Suddenly, a look of remembrance came into his eyes and his face clouded. “I didn’t have any running shoes.”
“Don’t lie to me, Dave. Do you mean to tell me that you ran marathons and didn’t own a pair of running shoes? That’s pure bull. Sheriff DeAngelo found them a couple of days ago. They’re caked with mud, the same mud found in the pickup owned by the fisherman who picked you up on the Drummond Road the night you killed Maren, the same kind of mud found near Maren’s abandoned car. You did it, Dave, didn’t you?”
In a rage, Dave leaped from his chair, tipping it over in the process. It looked as though he was going to go after Deidre, then thought better of it. He stepped back, but before he could move to the door, the sound of footsteps pounding up the basement stairs froze him.
The basement door burst open and Ben leaped at Dave, grabbed him by the throat, and pinned him against the wall. Dave’s face began turning blue as he struggled to pry Ben’s fingers away from his throat, but the grip was like a vice. Deidre grabbed her husband’s arm, but his muscles were bunched like steel cords, and she couldn’t budge him.
Dave’s eyes were beginning to bulge, and Deidre could tell his legs were weakening. The only reason he was still upright was because of Ben’s hold. To Deidre, the time elapsed seemed like minutes. In reality, all this happened in seconds. Suddenly, Jeff was at Ben’s side, shouting in his ear.
“Ben! Stop right now, or I’m going to have to knock you off him. Step back! I’ve got him.” He grabbed Ben’s arm and jerked his hand away from Dave’s throat. Dave crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath between coughs.
“I want to file charges against him,” Dave managed to get out. “You saw it, he tried to kill me.”
As he struggled to his feet, Sheriff DeAngelo clamped one handcuff on Dave’s wrist, spun him around and secured the other so both hands were shackled behind his back. Dave started to object, but Jeff cut him off.
“David Mason, you are under arrest for the murder of Maren VanGotten. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”
Chapter
Fifty-Nine
IT WAS MAY, almost a year to the day from when Deidre had received the frantic call from her daughter’s live-in boyfriend declaring that he was worried because he couldn’t locate Maren. Today, she sat on a newly placed marble bench situated beside the walking trail in Two Harbors. Whoever sat on it was treated to a panoramic view of Lake Superior. It wasn’t a place Maren had frequented, so Ben and Deidre put a similar bench in their woods on the bank of the Knife River. That was their private meditation spot. This was for the public to use, and they hoped would be a place for people to reflect on the ugliness of domestic abuse. As she sat on it, she wondered how many other men in Two Harbors were wearing a velvet glove over a steel fist.
As she stared over the water, Deidre was acutely aware that the family’s pain wasn’t over. Dave had demanded a lawyer before he said anything. Months later, he was still declaring his innocence, and in a few weeks his case would be heard by a jury. He had procured one of the most successful law firms in Duluth to represent him, and the county prosecutor had warned her and Ben that this wouldn’t be a slam-dunk case. The admissibility of the recordings made when she pretended to be returning Dave’s jacket was in question. The judge had yet to decide. Dave had posted bail, and was still living in Duluth.
His attorneys were claiming entrapment, and were questioning the validity of the button from Dave’s jacket sleeve. After interviewing countless people, they were concocting an alternate scenario to what the prosecutor was presenting. Deidre only hoped that the truth would prevail.
Their side had the sworn testimony of Jackie, Dave’s now ex-girlfriend. She was willing to testify against him. The state had ample evidence—much of it circumstantial, that was true, but it was a lot. The verdict would boil down to which side would be more convincing. Then there would be appeals.
Deidre thought of her family. The scabs covering the wounds caused by Maren’s death were still festering. She imagined they would be torn off many times before healing took place, and the scabs were replaced by scars. Only then could the memories of Maren become sweet rather than bitter. She hoped the family would hold together until that happened.
Her mind flitted from one thought to another, finally settling on a topic she’d rather not dwell upon. But her mind wouldn’t allow her to stop thinking. As she took in the sweep of the lake and felt a gentle breeze at her back, Deidre couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t what God intended for creation. The beauty of the day overwhelmed her for an instant, and then her gnawing doubts began eating away at her peace. How could all of what happened occur if God was real? Where was He in all of this? She remembered Pastor Ike’s explanation, and somehow it didn’t help. Damn it, she wanted answers, not platitudes. Is there, or is there not a God, she wanted to know, and if there is, why wasn’t He there to protect Maren?
If life is just random, she thought, then why did this have to happen to her? The answer came back, Why not?
Author’s Note
In writing the Two Harbors mystery series, I selected societal issues and attempted to shine light on how they affect the lives of many people. An Iron Fist, Two Harbors has domestic violence, an expression of the need for power and control, as the basis for its plot. This is not a problem peculiar to Two Harbors—it is a nationwide, in fact, a worldwide problem.
According to the American Psychology Association, three or more women are murdered by their boyfriends or husbands each day in the United States. As shocking as that statistic is, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, twenty-four people are victims of intimate partner violence each minute. Putting that in more graphic terms, since 9/11, more women have been killed during domestic disputes than all of the people who died in the Twin Towers, soldiers in the war in Afghanistan, and soldiers in the Iraq War—combined.
An Iron Fist is fiction, and is not based on an actual incident. In molding my novels, I gather facts, select incidents from news articles, editorials, and other writings, and form composite characters. Then, using actual sites in the Two Harbors area, I put together a story that will, hopefully, raise the public’s awareness to a problem that needs to be brought to the forefront.
A cardinal rule for any novelist is that the writer should determine why he is writing the book, what the central premise will be. In the case of An Iron Fist, my intent is to show that domestic violence stems from the need of one party in a relationship to control the actions of their partner. It also is written for the purpose of alerting people to the signs of a person being abused: denial, cover-ups, manipulation.
With the completion of this book, Deidre feels she is ready to retire to her home in the country, where she will find peace among the flowers, wild animals, flowing water, and the love of her family. You first met her in Convergence at Two Harbors, when she was a twenty-something-year-old deputy. You have followed her through life’s ups and downs, and now, as she approaches fifty, she has run out of steam to face more adventures. Deidre sincerely hopes her experiences have alerted you to some of the problems found not only in Two Harbors but in every single community in our nation. She hopes her stories have motivated you to, in some way, make a difference in this world.
An Iron Fist, Two Harbors Page 28
