“Do I look like a mystic?” Bill’s anxiety put a biting sound in his voice.
“It would seem to me that this loss is a betterment for the world at large,” Crook said in his calm manner, resting against the back of the chair.
“However that may be,” Bill answered, picking up on Crook’s calm demeanor, “somebody is going to pay for this improvement. I hope the whole thing is cut and dried and none of Hauk’s escapades get brought into the picture. How likely is that?”
“What exactly do you think might happen, Bill?” Martin fought the darkness by speaking deliberately.
“A big deal investigation,” Bill answered with more passion in his voice than he intended. “They’ll dig up what Hauk was doing in order to find motives. Likely, they will find Sandra.”
“No way,” Crook answered. “Only the four of us know about Sandra. They can’t trace her to Kirby, to pregnancy, to rape, to Hauk. There is no trail. What would bring Sandra to mind at all?” He sounded like he had given this some thought.
“Nothing,” Martin’s hands shook, “unless she did it.”
“No, no, no,” Bill shook his head. “Sandra’s disappearance was the last case Hauk worked on. That’s why they’ll talk to her. If she sticks to her story, she’ll be fine. But she might get scared.”
“If they ask her about her disappearance, she doesn’t have to answer. That case is closed.” Crook looked and sounded like the old Crook Martin knew so well. He showed neither worry nor fear.
Bill said, “Hauk was a big man, nearly three hundred pounds. He wasn’t tall, like Martin, but he was huge and strong like a bull. He had a thick neck. Who could kill him? I mean who would dare?”
Martin said, “Perhaps someone he was extorting. I couldn’t be his only intended victim.” Instantly Martin froze and closed his mouth. He didn’t mean to say that. Bill and Crook gaped at him. He closed his eyes.
“You better tell us, Martin.” Bill said. “Damn,” he said under his breath.
Crook said nothing. When Martin opened his eyes Crook was looking at him with hardness in his eyes and around his mouth.
Martin told them about the visit. He told them that he expected Hauk or Carl on the first of October to collect but that he wasn’t paying them anything.
“Who is Carl?” Crook said.
“Dumb ass deputy,” Bill answered. He put his head down toward his knees.
Crook looked carefully at Martin. Then he asked slowly, “Did they act as though this was a routine type of visit for them, practiced?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “I’m not their first trip around the block.”
“This is good news and bad news,” Crook said. “On the good side, the cops will find more motives than they expect. On the bad side, Martin is the new guy. He is the one that changed the equation.”
“I didn’t kill Hauk,” Martin said.
“I know you did not kill Hauk. It only matters what the cops think,” Crook said. Then almost to himself but Martin heard him, Crook said, “Maybe the bastard did not keep book.”
Bill looked stunned by this turn of the conversation. He said, “Carl would know about his side money. But it doesn’t matter as far as Martin is concerned. Martin was with me last night getting stuff for his party.
“Would Carl dare tell if he was also involved?” Crook said.
“How was he murdered?” Martin asked. Specifically he wanted to know if a knife was used. “When?”
Bill told what he knew. “According to Tillie’s cousin, a patrolman in Minnehaha County, Hauk was found dead in his home early Saturday morning. That would be this morning. The patrolman told Tillie that Hauk was stabbed in the back of his neck, though the rumor factory had many causes of death and many suspects. Not a single person who actually saw or heard a thing.”
Martin felt his heart stop. He could not draw a breath. For the first time in days, he used his hands to push away the darkness. Hauk had been stabbed.
Neither Bill nor Crook moved. They knew to wait. It was not such a deep darkness as sometimes and it dissolved through Martin’s swimming fingers. After a few minutes Martin said, “I hope it will be resolved in a matter of days. It might not involve us at all.”
Bill said, “No matter who did it, we are involved.”
Crook said, “The best we can hope for is that the case goes unsolved.”
“I don’t want to know,” Martin said.
“Sorry, Martin,” Bill said. “It doesn’t work to pretend things didn’t happen.”
Martin looked at Crook. He said, “Is Sandra safe?”
When Crook did not answer, a chill ran from Martin’s neck to his toes. He could not speak.
Finally Crook said, “Who found him?”
Bill told them about Carl, the Deputy. “Carl found the body in Hauk’s house early this morning, and he went bonkers. He can’t stop talking about it. He goes from the pub to the gas station to the court house. He insists he is the primary investigator. He is like a rooster with his head cut off.”
All three of them laughed at the little Barney Fife. Relief rose in Martin’s heart as he thought of Carl investigating. That is until Crook said, “A fool is dangerous. He doesn’t need evidence to persecute.”
Bill said, “Two detectives from Pierre will be in Wheaton tomorrow. Hauk, after all, was a County Sheriff.”
A tight, consuming fear fell upon the small circle. For several minutes, each man considered things in his own way.
At last Crook said, “They may never figure it out.” Then Crook rubbed his forehead in a visible gesture of worry. No one ever saw a visible gesture of worry from Crook. This single movement frightened Martin more than anything.
Martin abruptly stood. “We need to get a TV so we can watch the news.”
Chapter Nineteen
Martin lay in the early morning darkness. Hauk was murdered on Friday night. Martin hosted Christie’s birthday party on Saturday. Today was early Sunday morning. Carl would likely start the process for removing Kirby from Martin on Monday. Carl told him a week ago after church in the pub that if anything happened to Hauk, he would make absolutely, positively sure that Martin lost Kirby the next business day. Those were Carl’s words and why would Carl lie?
The sun rose bright in a clear sky. It edged its way over the horizon and through the trees and into Martin’s east window. Martin considered that Carl was pre-occupied today with a murder to solve. But he knew regardless of how busy Carl was on the outside, on the inside he was thinking about him and about Kirby. Carl would be happy to hurt him in revenge for Hauk whether Martin had anything to do with Hauk’s death or not. That was the way of the sane world.
Martin slept in the front corner bedroom that had four windows, two sets of two. It was the same room Sandra chose earlier because there was a bed in it. Martin chose this room because he enjoyed the sunrise, and he did not want to have windows facing the barn.
Martin considered that the house was a devil to shingle. He thought, No more rain drops plopping on the hallway floor. But today it did not work to think about the house. For some reason he could not escape his worry by focusing on his work: not on this morning.
He looked out of the window at the sky and the gold, rust leaves. For an hour he sat on the side of his bed. He knew it was time to face the barn. He would not be able to do his work until he was whole. He would not survive the coming storm unless he fixed himself. The young man on the bus told him “murder and mayhem.” Was the kid psychic? Had he known? Martin wondered about the kid dealing cards at a casino in Spearfish. Someday, Martin thought, he would tell him that it was mayhem and murder. The mayhem did come first.
He loved Kirby. Kirby came from chaos and was good and clean and new. Martin sighed. First he watched the light creep into his room until he could distinguish his shoes and then the lines of the hardwood floor beneath them. Nothing, yet, had been done to the inside of this room except to throw out and burn the old mattress and store the cast iron bed frame.
The only furniture in the room was the new bed on which he sat. His gym bag stood along the inside wall by the closet door. Crook folded Martin’s clean clothes and stacked them into the gym bag. The hundreds of hangers that once filled the rod in the closet had vanished; only one hanger in the closet now. That hanger held his coat. The closet door was shut and his door to the hall was shut.
Most days, after Martin was up and dressed, Crook came into the room, re-made his bed, swept the floor and ran a damp cloth over the twelve inch woodwork. Martin studied the woodwork. He thought the fine wood could be saved if he wanted to contribute that kind of effort to an upstairs. His work would not hold his thoughts. He had no escape.
He did not move. He moved his gaze to the lawn. Through the windows the lawn was visible, sadly overgrown. He would ask Bill to make a few rounds with his tractor mower. That would at least make it easier to clear in the spring.
No curtains hung on his bedroom windows, or shades. The sun became warm on his head. Salvaging this old house, what was it for, what did it matter?
He knew the time had come, but he did not want to know. It was not enough to understand what he had to do at some point in the day. It was not so easy to just do it.
He considered Carmen and Christie; reason enough. He saw Christie’s tears on her small, serious face. He thought of Sandra. He visualized her fierce, cold eyes and her tall, strong body. His heart hurt for her. For several minutes his thoughts lingered on the young woman who bonded them, who gravitated them all. He felt the touch of her hand and heard the sound of her voice. A knife like pain stabbed into his chest and he shuddered. Had Sandra killed Hauk?
Maureen entered his thoughts and he smiled. His sister was the closest to unconditional love that he knew to exist. When he called, she came without question. Did he want to never be able to return in kind her consistent, loving presence? He found he wanted to, yes, he did, merciful God, want to respond to his sister if she called upon him. He looked again to the window, to the sky, and felt the sting of tears on his dry lips.
What about Crook? What would happen to Crook? He could not allow for Crook to face the consequences of all their actions without him. He would be no help to anyone until he faced the barn. If he turned back now he would never reach this point again. Very slowly and with stiff joints, he stood.
He thought of Joseph and his heart hurt, but he smiled. So funny, always fun. Everyone wanted to be around Joe. One time long ago Joe built a real gong by hanging a tractor rim on a homemade hangman’s tower he had welded together. He hit it with a sledge hammer and the noise reverberated for a mile. When Mom ran onto the porch, her face white, Joe bent double with laughter.
The gong lasted nearly a month before Dad had enough. One day after school it was gone. So many things, so much riches inside of him, such quick wit and then one day Joseph was gone.
It was Crook’s morning to care for Kirby. Right now, Crook was reading the newspaper to the baby, inserting editorial comments and eliciting gurgles. Martin recalled how Kirby rolled over a few days ago and Crook’s astonishment at this never seen before feat of agility.
Martin began to move about, preparing. He grew up in a religious household, and religion stayed with him always. He knelt by the south window and closed his eyes, bringing his knuckles to his mouth. “Help me, Jesus Christ, to get through this,” he prayed over and over for several minutes. Then he mumbled every childhood prayer he could remember. At last, he stood and strode to the door.
He wondered again how Sandra was involved. Who drove? Crook couldn’t drive. Crook said she could not have done it, nor did Bill think she could do it. But Martin remembered her face as she told about Hauk. He remembered vividly the hard lines of her mouth and eyes as they passed the warm soda back and forth. If Sandra helped to kill Hauk, she would need him to understand.
Martin dressed for the occasion. He showered and shaved. When he emerged from the bathroom, his new growth of beard was gone. Carefully, he parted his hair down the middle and combed it back behind his ears. Martin frowned at his image. He could not face Joe with his hair like that. He found a headband in his TWINS bag. The headband crossed his forehead and looked athletic. That worked.
He dressed in the tan pants and the Docker’s shirt. Tennis shoes were okay. He was almost ready. He opened the closet door with a hard yank. The door had a tendency to stick. He wanted to wear the coat. Martin hung the coat, home from the cleaners, wrapped in cellophane, and hanging crisp on a hanger. He knew the exact spot he hung it. Only the coat was not there. He looked at the empty spot on the closet rod and breathed deeply, in and out several times.
This was no time for adversity. He waved it off. He would have to go without the coat. Better anyway to face the battle without amour, to face Joe as he had been twenty-five years ago.
When Martin crossed through the kitchen, Crook’s mouth opened and closed without any sound like a fish in water. Martin did not dare to waiver. So he did not stop. He observed the surprise and a little fear on Crook’s face and strode on. He did not even stop to say “hello” to Kirby.
Martin noticed the Sunday newspaper adds all over the table. He checked for his coat spread out on the floor under Kirby. Not there. No time to waiver. Opened the kitchen door, he crossed the porch, down the steps and down the path between the weeds to the barn. He did not stop at the pump.
Immediately inside the barn Martin stopped dead still. It was pitch dark until his eyes adjusted. His heart pounded so hard that nothing else worked, almost nothing else existed but his racing heart and his paralyzing fear.
With stiff legs, he moved to the vertical wood slabs nailed to the 2x4’s and crossed with narrow wood pieces to form a ladder rising into the hayloft. Like monkeys, he and Joe and Maureen climbed that ladder countless times. As Martin ascended the steps, he felt the past coming upon him. He smelled it in the scent of the wood. He felt the feelings he used to know. He recalled the well-being and vitality and happiness that defined him twenty-five years ago.
The hayloft floor slanted and was no longer safe for a man’s weight. To his right some hay, moldy and decaying, rose in mounds along both walls by the hayloft door. To his left the empty space around the basketball hoop was filled with dust swirling in the shafts of light.
Always, Joe swept this space clean with patience and care. Now the rust-orange hoop nailed to the north wall leaned forward. The whole wall leaned dangerously forward. Martin could not imagine what kept it from falling in on itself. A good third of the roof was gone from the long side facing west. Still, enough remained to be The Place and Martin saw it as it was twenty-five years ago.
Staring at the hoop, breathing in the smell of damp hay and cattle and barn, Martin talked out loud but he talked to himself.
It rained so hard the noise on the roof was a constant roar, so constant that we no longer noticed it. And Joe. Joe the Great. If I got an A, Joe got an A+. If I got an A+, Joe got one first. But we played basketball. We were All State players in a state where boy’s basketball was an obsession and high school sports fed life into this town.
Joe made All State as a sophomore, unprecedented. The next year, so did I and the town went crazy. Individually we were good. Together we were great. We could not be beaten. We played basketball together every possible minute of every day. We could pass blindfolded.
We lost the championship game of the Class B State Tournament when Joe was a Junior and I was a Sophomore. Remember, Joe, you fouled out with two minutes to go. We were down by two points. I had a chance to pass for a good shot to tie it. But I couldn’t see the new kid, I couldn’t find his hands. I threw it away. Threw the ball to no one! Remember that, Joe?
“Next year,” the coach told us.
“Next year,” Dad said.
“You did fine,” Mom said with tears still on her eyelashes.
Only there wasn’t a next year for Joe. Where was Joe? Joe was dead.
Martin still stood motionless by the entry point of the ladder, litera
lly frozen in time. His fingers became fists. He remembered the plays, he remembered the missed shots. He remembered the shots that fell, that got the roll. He remembered the rebounds in Joe’s soft hands, and the bounce pass blind to where Joes’s hands would be. Even now, even in his torment, it gave Martin pleasure to remember how they played basketball.
Martin’s head began to pound, his face, his neck, his arms became rigid with determination. It rained that day. We were playing basketball. HORSE. I never won at HORSE against Joe. But on this day, with rain enclosing us in a place distant from all reality, it was important, urgent, more important than anything to finally beat Joe.
“I am going to beat you, Joe. Yes, yes, yes, I am. Make that. Don’t laugh. Make that. Is that so funny? You think I can’t beat you?”
With the rain, the mold and the damp in the hayloft, I had to wipe snot from my face with the back of my hand. The memory filled Martin’s sinuses as he stood ramrod straight, stiff, staring at the crooked, lopsided, rusty orange basketball hoop with the net reduced to gray threads along the rim.
The ball did not bounce well in the damp. That was why we played HORSE. Just one game, then we would finish the chores. A game of HORSE could take a long time when we really tried. On this day, we tried hard, focused, intent, and competitive beyond reason.
I had the “S.” I won’t miss. I will not get the damn “E.” How did you make that? How did you do that? Did you cheat? I don’t know how you could cheat! I can do it. I can do it if you can. Yes! Did you see that, Joe? Did you see that?
Martin’s voice rose, “Why should I have to shoot left handed just because you did? Why should I? It is from the spot, it can be any hand. I am NOT scared. What is so funny? So what if my face is red and I have snot on my lip? What is so damn funny?”
Why on that day did it matter so much? Hundreds of days, thousands of hours, it was always fun. Joe was supposed to win. He was the center. I was a guard. Why on that particular rain soaked day did it matter so much?
Martin, Crook, & Bill Page 13
