Just to be safe, he’d driven by the town cop’s home. It was a small, nondescript square house with no trees and a white expanse of fresh snow. The drive was newly plowed and either side was drifted high up with snow. The home’s windows were dark, front and back, and Grebs’s patrol car was missing. A subsequent drive through Defiance neighborhoods yielded nothing. Goddard turned the radio channel to the local police band, but there was only static. On the drive around town the static crackled over the speaker. Nothing. Grebs was gone.
Perfect, Dean thought, as he turned off the engine. He pulled down his hat, donned his mittens and got out of his car. He had thick down mittens with an opening for the thumb and trigger finger, so he could whip his gun from its belt holster, should the need arise. Or grab his can of mace. Or the shiny handcuffs, though he wouldn’t need any of them tonight. He struggled through deep snow to the back of the house.
He’d already considered a couple different means of entry, but knew there’d have to be good reason. He squinted through the dark. In his side pocket he had a small black flashlight. He flicked its beam on the back door. He didn’t expect to find anything, was surprised when it appeared as though someone had been there. He trailed the light down and saw old depressions in the snow, what looked like footprints buried over by last night’s blow. They were barely visible, but still traceable.
Goddard followed the faint tracks around the side of the house, not thirty feet from the neighbor’s outside wall. He flashed the light across the snow and saw a pair of boot prints almost covered over. Someone came and went, he guessed. From the looks of it he couldn’t be sure, but it appeared as though someone had come from the front to the back, turned around the corner to the door, and then started back.
He returned to the rear of the house, had another look. Near the corner, to the right of the back stairs, Goddard saw a small depression in the snow. It looked like a deer had lain down in the snow, curled up in a ball to ride out the storm. He stepped over to it, flicked his boot over the surface, and the space opened. He stepped further into the hole, and his boot pushed down through the surface of the snow, well beyond ground level.
A window well, he thought. He kneeled in the snow, clearing a place. He reached his arm down and suddenly, surprisingly, the snow fell away and a wisp of warm air rose out of darkness. He cleared more space, flicked on his flashlight, flashed its beam into the hole, and saw the jagged edges of broken glass. A break-in, he wondered?
He cleared the snow away from the window, piling it around the hole. He could see where the pane had been broken, where the window had been pulled up. He reached in, felt for the latch, turned it, and pushed. The window was frozen. He leaned into the hole, extending his arm through the broken pane, pulling as he brought his other hand down and pushed.
Suddenly the window came unstuck. He lost his balance and his wrist flicked across the broken glass edge. “Goddammit,” he muttered. He brought his arm out and looked at the broken skin. There’d be some bleeding, but not much.
The Sheriff reentered the hole. He locked the window upright. Then he leaned in further, flashing his light onto the basement floor. There were glitters on the floor where glass shards from the broken pane had fallen and scattered. He flashed around the room, but it was empty. He stowed the light and carefully let himself down, feet first, catching himself on the window ledge, dropping until he could step onto the floor. It was an acrobatic act for a big man with some extra pounds, but the window was wide enough. The strain of it left his heart pumping but his head clear.
He paused, listening. The furnace kicked on and startled him. He waited a while longer in the basement darkness, listening. But nothing stirred from the corners and there was no other sound in the house. The place was empty.
He reached back up and dropped the window shut, latching it from the inside. Then he turned and surveyed the rest of the room.
There was a sofa covered in plastic near the far wall, with some miscellaneous furniture beside it. There was a door to the left of the furnace, probably some sort of storage. A stairwell rose to the main level. The Sheriff stepped carefully over the floor, avoiding the glass. He moved to the door, paused before reaching down. He opened his coat, flicked it back, and lifted the trigger guard off his holster. Then he reached down from the side of the entryway, and turned the knob. The door swung open with a slow creak. The sound filled the old basement and Dean waited and listened, but there was nothing. No movement from upstairs. Nothing from outside. No sound at all from the rest of the house... except the furnace fan still blowing.
The dark room was filled with jars. Dusty preserves covered a series of wooden shelves. Down near the bottom it looked like some of the jars had been recently moved. He kneeled to have a look and saw rings in the dust where four jars were missing.
Goddamn thieves, he thought. Stealing preserves. The idea of it made him smile, taking the edge off his adrenaline surge.
He moved over to the stairs and started to climb. At the top of the stairs he listened at the door, and then opened it. There was a brief creak, but nothing else.
He was sure the place was empty, but wasn’t in the mood for taking chances. He stepped silently down the hallway, treading carefully over the worn carpet. There were two doors down its length. He opened the closest one and it appeared to be an old bedroom. A white chenille bedspread lay across the bed. When Dean flashed his light across the spread, it was bunched near the floor, as though someone had recently sat on it. The burglar, he wondered?
He left the door open and moved to the next room. A bathroom, quiet, small, rectangular and tiled, with a sink, toilet and shower. He walked down to the kitchen and the light from the street illuminated the old linoleum. There was something in the air. Something familiar. Food? Pickles? He walked over to the sink and he thought the smell intensified.
Goddard searched through the rest of the rooms. Other than in the bedroom, kitchen and basement there was no sign anyone had been in the house for a long time. He opened the cupboards, cabinets, storage closets, anyplace he thought Williston might have hidden some sort of digital storage device. He scoured the old bedroom, but found nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to think. Why in the hell would someone break in, steal four jars of preserves, and nothing else? Particularly when there was plenty of other stuff worth taking. In the living room there was a hutch. Two of its drawers contained silver. There was a television in the corner, old but probably serviceable. At least it would bring a few dollars at a Duluth pawnshop. Dean guessed there were a few hundred bucks worth of pawnshop pickings. Kids on some kind of lark? Williston hadn’t been dead that long. Less than five days. High school kids ripping off the old man? Goddard could ask around, see if anyone over at Vermilion High knew anything. But it didn’t make sense. Anyone going to that much trouble would have stolen something. At least something worth more than preserves.
He made another cursory examination of the entire house, searching for any cranny Winthrop might have used to store something. Anything he didn’t want people to find. He looked through the linens, bedroom closets, under the kitchen sink, peered with his flashlight behind the fridge. The freezer was self-defrosting, empty. The fridge contained four bottles of Pfeiffer’s beer. That did it. High school kids would have taken the beers for sure.
The Sheriff sat down at the kitchen table and squinted at his wristwatch in the dim light. It was already after 7:00 p.m. He’d found nothing in the vacant house. He guessed Williston could have taken the preserves, eaten some of his dead wife’s pickles. But it was all too fresh. And the basement window was broken by someone who appeared to have entered the place last night, in the middle of that storm, judging from the tracks. None of it made sense.
Finally, he let himself out the back door, unlocking and pushing on the frozen door until it snapped open. It left a small drift of snow to the side, where the door opened. He locked the door behind him, looke
d around. Still no one. He shuffled the snow back over the door and did the same to the drift over the window well. Truth was, he didn’t have a warrant. He knew the break-in would eventually be found. It would be simplest if he could get out of the place without being seen.
Back at his car he examined the neighborhood homes. It was cold and the frosty weather had covered every window with a thick glaze. No one could see anything, even if they had peered out at the plowed drifts.
He wasn’t sure what he’d seen, but he knew what he hadn’t found. He replayed the scratchy video in his head, wondering where Williston hid it. The two other most likely places were his office and the old farmhouse. He might be able to get into the office later tonight, but thought maybe he should wait. Wait for Dunlap to get that search warrant. He could easily check out that farmhouse, but Angus might be out there, tending to Williston’s feeder calves. Better to wait on that, too. Let those remote roads get plowed.
For now, Dean thought, as he started his cruiser quietly and eased it down the back alley, it would be best to stay frosty.
Chapter Sixteen
January 30th, evening—Diane Talbott’s cabin
In the wake of Gunderson’s departure, Diane rushed to the door and slammed it, but it wouldn’t catch. She turned, keeping the door closed with her back, as if some part of her thought Gunderson might return. Her hand went up to her face. Her knuckles were red from striking him. They both heard his engine start. Diane’s head turned, listening. Her face was flushed and her eyes flashed with rage. If she’d had a gun, Sam guessed, Hank Gunderson would have been leaving on a gurney, probably with a sheet pulled over his head.
The truck started down the drive, its engine growing fainter through the trees. Sam listened long enough to make sure Gunderson didn’t turn on the side road where Sam’s jeep was parked. He heard the new blue pickup accelerate down the highway and disappear.
Diane’s breathing became more measured. Sam wanted to say something, but until she calmed down it would be like offering solace to a puma. She stepped away from the door. She walked across the living room into the kitchen. Sam heard the freezer door open. She took down an ice tray and a dark green bottle with a red cap. Akvavit. She cracked the tray and cubes spilled into the sink. She reached in, grabbed several cubes and dropped them into her glass, focusing to get hold of herself. She twisted the cap and poured. There was a sharp pop as the thick, clear liquid washed over the ice.
She raised the glass and Sam watched her take a long swallow, punctuated by a sharp exhalation. She managed to return the glass to the countertop before reaching a trembling hand to her forehead. Her eyes closed and she turned her head, trying to gather herself. She reached down and emptied her glass of akvavit. Then she took the bottle and refilled her glass.
“That asshole,” she finally managed, her hands a little shaky. She took another long pull from the glass. It didn’t appear Diane Talbott was the type to choke out a sob, though it would have been warranted. Sam guessed it would take a few moments for her rage to subside. Then Hank Gunderson had better start watching his back.
Finally, she turned and Sam looked at her face, still reddened but fading to normal. “Clayton?” she asked. Then remembered. “Sam?”
Sam nodded. “I figured it was time for a visit.” He paused. He was still a little surprised by what he’d witnessed. Before he could say anything else she looked away, continuing to regain control. Gray streaks splintered her black hair. Now that all the excitement was over he noticed a trace in the air. Like dried flowers and witch hazel. The Defiance woods in late September. And maybe there was a little fear in the room, a pungent odor, like sweat with an underlying remnant of Gunderson’s whiskey.
“Goddamnit,” she managed. She turned to the sink. With her damaged hand she found the glass, raised it to her lips. She finished the restorative akvavit. Then turned and said, “You’ve grown up.” She stared at him, then seemed to remember something. “How about a drink?”
“I could use one.”
Diane took down a glass and filled it with ice and akvavit, then handed it to him.
“You OK?” he asked.
She looked at him, briefly. “Getting there,” she said, and then poured herself one more tumbler.
“You should press charges.”
She paused, then took another sip. “Probably should. But you’ve been away too long. Out here I’m still within Defiance city limits. And that means the investigating officer would be Bill Grebs. Do you remember him?”
Sam nodded. “I remember Grebs.”
“One of your father’s friends. And one of Hank Gunderson’s buddies.”
“You have a witness.”
Diane stared at him. “Truth is, if I had a gun handy, Hank Gunderson’s blood would be staining my throw rug.” She looked away, considering. “And that would be the kind of kneejerk justice Bill Grebs and his Iron Range buddies might understand.” She took another sip of akvavit. “But to press charges means eventually we could appear before a judge and jury and that means a fatass talker like Hank Gunderson would dredge up every nasty detail he could find about me. Nothing much recent, but there was a day I could party. It might cast enough doubt, in spite of my eyewitness. And remember, up here men are men, and women are their wives, mothers, sisters and whores.”
“I think it’s changed,” Sam argued. “I think you’d have a pretty good chance.”
She looked down at her hand and rubbed the cold glass over her red knuckles. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to let that son of a bitch get away with it. For now I’ll have to think on it. I drew a little blood with that fist to his face.” She managed a tough grin. “You can bet if I get another chance I’ll draw more. But not in a stand-up fight. It’ll have to be ladylike.” She turned to Sam, but didn’t smile. “Hank Gunderson is long overdue for some Range justice.”
Sam took a drink of the biting liquid and could feel the smooth, pleasant burn.
“Do you remember akvavit?” she asked.
“I remember. The ‘water of life,’” he translated.
“Those Swedes know their drinks.”
Sam drank the rest of it straight away and set the glass on the counter. He could feel the warmth in his throat.
“Have another?”
“One more might be nice.”
Sam walked over to examine the door while Diane filled his glass. He bent to look at the broken lock. He fingered the splinters where the bolt tore away from the frame. He turned to look at her and she appeared to be much better. “Sorry about your door,” he said.
She shook her head. “Your entry was as perfect as your timing.”
Sam nodded. That it had been, he thought. Part of him was sorry they hadn’t convinced Hank to take a chance with his fists.
Diane examined the place where the bolt lock broke away. He watched her fingers play over the wood, rub over two vacant screw holes. She picked up the piece from the floor and fit it back into its ragged slot.
“It can be fixed,” she said.
That’s what Sam remembered about Diane Talbott. Competence. The ability to live on her own on the edge of wilderness. He guessed it was one of the reasons his mother liked her so much. That and her willingness to put her whole body into a right fist to Hank Gunderson’s jaw. He watched her piece in the splintered latch. Then she turned and looked at him. Sam followed the focus of her sharp green eyes. She was still a beautiful woman. She wasn’t the 30-year-old he’d paddled and hiked behind, but he could see why Hank Gunderson would be interested. What he didn’t understand was why the son of a bitch thought he had a chance.
Sam retrieved his glass, raised it in front of him and said, “To timing.”
Diane nodded. Then Sam drained half of it in one gulp and the liquid burn diffused across his rib cage. He had forgotten about the drink. Akvavit was similar to vodka. And if it wasn’t
exactly the water of life, it was a damn good substitute.
“I don’t think I’ve tasted the water of life since I left the Range.”
She walked across the room, picking up the lamp from where it had fallen, replacing it on the end table. Then she turned and said, “it’s been... what? Nineteen, twenty years?”
She wore a pair of blue jeans that were almost as tight around her hips as they had been 20 years ago. Her jeans were contoured around legs that Sam still remembered. A gray fisherman’s sweater had a top-heavy sway beneath it. Clearly she had been expecting no one, given her comfortable attire.
“Twenty,” he answered. He wondered what she remembered about the times they’d paddled with his mother, or hiked into the Boundary Waters.
She looked away, calculating in her head. “Yeah,” she said, wistful. “Your mother’s death was a sore loss for the Range.”
“I should have come back.”
“You should have.” She paused. “But your mom seemed to understand, though she never quite got over the fact you had to run. She told me what happened, the day you left. Or at least what she knew about it.” She walked over to the fire and placed two logs onto it. She still had a little nervous energy from the fight. She stepped over to the front of her couch and tried to sit down, but she was edgy. She leaned over to watch the logs, but Sam didn’t think she was seeing them.
He came around and sat down in the chair across from her. He could hear the pine logs pop. He still held his drink. He watched her for a moment; thought he’d give her a chance to breathe.
Finally, she turned and looked at him.
“It doesn’t seem like 20 years,” he said, picking up the conversation.
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