The light faded fast in the hay-mound as the sun sank beneath the roof line. “Flame, Joe. We need flame now,” Bill said. He also knew he had to get out before one of those groups came walking to the barn.
First he heard it, then he saw it; the crackle of flame as it caught the rag. The wind worked as a draft, igniting the flame and lifting the smoke.
Still, he waited. He wanted to see the floorboards catch. While he waited, he shut off the heat lamp, and tried to hold his breath. Even with a rag over his face, the smoke was dense and dangerous. With deft motion, he pushed the hot lamp down into its casing, carried it down the slanted floor and dropped it through the hole above the stanchions.
Realizing he left the wire cutter lying by the coat, he started toward them. Too late; blue flame rolled along the coat lining and the tool was beneath the coat. Darn it, he liked those wire cutters.
Time to make his exit. A steady line of fire came from the original source at the hay pile and moved across the row of rags to the basketball hoop. The slanting, cracked floorboards showed red slivers of wood. Then he realized the row of burning rags blocked him from the ladder. He could still leap over it, but the jagged edge of board on the sagging section of roof also glowed red and flame began to curl up the boards and under the shingles.
Too late for the ladder; he would have to jump the hole above the stanchions. Now he felt Joe. He honest to goodness felt him like a hug, propelling him to the opening in the floor and a gentle shove to the hard packed black earth twelve feet down. His sixty-five year old body landed with a jolt, miraculously right between the thick wood of the stanchions on either side. His heat lamp lay about a foot from his head.
Bill gave his condition some thought. The wind was knocked out of him, but his coat padded the landing enough to save his bones. He could move. His jaw felt tender and his ears rang a little, but overall not a bad landing. First he crawled and then he stood. Picking up the heat lamp, he found his way past the storage rooms and to the side door.
He remembered the men walking around outside and wondered how close they might be. It would not do for him to be spotted exiting the burning barn. He opened the door a crack and looked out. Dusk gave some cover, but he heard voices coming from the yard.
“He who hesitates is lost,” he said, going to his knees. The thick air spun, and he wobbled forward on his arms. He paused for balance and gritted his teeth against the pain, reaching for the lap. With his last strength he hoisted the lamp onto his back and wound the flexible head over his shoulder. He crawled, mouth dry and heart pounding wildly. He crawled through the door and onto the path. He kicked shut the door behind him and paused until he heard the latch catch hold.
One arm throbbing, he crawled painfully along the path between the weeds. He reached the path that headed either to the house or to the tree. Bill clenched his teeth and listened. He would again be visible for three feet or so. He heard voices but saw nothing moving. Rising to his knees, he peered across the top of the weeds. He saw a man in a police jacket using a flashlight to check the stock tank.
Lowering himself, he scurried like the rats holding the head of the damn heat-lamp with his chin and feeling the casing slide on his back. His mouth was too dry to cry out. He moved forward on the path feeling nothing but the necessity to move.
He moved forward until he was clear of sight. He still crawled until he rounded the corner of the barn and several feet past it. Once in the thistles, he slowly stood, straightening his body, clearing his head. He cradled the lamp in his good arm as he tread the narrow path through the thistles and up the slope to the tree. He sat on “the bench” and breathed in and out, in and out many times, slowly and carefully waiting for his heart to slow.
When he looked up, flames across the area of sagging roof reached for the evening sky. He couldn’t believe it, and he could not look away. He heard the fire and nothing else. The wind died with the sunshine, and quiet darkness began to envelope him. He was too tired and hurt to walk home, so he found the knapsack, sat on his smooth seat, drank coffee and ate.
When he heard the sirens above the sound of the fire, he decided it was time to go. Darkness was no hindrance in retracing his steps. However climbing between the barbed wire fence challenged his now stiff bones. He caught on the barbs and had to tear himself free, leaving pieces of coat behind. His black parka was ruined, his wire cutters gone forever, his arm hurt and so did his jaw and every bone in his body, but Bill felt very, very good. He walked the corn rows, through the ditch, down his driveway and into his warm, well lit kitchen.
Chapter Forty-Two
When the yelling began, Crook hung his head into his hands, but briefly. He would face his fate like a man. He walked slowly, looking toward the barn. His steps had no direction; he moved numbly toward the law. When he looked down he saw his hands in front of him, ready for the cuffs. Crook thought, “I only did what I had to do.”
He stopped ten steps past Martin and again looked to the barn. In that moment Crook got religion.
Crook saw flames shoot from the barn along the caved roof line. He would remember that instant for the rest of his life and refer to it in his thoughts as the moment he learned to pray. Now, his mouth opened and he gaped. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said, lips moving but no sound emerging.
Chapter Forty-Three
Detective White stood by the pump-jack looking into the stock tank. The ground beneath his feet felt stiff and gave slightly under his weight as wet ground would when it was trying to freeze. The stock tank was yellow-gray, cracked and dry. He thought perhaps it was recently drained. He considered the advisability of testing the tank bottom or the earth for traces of blood and determined it to be pointless. If blood had mixed with this water last Friday, it would no longer be viable.
He ran his flashlight along the weeds between the pump and the barn and saw the path outlined by broken and crushed yellow weeds. Suddenly his heart churned hard. This was it. They used the barn. He ran heedless down the path toward the side entrance to the barn. He heard the yelling behind him and did not hear it. It was not for him. A foot from the door, Vilhallen grabbed him around the shoulder and locked his fist across his chest.
“Not worth it, John,” Vilhallen said. White struggled because he still did not understand. He saw two rats squirm around loose rocks in the foundation, running pall-mall into the weeds. Then with the smell and the haze and sting in his throat he understood. The damned barn was burning.
“The evidence.” White could barely speak the words, still facing the barn door now with smoke exiting around the edges.
“Likely nothing,” Vilhallen answered, shaking his head. “We have to let it go. The fire department is on its way.”
As the detectives walked back toward the house, the sirens already sounded in the distance. The technicians covered their noses and mouths with cloth. White looked up to see the tall, lean Martin standing near the house. Martin stood still, hands loose at his sides, staring at the barn. He moved his gaze to Jeremy Sabo who was covering his face with a white dish towel.
White said to Vilhallen, “How did they do it?”
Chapter Forty-Four
Vilhallen, White, and Jerome Mathis, the local Fire Chief, stood near the police vehicles and watched the barn burn.
“Shouldn’t you do something more?” White asked, but he talked with little energy. “Important evidence could be burning before our eyes.”
Jerome Mathis said, calm and quiet, “You should thank your lucky stars if that is true.”
“How so?” Vilhallen said.
“This case is the biggest embarrassment to law enforcement ever known in the State of South Dakota. Hopefully the guy who did it won’t bill you for cleaning up your mess. If the rumors are even half true, Hauk hurt a lot of people. Where were you when the citizens needed you?” Jerome Mathis rocked on his heels and looked toward the flames against the night sky.
Vilhallen stared at the man. He was a bit too heavy. His coat
buttoned over his belly and left about three inches of stomach hanging between the coat and his belt buckle. But the man had a point. A good defense attorney would wreak havoc on law enforcement gone bad. The actual crime may have been in defense of life. He began planning his report to the governor.
However, even if nothing could be proved, he wanted to know. He almost had to know. He stood and watched while the fire fighters contained the flames and made no effort to save the barn. Person by person Vilhallen and White sent their team home until only the fire fighters remained with them and Martin and Crook
Martin and Crook loitered several feet away from the detectives. They seemed unsure of their standing. Vilhallen sidled closer to hear their conversation.
“It is odd that Bill is not here. I expected his pick-up truck to come racing up the drive at the first spark of flame against the sky,” Martin said.
Crook said, “Maureen and I had a movie date tonight. Even Tillie could come over and bring Kirby.”
“Kirby has to stay with Tillie until the house is cleaned,” Martin said.
Vilhallen walked up to Martin. “Martin, the men need to use your restroom. Is there a way to restore the plumping and turn the water on?”
Crook stared at him. “Not too embarrassed to ask? That is a cop for ya.” Then Crook stepped back, shutting his lips tight.
“Are we friends now?” Martin asked, looking down at the man who was tall but still four inches shorter than Martin.
“We can be,” Vilhallen answered, “if that will fix the plumping.”
Martin turned toward the house, Crook on his heels. Vilhallen kept some distance, but not out of range to hear their words. He briefly considered a visit to Bill Bendix. Then decided it was time to give it up. They had no evidence.
Martin restored the pipes and Crook cleaned the bathrooms. Crook made coffee in the big pot. Upon seeing Vilhallen hovering in the kitchen, Crook said, “The coffee is for the firefighters saving Martin’s property, not for the detectives who tried to ruin it.”
Vilhallen wanted some coffee so he ignored Crook’s words. He watched Crook efficiently move a card table and folding chairs outside. Crook put the coffee urn on the table and poured a few mugs. He did not have disposable cups. Crook found hamburger and made sloppy-joes. Vilhallen could not stop watching the small man.
A tent appeared over them as Crook put food on the table, made more coffee and found juice. The firefighters worked through the night as did Crook. Martin entered the tent. He said to Crook, “I’ve made my bed and now I am going to sleep in it.”
Crook said, “Sleep good.”
As dawn rode up the trees to the east only six one-foot square charred timbers stood in two rows of three to represent the barn. The stanchions still stood, black skeletons. The fire chief and a newly arrived fire investigator combed the ashes. Vilhallen, White, and Crook sat in a row on folding chairs by the pump. The weeds were trampled to ground, black with soot and singed with burn, no longer blocking their view. They watched.
Martin came along, looking fresh saved and showered and toting a chair. Unfolding his chair, he sat by Crook. The four fans in a row watched the Fire Chief and the Fire Investigator confer for several minutes. The two firemen picked up and carried over a three-foot square box with a wire mesh bottom. They set the box on the ground in front of White and Vilhallen and everyone bent to look inside.
The exhausted Fire Chief said, “Hello, Martin, how are you?” Martin looked past the grime and the black uniform and recognized Jerome. “Fine,” he answered. “I presume I owe you some money for all this commotion.”
“That you do,” Jerome answered, “but the building is no loss. It was a fire hazard and needed to come down.” The two men continued to chat as though at a church breakfast.
Vilhallen thought, everything and everyone is connected in a small town. How did Hauk get away with his schemes for so long? He was careful in his victims. That is until he ran into Cassandra Peters. The wrong girl and his escalating sickness ended his life.
The Fire Chief informed Vilhallen that no evidence of arson existed, and he would have the full report within a few days. “We are calling it an Act of God,” he said. “A coincidence for sure, but who knows about these things. That box is all that remains.”
Remembering something, Jerome held out his hand containing a black wallet. “Found this by the stanchions,” he told Martin. John White, snatched it from Jerome’s hand, “I have to check everything first.”
Vilhallen saw that Crook did not flinch. This wallet did not belong to Hauk. The wallet appeared old and inexpensive even in its current half-melted condition. White opened it carefully while everyone present positioned to see what the wallet might contain.
Fully intact, inside clear plastic on the front pocket was a driver’s license issued in the name of Joseph Adam Webster. Stashed in the money folder were a one dollar bill and several pictures. The school pictures were of young ladies. Vilhallen saw Martin smile. From behind the school pictures, White pulled a folded newspaper clipping. It was a newspaper photo of Martin and Joe dressed in suit and tie, standing together on the stage.
“This picture was taken at the homecoming festivities following our third place finish at the State B basketball tourney. I was a sophomore year and Joe was a junior,” Martin said quietly. He added, “I remember this but I never knew how much that homecoming meant to Joe. He kept this clipping in his wallet.” He reached for the clipping with trembling fingers and took it from White’s hand. “After all these years Joe is saying good-bye.”
Last thing in the wallet was a seventh grade school picture of a smiling red-haired, freckled-faced girl. Martin and Crook laughed, and White wordlessly handed the wallet to Martin.
The fire chief and the investigator left leaving the four men to pour over the contents of the box. Vilhallen leaned back on his chair. His eyes burned, and he wanted rest. Since he could not sleep, he continued to watch. Martin was possibly the most likeable man he had ever encountered on an investigation. Crook, on the other hand was not likeable at all. He was alarming.
Inside the box, resting on the mesh bottom was a wire cutter. Some melted chunks of material lay beside the wire cutter. That was it, the only remaining remnants of the barn.
“Was there anything in that barn we would take an interest in?” White asked Martin and Martin shook his head no.
White, pale with exhaustion, said, “You seem to recognize something.”
Martin picked up the biggest chunk of material which was a remnant of a coat collar. He said, “I remember this coat.”
“Well then, gentlemen, we will go now. I wish we met under better circumstances, but I wish you both well.” Vilhallen reached out a hand and Martin shook it as did Crook.
White managed to nod with civility toward the men, then followed Vilhallen to their Ford Focus. White said, “Poor little town.”
Vilhallen said, “Poor us. We did what they let us do.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Only when the cloud of dust from the departing vehicle settled onto the driveway did Martin turn toward Crook. “My coat? You used my coat in the removal of Hauk? How was that necessary?” His voice remained calm and quiet as always but his eyes held some fire.
“I tried to save it. I did my best to save it,” Crook answered, showing emotion for one time in his life. “I am sorry about the coat, Martin.” In living memory no apology had ever issued from his lips before this one.
“Okay, then,” Martin said. “Now tell me about it, the short version. I have work to do.” Then pausing, he again looked at his friend. “How did you burn the barn?”
“I didn’t,” Crook answered.
“Well the barn didn’t sit there for sixty years and decide to burn last night,” Martin said, puzzling this over in his mind. “Bill?” he said. Crook had to agree. It was the only explanation for the man’s absence. “We can return his wire cutter,” Martin said.
They had no explanation for why Bill
needed a wire cutter in his arson, but they had no doubt it was his and served some purpose. For now, Crook needed to sleep and Martin needed to restore his porch and kitchen. If Bill didn’t show up by noon, Martin would walk over.
At 12:30 pm, Martin knocked on the front door of Bill’s house. When Maureen answered, he hugged her and pecked her forehead. “All okay,” he said to her anxious look. Then he saw Bill, lying on the couch, pillows under his head and shoulders. He looked rough, black and blue around his chin and mouth, gauze bandage on his arm, singed hair and red skin and soot outlining the creases of his face like a child outlining a coloring page.
“I see why you didn’t come over, Mr. Bill.” Martin pulled up a kitchen chair to face the couch as he talked. Before sitting, he found Kirby playing on a blanket on the kitchen floor and he picked the baby up in one low sweep. Kirby laughed.
“You see what I did?” Bill asked.
“We guessed but only because you didn’t come over,” Martin said.
“I wanted to. I wanted to see the faces on those cops when the barn went up,” Bill smiled, delighted with himself.
“It’s Crook’s face you should have seen,” Martin answered. Then added, “So you knew my coat was going up in flame and you left it behind.”
Bill looked at him for a second, almost frightened.
“I joke sometimes now,” Martin said. Bill laughed.
“I am greatly relieved that no one was hurt in that fire,” Bill said. His expression turned grave.
“Even a detective doesn’t walk into a burning building,” Martin said. “Though one of them almost did.”
Martin heard the whole story. He nodded at the part that Joe helped and Joe saved Bill’s life. He did not doubt that to be true, but that was for inner life and not for talk past the one telling.
Before Martin left, he told Maureen to pick Crook up at seven or so, the same movie they missed last night showed tonight. Maureen smiled and nodded. Then Martin put his son in his seat and covered him warm, thanked Tillie and was about to leave when Tillie told him to wait.
Martin, Crook, & Bill Page 26
