrow.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Just some sympathy,” I said, and hung up on her laughter.

  CHAPTER 4

  Leyla took me to my doctor, who, as expected, prescribed both a painkiller and antibiotic.

  “You never know where a bullet has been,” was his comforting explanation for the antibiotic. We then went to the drugstore and got the medicine.

  “It's getting close to supper time,” said Leyla. “If you want, I'll take you home and make you supper.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That would be wonderful.”

  My home is a newer Northwoods-style cabin, up on the ridge, a mile or two above Lake Superior and maybe two or three miles south of Grand Lake. My living room and deck boast an ever-changing view of the largest freshwater lake in the world; a deep, clear, cold romancer of men and killer of ships, the lifeblood and livelihood of Northeastern Minnesota.

  Most of Minnesota is not known for spectacular scenery. While there are plenty of quiet lakes and tall forests, it is also pretty flat, and most of the state is just good, fertile Midwestern farm land. But the coast of Lake Superior is the stunning exception. Granite cliffs plunge into clear, deadly cold water. Ridges rise mountain-like off the lake and waterfalls of tannin-stained streams hide in the folds of the hills. And always, lying to the southeast is the giant freshwater behemoth, changeable as a diva, but twice as beautiful.

  It was almost dark when we got to my cabin, but on clear days the water has a way of holding light, and we could see the glimmer far out to the empty southeast. My leg seemed to have stiffened up, and I was feeling the pain pretty severely.

  Leyla got me on to the couch and came back with water and my pills.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think there's some leftover spinach pie in the fridge. I don't mind if you just want to heat that up.”

  “You can make a pie from spinach?”

  “Don't knock it 'til you've tried it,” I said. “Spinach, Italian sausage, eggs, and cheese – all inside a pie crust – how can that be bad?”

  “Well, I guess I could try it.” She sounded doubtful.

  “Make whatever you want,” I said. “I hope to be in la-la land soon.”

  She found the pie and put it in the oven to warm up. Then she brought a glass of white wine over, and sat on the end of the couch opposite me, facing my direction. It was an ordinary couch, but with her on it, it looked like it belonged in a millionaire's mansion.

  “Are you in la-la land yet?”

  “No, but I'm starting to feel better.”

  “Jonah, why is it complicated?”

  “What?” Maybe I was in la-la land after all.

  “Why are we – us – complicated? That's what we said to Dan today. B
ecause, I mean, I know we've talked, and I said it to Dan too, but the truth is, it isn't complicated for me.”

  I looked at her steadily. “What do you mean?”

  “I know how I feel. I know what I want. It isn't complicated for me. I want to be with you.”

  I tried to look out over the lake, but with lights on in the cabin, the glass doors out to my deck were just black.

  “You could say something anytime now.”

  I looked back at Leyla. “You're right,” I said. “I am the one making it complicated. I hope someday it won't be.”

  “You still haven't forgiven me.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

  “No, Leyla, that's not it. I have forgiven you. But it takes some time to rebuild trust. When the chips were down, you trusted a multiple murderer before you believed me. It takes something to recover what was lost there.”

  “I was here for you today.”

  “Yes, you were. You are.”

  “But that's not all of it, is it? It's not just about trust.”

  I thought for a while. “No, I guess not.”

  Leyla had a trick of looking beautiful, even when she cried.

  I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Leyla,” I said. “I want it to be uncomplicated. I want to be with you freely, with no reservations. Like the EMT said, I often think I must be crazy to even let this be 'complicated.' But I will never give you less than total honesty.”

  She sniffed and nodded.

  “I'm working on it. I'm trying to figure out what my problem is – because it is my problem, not yours. The trust thing is part of it. I don't know what the other part is yet. But I will figure it out.”

  “What does that mean? Do you want to date other women? Do you want me to be looking for other men?”

  “No,” I said. I may have said it a little bit firmly, because Leyla actually smiled. “I'm not interested in anyone else. That wouldn't help me.”

  Her smile broadened. “You sound pretty sure about that part.”

  “I can't ask you to,” I said, “but I was hoping that you could wait for me while I work on this. You know, not date anyone else.”

  “So you want to date me exclusively – except you don't want to date me.”

  “Couldn't we be kind of, I don't know, friends with a future?”

  “Friends with a future? Sounds like a slogan for the Army or something.”

  Maybe it was the drugs. I couldn't help myself. I began to laugh, knowing it was inappropriate. The more I tried to suppress it, the funnier it got. Soon, my whole body was shaking, and I felt tears coming to my eyes.

  “Join the Army; find friends with a future?” I was gasping for breath.

  To my relief, she began to smile, too. She shook her head.

  “I'm letting you off easy, because you've been shot, and you're on painkillers.”

  “Thank you,” I said wiping my eyes. I felt slightly more serious. “For everything.”

  She looked at me, and her open vulnerability was like a powerful drug. “Still, I like the sound of it. Especially the part about the future.”

  “So you'll wait?”

  She looked me in the eye. “I will wait Jonah. But not forever.”

  She cleaned up the dishes and then came and sat back on the couch. I was starting to feel pretty good from the painkillers.

  “We always seem to have this tension,” said Leyla, “but I was wondering if I could ask you about the robbery, as a journalist.” Leyla was the managing editor for the Grand Lake Gazette. Circulation was around 12,000, but I knew the Associated Press, and possibly even Reuters, would be likely to pick up Leyla's story from the wires.

  “I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to tell,” I said.

  “That's what I was talking to Chief Jensen about while you were waiting in the car,” she said. “I'll abide by his wishes. Whatever he said is off limits, is off the record.”

  “Freedom of the press?” I asked.

  “Maintaining good relationships with my sources,” she countered.

  I told her what I had experienced.

  “Ethel Ostrand's money is killing me,” I said. “How many people are ever present at a bank robbery in their whole lifetime? And yet I'm there with a widow's life-savings in cash right when it happens.”

  “Bank robberies are usually investigated by the FBI. The resources of the federal government will be all over this one. They'll get it back.”

  I was starting to get sleepy. The support of the FBI seemed like a good reason to relax and not worry about it, at least until I slept a little.

  I didn't wake up until morning. Leyla was gone, but my own pillow was under my head on the couch, and I was tucked warmly under a wool blanket.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What do you mean the FBI won't be investigating this? Don't they investigate all bank robberies?” I was holding the phone a little too tight.

  “This wasn't a bank robbery, Jonah,” said Dan Jensen. He sounded tired, but I was too unsettled to care much.

  “Dan,” I said, “I was there. I was in a bank. It was robbed.”

  “No, Jonah,” he said with excessive patience. “The people in the bank were robbed. They didn't take any money from the bank itself.”

  “You mean they didn't rob the bank?”

  “That's what I'm trying to tell you. They only robbed the customers. No money was taken from the bank itself.”

  “So it's not a federal crime?”

  He sighed through the phone. “No federal crime. No FBI.”

  I was quiet.

  “They aren't exactly the saviors the movies paint them as anyway,” said Jensen.

  “Sorry Dan,” I said, finally paying attention to how he might be feeling. “I didn't mean to insult you. You guys do a great job around town. It's just that I lost a quarter million dollars of someone else's money. I want all the help I can get.”

  “The state police will be in on this to help us,” said Dan.

  “OK,” I said. “What can I do?”

  He was quiet for minute. “Nothing right now, Jonah. If you think of anything new you might have forgotten, call me right away.”

  “Dan,” I said, “you think you'll get any of the money back?”

  “I really don't know Jonah,” he said. “But we'll get the suckers who did this. I promise you that.”

  We hung up, and I limped out of my home-office into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I had slept late, so I wasn't quite done with my first pot. I was experimenting with a chicory blend that was popular in New Orleans, in the theory that coffee from the South might help keep me warm in the North.

  I fed a few more logs into my fireplace, and then limped around my living room. It was a cold day in early autumn. The ridge fell away from the house like some gaudy ocean wave, decked out in gold, red, yellow and green. The lake lay at the bottom of the hill like a silent blue monster, biding its time until it could roar with the force of November storms.

  I thought about the robbery. There was an athletic man of medium height who could jump onto the bank counter from the floor. There was a bigger man. There was a short slim guy. Possibly, they had a getaway driver. They had a quarter million dollars just from me; possibly as much as a hundred thousand more, considering the business owners making deposits and the people cashing paychecks.

  Now all I had to do was take these facts and solve the case, because surely I could do it better than any of the professionals who were working on it. After all, they had only devoted careers to this sort of thing, whereas I was a highly trained pastor.

  One thing was inescapable. Ethel Ostrand deserved to hear from me personally. Reluctantly, I shaved and dressed in my pastor uniform of Dockers and a mostly clean, blue, button-up shirt. Clerical collars make me feel like I'm choking. Because it was fall, I added a sweater and my brown leather jacket. Grand Lake was a small town. Very few people there needed a white collar to know who I was and what I did.

  With a certain amount of pain, I drove to Ethel's
house and limped to her door.

  “Have you heard the news?” I asked when we were both seated in her museum-of-the-1950s living room.

  She did not look happy. “I heard the bank was robbed.”

  “They took all of your money, Ethel,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

  She looked confused. “Wasn't it in the vault?”

  “It never got that far,” I said. “They took it before I could deposit it.”

  “But it was insured?”

  My head began to hurt. “Remember, Ethel, you didn't want it in an account, so it would not have been insured anyway. But they took it before the bank could lock it up. I'm afraid it's all gone.”

  Ethel had big glasses, and it was hard to read her expressions, but she looked angry. “You were the one who told me it wasn't safe here,” she said. “You said it was dangerous. It might burn up, or someone might rob me. But it got lost in the nice safe bank.”

  Sometimes, abject humility is entirely appropriate. “You are absolutely right, Ethel,” I said. “I am so sorry.”

  “I needed that money,” she said. Her voice had a quaver to it.

  “I know,” I said. “I hope the police will recover it soon. But until they do, I want you to know that I will make sure you are taken care of. I won't let you suffer as a result of my mistake.”

  She did not seem particularly mollified. I didn't blame her. I let her vent some more anger on me. I may have even encouraged it. I didn't even mention the fact that I got shot. Both the fact that I had been shot, and that I didn't bring it up, made me feel slightly more righteous. Even so, it wouldn't pay Ethel's bills.

  We eventually made a list of some of her upcoming needs and expenses. It was going to be one of those months for me.

  Afterwards I drove down to see Alex Chan. Chan was my lawyer, and maybe my friend too. His office was in a newer building that looked like a fancy house, but was actually designed to hold several upscale office suites. The other suites were taken by a real estate company, an architect, and some kind of small engineering firm. The reception area had stone pillars and stone tile and a common area with carafes of coffee and couches and a flat screen TV playing CNN to an empty room. I sampled the coffee, and finding it old and stale, took a cup with me into the Law Offices of Alex Chan.