by D R Sanford
“I know all of you want answers, but Cullen knows as much as you do at this point. Whereas he appreciates your concern and prayers, he has had a terrible night and needs some time alone now.”
Voices responded in agreement. Neighbors stood from their chairs and filed out of the dining room, most of them placing gentle hands on his back before leaving. Cullen heard his mother offer her home to out-of-town family members. Echoes of “I’m so sorry” or “our prayers are with you” drifted from the foyer.
When all of them had gone, Erin returned and sat at Cullen’s side.
“Is there anything I can do for you, buddy?”
Cullen lifted his head and blinked at her through bleary eyes, saying “No, thanks Mom. I think I’d just like to be alone for awhile.”
“Do you promise to get some rest? That was a nasty bump you took.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t get my mind off of last night.”
“I know it hurts, but think about the moment when you'll see Nora again.”
Cullen asked dubiously, “What makes you so sure she’s coming back?”
“You do. Beyond anything that detective can do, I believe in you.”
She hugged him then, kissed his cheek, and promised to check in later. Once more the front door opened and shut.
Alone for the first time that day, Cullen sank his head onto his arms again. He struggled to imagine the moment when he’d be reunited with Nora. Over and over in his mind’s eye, until sleep claimed him.
Waking with a terrible crick in his neck and a puddle of drool on his sleeve, Cullen noticed the shadows were considerably longer in the dining room and kitchen. Lola uncoiled from her ball of fur, not two inches from his elbow. She peeked at him and yawned as he raised his head.
Cullen arched his aching back, then rubbed her belly and was rewarded with a satisfied chirp. Sitting back, Cullen glanced around his empty house. At least everyone had cleared the table of dishes, placing coffee mugs in the sink for him to take care of later.
A movement in the corner of his eye snapped Cullen’s head back to face the foyer. Startled at first but then squinting at the figure occupying the foot of the stairs, he calmed at the sight of his newfound friend. Laeg sat with elbows propped on his knees and offered a half-hearted wave in Cullen’s direction.
The once jovial Irishman seemed uncharacteristically somber, though not at all sober. Cullen noticed a case of beer on the step below him and a host of empties on the steps. Pushing away from the table, he shuffled over to lean on the banister.
“I cannot tell you how much I regret what happened last night,” said Laeg. “I should have left with you and been here when Nora came home.”
Confused, Cullen shook off the comment and asked abruptly, “What are you doing here, Laeg?”
“Sorry bud, I couldn’t bear to leave you here alone, what with crazy people roaming about.”
His face was so earnest and full of something else, failure.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. It wasn’t your fault.”
Cullen eyed the half-empty case of beer at Laeg’s feet. “Are you drinking all of that?”
Laeg was quick to shake his head and reach for a fresh bottle. Popping the top, he handed the brew to Cullen. The ale was bitter and strong but soothing on his tight throat. He sat on the bottom step and leaned his back on the banister’s bottom spindle. Tilting his head back once more, Cullen did his best to drain the bottle.
For the most part they sat in silence, draining bottles, building camaraderie as men do when they know company is needed but words unwelcome.
Night fell. A calming streetlamp glow penetrated the window panes when Cullen sipped a final drop from the last bottle. He felt pretty numb but dreaded the hangover looming ahead. Laeg rose, shook the stiffness from his knees, and began placing bottles back in the case.
He addressed Cullen with hands on his hips, contemplating something.
“Well friend, though I’m always game for sparkling conversation,” Cullen snorted an interruption, “I do think I should be on my way. One last thing, though.”
Laeg turned and plucked his jacket from the front door’s handle. Reaching into an inner pocket, he produced a small handgun that practically fit in the palm of his hand.
“What’s that for, Laeg?”
Laeg placed the black and silver automatic on Cullen’s lap and pointed. “That, dear boy, is a Kahr PM45, five in the magazine and one in the chamber. It’s small enough to fit in a pocket but has enough kick to stop a bull in its tracks. But be careful with that. She has no hammer and no safety. There’s a cartridge in the chamber right now, so she’s hot.”
“Speaking of hot, how is that you came across a handgun? How long have you even been in the country?”
Laeg smirked and clapped his thigh.
“That’s a good one, brother. I grew up in Belfast, remember, and even though I missed The Troubles I am familiar with all sorts of ways to ensure my own security.”
He bent to pick up the beer case, hooked it under his left arm, and turned the door knob with his right.
“If you must use it, do not flinch. I’ve learned myself, there is no greater pain than regret.”
Laeg left him sitting in the darkness, only a few feet from the place Cullen lay bleeding the night before. He could still make out the stain on the floor, the amorphous cloud darker than the surrounding shadows.
Cullen lifted the hand sized .45 from his lap and hefted it, sighting it on the doorway for a moment. A little small, only large enough to accommodate his ring and middle finger on the grip, but it felt good. Cullen knew he would never hesitate to pull the trigger again.
—Chapter 5—
THE BLAME
A week consisting of long hours and little sleep passed without news.
Mrs. Whittenberg set up a call center in her home, enlisting neighbors and volunteers to keep tabs on Wisconsin law enforcement.
Erin Houltersund became the figurehead of a media campaign, both local and nationwide, to spread awareness of Nora’s abduction.
Cullen’s base of operations centered around the dining room table and contained evidence of his ceaseless work. Three laptops formed a semi-circle in front of his chair, working off his wi-fi connection to monitor missing person’s bulletins and establish interstate law enforcement contacts. A land line and several cell phones called out or rang nearly twenty-four hours a day. He found it surprising how cooperative desk sergeants were in the middle of their night shifts.
Running on loads of caffeine and catnaps stolen here and there, Cullen had just ended a call with the sheriff’s department in Nebraska’s panhandle when a familiar figure passed the front window. Detective Walker stomped his snow clad shoes on the welcome rug, pulled open the screen door, and rapped his knuckles on the storm door.
Steeling himself for another encounter with the detective, Cullen rose from the table and took a deep breath. He formed the distinct impression over the few times they spoke that Walker had written off their chances of finding Nora.
“Honestly, odds are not very good at this point; not if you haven’t heard ransom demands within forty-eight hours,” were his exact words. The crux of their last conversation three days ago. Cullen swallowed his dislike for the man and answered the door.
“Good morning, detective. Are you ‘just checking in’ again?”
Perhaps he spread it on a too thickly, or Walker was immune to sarcasm, but Cullen received a cold stare in response. Lips rolling a toothpick and thumb beating on the door jamb, the detective was visibly impatient.
“I apologize, detective. I’ve been up all night, and I think my body is beginning to ignore the caffeine I pump into it.”
“Not sleeping very well, Mr. Houltersund?” Not an ounce of empathy from the man. Accusation hissed in his raspy voice.
“It may be better to say that I prefer not to sleep. You were the one who told me that no news is bad news, right detective? I guess I’d rather hunt for
information than sleep.”
Walker nodded, then stood tall again and gestured to his unmarked Impala idling at the curb. “Understandable. I don’t suppose you can break away for a while, could you? I’d like to show you something.”
Butterflies fluttered on his diaphragm. After hundreds of phone calls, e-mails, and message boards visited, this was the first inkling of breaking news.
“Just a ‘sec while I grab my coat.”
Cullen pulled his warm coat from the back of a dining room chair, snagged a cell phone, and returned to the doorway. Walker held the screen door for him while Cullen locked up. Following him to the car, Cullen slipped on a pair of gloves to fend off the cold.
Cullen was ushered into the backseat and noticed that detective Walker had a driver. Or perhaps a partner, though that did not seem likely given the man’s personality. Who could stand spending any extended period of time with such a taciturn individual?
Walker knocked more snow from his boots before entering the passenger side.
“Mr. Houltersund, this is detective Ramsey. He shot a taxpayer’s attack poodle, and now he’s slumming it with me.”
Glancing into the rearview mirror and venturing an uncomfortable smile, Cullen was met by a humorless gaze. Ramsey looked away as he pulled into the street. They were a partnership made in heaven, a very quiet, suspicious corner of heaven.
Unlike his partner, Ramsey featured a full head of black, stick straight hair and a week’s worth of stubble. The set of his prominent jaw and the intensity in his dark eyes did not jibe with Cullen’s impression of the local police department. But then, he had never been involved in such a serious crime.
Strangely enough, Cullen felt a sense of security sitting behind the two detectives. After all, he was not relying on them for conversation. Though he may strike out, he figured there was no harm in trying.
“Do you have a lead on Nora’s abductors? Did forensics find anything?”
Walker replied, “No on both counts, but there is something you might be interested in.”
“I hope it’s not more mug shots. I went over them with Sergeant Kowalski for hours, but there is honestly nothing to remember, just dark clothes and masks.”
“Nothing like that. Today’s exercise will be more hands-on.”
“Could you be a little more cryptic?”
“Yes.”
Cullen bit his lip before issuing the first response that came to mind. Instead, he imagined rapping his knuckles on the back of the detective’s head to see if anyone was home. Pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning against the headrest, Cullen wished he had remembered to take an ibuprofen tablet before leaving the house.
Ever since the head injury there had been a ferocious crackling inside his skull. The tugging and tingling around his stitches sometimes coalesced into a migraine, complete with lights traveling across his vision and the buzz of an electric current that threatened to drive the hairs from his scalp. He looked forward to having the stitches removed the following week. Maybe he would shave his head to match the bald spot around the sutures.
Ramsey turned right onto a main thoroughfare that bisected the city. Businesses and residential neighborhoods fell behind as they reached the outskirts of town. When they left the house, Cullen imagined they were heading to the police station and was surprised to see the highway come into view. The Impala drove on, over the highway, continuing along county road Q, hugging its curves.
Sprawling farms replaced the press of one and two story city buildings. Cullen concentrated on the gray sky outside the windows, all clouds but not a single one definable. Walker had not been forthcoming, and the scenery certainly did not support his ideas of huddling around a conference table, sifting through clues.
A growing unease mounted, one that had nothing to do with his migraine. He focused on his breathing. Looked into the distance to fend off car sickness.
Perhaps eight miles outside of town, they pulled off the county road into a farmer's field. Ramsey negotiated the wide ruts of a tractor path that tested the car's suspension and Cullen's stomach. He leaned forward between the detectives, squinting at the approaching tree line dotted with yellow vests.
Blood rushed from his head when they pulled to a stop. It seemed to pool in the tips of his fingers and toes, rooting him to the spot.
A police van and five cruisers lined the field's edge. Eight officers, spread at arms' length in the brush, walked a grid, their eyes scanning the forest floor. They must have heard the arrival of the Impala, because one broke away and trudged through the snow and underbrush to meet them. Cullen was suddenly grateful he slipped into boots on the way out of the house.
Ramsey stepped out, followed by Walker who moved to open Cullen's door. He looked down on Cullen with the same impatient stare he wore on his doorstep earlier.
“Let's go.”
“Do I want to see this?”
“I doubt it, but I think you need to.”
Cullen swung his legs out and sank into nearly a foot of pristine snow. Tracks led in and out of the woods as far as he could see. They must have been walking grids for hours already. The yellow-vested officer waited for the detectives and Cullen to reach the trees and led them away to the left along a tractor path.
“The main trail is up ahead, around fifty yards. We can cut in there and avoid tripping over ourselves.”
Walker dropped back to Cullen's side. He pulled the toothpick from his lips and used it to point into the forest.
“The landowner woke up to milk the cows this morning and saw a column of black smoke pouring out of his back forty.”
Walker flicked the toothpick into the snow, dipped a hand into his coat pocket, and bent his head to examine a handful of multi-colored wrappers. Picking out a caramel, he dropped the rest in his pocket and popped the candy in his mouth.
Smacking through the chewy confection, Walker continued, “Duly concerned as he was, the farmer sent his son out on an ATV to take a look. Odds were pretty good that a group of townie kids decided to have a beer party out here and left the bonfire burning.”
Cullen stopped in his tracks and asked with wide eyes and arched eyebrows what his lips dared not.
The detective stopped for a moment, looked over his shoulder where Cullen stood statue still, and picked up Ramsey's trail. Waving a hand at his side, Walker beckoned him on. Cullen looked in at the gathering of stately trees, oblivious to the upheavals in human lives. Most lay dormant, waiting for the welcome passage of winter to spring. Nothing that occurred to him that day—no matter how momentous—would have any impact out here.
Starting to feel his already frayed ends of sanity spread thinner, Cullen ordered his feet to move on.
He joined them in a natural clearing that housed the burned out husk of a large SUV. The police had circled the vehicle with ubiquitous crime scene tape, and the earth around it was scorched bare. What Cullen assumed was a forensics team circled the vehicle, taking photographs and sticking yellow flags in the snow. It wasn't much different from the field archaeology classes he taught in the three weeks of Spring Interim.
Cullen's nerves settled a bit when he realized they had ventured into the woods to investigate what was probably the vehicle used to drive away with Nora. Trying to pry evidence from the melted remains would not be easy, but it had to yield something.
They followed the officer around the front bumper to a trail of yellow flags that terminated at the clearing's outer edge. The three stopped and formed a line before Cullen. He inched up on tip toes to get a look at what lay ahead.
Ramsey stepped to the side, opening a gap between himself and Walker. Cullen heard him speak for the first time.
“Here's the kicker.”
Cullen froze in place, his mind and blood flash freezing. A charred corpse lay sprawled on the forest floor, surrounded by black slush and crisped pine needles. A spray of red shot at least three feet beyond the burn zone.
His breath was trapped in his chest for an interm
inable minute. Motes of light sparked at the corners of his vision, and he finally took in a breath. The smell of roasted flesh invaded his nose. Cullen fought the gag reflex but lost. Ducking away, his stomach clenched and spewed the acidic burn of morning coffee all over Ramsey's shoes.
As Cullen collapsed to his knees, he heard Walker issue orders to collect samples of his vomit and make molds of his boot prints.
***
Assistant District Attorney Victoria Campbell wrote extensive notes as she examined Cullen Houltersund’s slumped posture and detached stare. The man was practically catatonic, sitting motionless in the soundproofed interrogation room. Not just alone on the other side of the one-way mirror, he appeared to have checked-out ever since Walker had confirmed the victim’s remains were those of Nora Houltersund.
The detective delivered the news with the subtlety of a pick-axe and probably blew all chances of forming a connection with Mr. Houltersund. She had no idea what bad luck had landed Walker in her district, but could only hope that another opportunity would take him away. At that moment, he stood at her shoulder, noisily chewing gum and peering at her person-of-interest like he was a goldfish in a bowl.
“Is there anything you can do that might open him up?” she asked.
“The guy disgusts me. Did you see what was left of his wife?”
“Not yet, detective. I think you painted quite a grisly image with your own descriptions. Are you sure you’re not jumping to conclusions with him?”
Walker answered her with a look of disdain, then turned back to the mirror.
“Nothing else adds up. Sure, there might have been a break-in team that took her away, but why? Add in the fact he hasn’t received a ransom demand and, oh right, she wound up dead. Boom, he’s our guy.”
“Do you have any evidence whatsoever?”
“I don’t need evidence to get a confession. He just has to think I have it.”
Victoria sighed and turned to face the detective, her arms crossed in front of her.
