An Iron Fist, Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  An Iron Fist, Two Harbors

  Books in the Two Harbors mystery series:

  Convergence at Two Harbors (2012)

  Seven Graves, Two Harbors (2013)

  A River Through Two Harbors (2014)

  Preying in Two Harbors (2015)

  An Iron Fist, Two Harbors (2016)

  An Iron Fist,

  Two Harbors

  Dennis Herschbach

  Copyright © 2016 Dennis Herschbach

  Cover photo © Diane Hilden

  ISBN: 978-1-68201-020-4

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincendental.

  First edition: May 2016

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Published by

  North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

  P.O. Box 451

  St. Cloud, MN 56302

  www.northstarpress.com

  Dedication

  An Iron Fist, Two Harbors is dedicated to all those who give of their time and effort to help women escape abusive situations, and to those who work at North Shore Horizons, the women’s shelter in Two Harbors. It is also dedicated to the memory of a friend, Pastor Ira Livingston, who died several years ago while serving a congregation in Two Harbors. His life helped shape my theology to what it is today.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks go out to all those who have helped make this mystery series possible: the folks at North Star Press who have given me the opportunity to have my work published, my friends who have encouraged me with their kind words, the readers who have given me so much positive feedback, and those of you who have attended by book release parties.

  I am continually grateful to my wife, Vicky. Without her continued support and encouragement, I doubt this series would have been written. She is my sounding board, my gentle critic, and most importantly, my preliminary editor. Vicky was involved with the establishment of the Central Minnesota Task Force on Battered Women in the late 1970s.

  Chapter

  One

  TWO MEN HUNCHED OVER their beers and glared at nothing in particular. Both looked rough, each sporting a five-day growth of whiskers on their sullen faces. One wore a camouflage cap with the word BROWNING and a stag’s head embroidered above the bill. The other’s head was bare, his greasy hair falling to his shoulders.

  A man across from them sat at the end of an L-shaped expanse of polished mahogany and stared blankly at a glass of local brew. Other than a female bartender, they were the only people in the place. There were no sounds except for the clinking of glasses being washed and the drone of an ESPN talking head going on about the prospect of the Yankees acquiring a young pitcher to buoy up their aging staff.

  “You know who that is?” the guy with the cap asked, tilting his head toward the patron sitting alone.

  “No, should I?” his companion answered.

  “Ya dumb shit. Why don’t ya climb out from under your rock once in awhile and take a look at the world?” He paused and took a sip of beer from his glass. “He’s that prevert who just moved into town.” He hadn’t mispronounced the word on purpose. “His picture was in the paper. You’d have recognized him if you could read.” He continued his verbal assault on his partner’s ignorance. “He’s a registered sex offender. Served ten years for rape, and now he’s out. Livin’’ right here in our town.”

  Jake Burns heard the comments and didn’t look up. He was used to being ostracized and knew there was no use acknowledging the slurs being directed at him. Besides, he couldn’t issue any sort of disclaimer. What they said was true, and no matter how hard he wished it wasn’t, his sin would follow him wherever he went. Since he was released from prison two years ago, he had lived in three different communities. The first had been in a remote area of Minnesota, a town named Bigfork. Things had gone pretty well for him there. He worked for a logger who didn’t ask questions and was only concerned with how many truckloads of pulpwood went out every day. At night Jake stayed in a shack in the woods, near the logging site. It was a lonely existence, but his employer appreciated having someone to keep watch over the expensive machinery when the crew was gone. Then the bottom dropped out of the timber market, and Jake was let go.

  He moved to Duluth, a port city at the tip of Lake Superior, and tried to get work on the docks. Each day he would show up at union headquarters and wait for the call that extra help was needed. Most days he went home empty-handed, but when he did manage to get work, he would put in a sixteen-hour shift. After the union took their dues, the government their taxes, and the port their cut, he had enough to pay his rent and have a few beers. The good thing was no one asked questions about his past, or his future for that matter. But the shipping season came to a close a few days after Christmas, and he was out of a job again.

  By February, Jake was also out of money, so when he landed a janitorial job in a steel fabrication plant in Two Harbors, he moved. Unfortunately, in that small town he wasn’t able to hide. Whenever he walked down the street or sat in a bar, as he was doing today, he could feel eyes following him. He wished that somehow he could become invisible.

  The two men finished their beers and made a point of walking out side by side, and as they passed Jake one went out of his way to amble closer. He thumped Jake in the back with his fist, and said loud enough for Jake to hear, “Damn prevert! Get out of town.”

  Jake didn’t look up. He downed his beer and motioned for the barkeep to fill his glass. Other people came and went, some singly, some in small groups, but no one paid attention to him except to steal a glance once in a while, and then whisper to whoever they were with. At ten o’clock. Jake picked up his change, left two dollars on the bar as a tip, and wandered out the door.

  He walked down to the breakwater and sat on a bench, watching the lights from the ore docks reflect on the water of the harbor. Gentle swells rolled in and rhythmically splashed on the concrete wall of the breakwater. Jake was alone with his thoughts, totally alone. As he walked the road back from the harbor, he was illuminated by the headlights of a pickup truck, a large 4x4 decked out with chrome trim and sporting a spotlight on top of the cab. Shielding his eyes as it was turned on, he tried to make out who was in the truck. The driver stopped beside him, and the passenger window rolled down.

  “Need a lift?” someone asked, and Jake made out two forms lit by the green reflection off the dashboard lights.

  Chapter

  Two

  JAKE SHOWED UP FOR his night shift on Monday. Working nights was okay with him. The welders and draftsmen, the foremen and machinists didn’t work that shift, only he and another janitor. The expansive shop was empty, quiet, except for Bert Fielder, another social outcast. Everybody called him Junior; most didn’t even know him by any other name.

  Like Jake, Junior didn’t fit the mold. When he was a child, Junior had been swimming with other kids near the park in town where a twelve-foot cliff offered a challenge for anyone who dared jump from its edge into the icy waters of Lake Superior. Junior took the dare and survived the plunge, but another boy, impatient for his turn, leaped into space before Junior could get to shore. The other boy struck Junior on the head with his knee, knocking Junior unconscious. By the time he was hauled out of the water and 911 was called, Junior had stopped breathing. He was revived, but not before his brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long. Junior’s speech was affected, as were his fine motor skills, and one side of his face drooped from paralysis, giving the impression that he was mentally impaired. Those who took the time to know him rea
lized he wasn’t, but not many took that time. Junior compensated by losing himself in the bottle. He and Jake made a good team, and they worked at cleaning the shop without much conversation between them.

  At two in the morning, break time, they sat down together on a bench outside the shop. The cool night air felt good, and Jake inhaled as deeply as he could.

  “What happened to you?” Junior asked, his speech slurred because of his injury.

  “Nothin’ I want to talk about,” Jake answered, and he took a bite of the sandwich he had packed in his lunch pail. He took a slurp of lukewarm coffee from his thermos cup.

  “Well, you look like hell,” Junior continued. “Somebody work you over?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it, so drop it.” Jake stared at the sky as if he wanted to escape to someplace far away.

  “I know all about you,” Junior persisted. “I know you were in prison, and I know that people in town don’t want you around.” He paused and Jake tried to ignore him. “You’re like me. No one wants me around, either. I make them uncomfortable.” He stumbled over the enunciation of the multi-syllabic word.

  Jake’s hand went to his face, and he gingerly fingered his split lip. His left eye had turned a deep purple, and a raised welt covered his cheekbone. He considered himself lucky that those were his only injuries. Other beatings he had received since being released from prison had been more severe.

  “Did you report this to the police?” Junior slurred.

  “What for? They know who I am, and they’re not going to do anything. Their hope is that I’ll move on, but it isn’t that easy. No, I’ll just lay low and stay out of people’s way. I made my bed, now I have to sleep in it. But, Junior, it gets pretty damn lonely.”

  “I hear you, man,” Junior commiserated.

  The two men had to return to work if they were going to finish cleaning before the day shift came on, and the conversation abruptly ended. Three weeks later, they were still following the same routine. Junior never brought up the subject of Jake’s past or of his beating again. The bruises on Jake’s face healed and for Junior, the incident was forgotten. That is, until the night when Jake failed to show up for work and Junior was left with the job of cleaning the shop alone.

  Chapter

  Three

  DEIDRE JOHNSON SAT ON the porch swing watching her eight-year-old twin boys wrestle on the lawn, and she couldn’t help but smile at how they each struggled to gain the advantage over their brother. Jack was the oldest by four and a half minutes and was an inch taller, but Steve was slightly heavier. The boys grunted and laughed, strained and twisted until both were exhausted and the match ended in a draw. They flopped on their backs and rested, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath.

  “Hey, guys,” Deidre called out. “Come up on the deck. I’ve got lemonade and cookies. You look like you could use some.” Her sons loped across the lawn and settled into chairs, then helped themselves to treats.

  As Deidre admired her boys, she couldn’t help but wonder how time had passed so quickly. Here she was, forty-seven years old. Her twin step-daughters were going to be twenty-two on their next birthday. She and Ben had been married seventeen years, and he was already eligible for his twenty-year pension from the FBI, if he chose to take it. Deidre doubted he would, but still, the option was there.

  Her memory wandered back to the day she had started working for the Lake County Sheriff’s Department. She was twenty-one, roughly the same age as her daughters. Over the years, she had experienced more than her share of excitement as a law enforcement officer, and after the twin boys were born, she decided to hang up her badge for good. Taking care of infant twins, and later toddlers, was a full-time job, and the years had sped by. Now she was content to watch her family grow.

  Megan and Maren, the twin girls, had graduated from high school with honors. Next fall, Megan would be beginning her junior year at the University of Minnesota, Duluth. She was a biology major and hoped, someday, to become a researcher. During the summer she worked on campus in a lab, trying to jumpstart her career. This would be her second year as an assistant to a professor who had a grant for something or other. Deidre really wasn’t sure what, and she made a mental note to try to be more interested in what Megan was doing.

  Maren had started college, but during her freshman year met a young man, Dave Mason, with whom she fell deeply in love. He was athletic, competed in road races and marathons, was good looking, and was charming—so much so that at the end of her first year of college, Maren announced that she and Dave would be moving in together and she would be taking a hiatus from school.

  Over both Deidre’s and Ben’s objections, she and Dave had worked out an agreement, they said. Dave would be a senior studying accounting at the university and was on schedule to graduate in the spring. Maren had a job as a waitress in the restaurant of an upscale hotel near Two Harbors. She would support them for a year. Then, when Dave graduated and had a job, she would return to school and finish her degree in elementary education.

  And that’s what happened. Dave finished school at the end of the winter semester and within a month had secured a job with a large accounting firm in Duluth. Maren was registered to resume class beginning in the fall. Even better, she had confided in Megan that she thought Dave was going to propose they get married next winter.

  Just as Deidre was getting ready to go inside, her cell phone buzzed. She saw on the caller ID that it was Dave.

  “Hi, Deidre? This is Dave. Is Maren at your place?” Dave spoke without waiting for a reply. “I took the afternoon off from work, because we planned to go on a hike in Gooseberry Park. She said she was going to pack a picnic for us. I’m home, but she isn’t around. I thought maybe she had come out to your place to pick up something she needed.”

  “No, she hasn’t been here today,” Deidre said. “In fact, it’s been at least two weeks since I’ve talked to her. I’m sure she didn’t go far. Maybe she went to the grocery store to pick up things for your picnic. Or maybe she’s visiting with a friend and lost track of time. She’ll probably be home soon. By the way, how’s the job going? Everybody’s been so busy we haven’t had time to talk lately.”

  “I know, and I feel badly about that,” Dave answered immediately. “The job’s great. I couldn’t be happier with the way things are going. The pay is good and conditions are even better. When Megan finishes school and gets a job, we’ll be able to really sock away money for retirement. I know we’re young, but one thing I’ve learned, save while you’re young and you’ll have a good life when you’re old.” He laughed. “Well, that’s a way off, and we’ve got a lot of living to do between now and then. Have Maren call me if she shows up, will you?”

  Deidre assured Dave that she would and heard the call disconnect. She went in the house and busied herself fixing supper for her family. The boys had recuperated from their wrestling match and were playing catch with a baseball in the yard.

  Ben arrived home at five o’clock. Over the years he had worked diligently as an FBI agent out of the office in Duluth, and his work had not gone unnoticed. A half-dozen years ago he had been promoted to supervisor of the division that handled interstate kidnapping cases. Like Deidre, Ben had seen his share of traumatic events—murders, kidnappings, even terrorism—and he was weary of the inhumanity he was sometimes forced to witness. He entered the kitchen where Deidre was watching a pot on the stove.

  “Don’t you know a watched pot never boils?” he said as he kissed her on the nape of her neck. Deidre started at his touch, and Ben chuckled. “Hey, I didn’t mean to startle you. What’s for supper?”

  “Your favorite, you big goofball,” she shot back without looking over her shoulder. “Corned beef and cabbage.” Deidre turned and put her arms around Ben’s neck and kissed him. “That should be good for something later on, don’t you think?”

  Ben played dumb. “Oh, yeah. And what would that be?” He gave her a hug and lifted her off the floor. Just
then the boys came storming into the kitchen, interrupting their playfulness.

  “Come on outside with us, Dad,” Steve said as he pulled on Ben’s sleeve. “We need you to hit some fly balls for us to shag. We’ve got a half hour before supper.” Jack turned to Deidre. “Can Dad go out and play?” He laughed at his own joke.

  Dinner was a carefree affair, as it so often was. The brothers were remarkable in the way they got along, and the rivalry that occurred so often between siblings hardly existed between them. It was a joy for Ben and Deidre to understand the bond that existed between the two. It was the same bond that existed between Maren and Megan, only without their competitiveness.

  Supper over, Ben and Deidre took their normal evening stroll up the road, holding hands and talking over the day’s happenings. Nothing too exciting had gone on, and soon they were walking in silence, content to be in the presence of each other. They returned home about eight thirty, just as the sun was setting. Jeff and Steve were still outside, throwing a baseball back and forth. The four of them sat on deck chairs and listened to the world go silent. In the background a whip-poor-will began calling, and overhead, chimney swifts cart-wheeled through the deepening blue sky. Their chirping calls added to the feeling that all was well.

  When the mosquitoes began to hum around their heads, the family headed indoors, and Deidre reminded the boys to shower before getting into bed. “I put clean sheets on the today, and you don’t have to grubby them up the first night,” she hollered as they reached the top of the stairs. She heard the bathroom door close just as the phone rang. Ben answered and Deidre listened in on the one-sided conversation.

  “Oh, hi, Dave. . . . No. Why do you ask?” Ben glanced Deidre’s way. “. . . No, we haven’t seen her this evening. . . . Dave, calm down. There’s probably a simple explanation. . . . Dave. Dave! Have you called Megan to see if she’s been there?” Deidre was becoming alarmed, getting the gist of the conversation. Maren hadn’t been home.