by P. L. Gaus
Robertson held his cigarette to his lips, closed his eyes slightly, drew on it, and trickled smoke as he talked. “My sister does,” he said. “Her kid goes to your college. He wants to be a doctor. Science, math, biology. But his adviser says there’s plenty of time to pursue a professional career. Do that later, he says. Sample the whole college to start with, and then get going on the sciences when he’s sure that’s what he really wants to do.
“Trouble is, if they don’t get started on the sciences right away, the prerequisites make it impossible to graduate in four years. So I’ve got a nephew who’s just figured out that he’s pretty much on the five-year plan.”
Branden rubbed at his temples and said, “Sounds a bit out of the ordinary.” He looked to Ellie for help, but she shared Robertson’s skeptical expression.
“All right, I’ll see what I can do,” Branden said in surrender. “This is Shirley’s boy Joe, right? See if you can get his adviser’s name.”
The sheriff nodded as Branden finished his coffee in a large gulp. He tossed the light Styrofoam cup toward the round black can in Ellie’s corner, and missed. As Robertson watched Ellie rebound for Branden, the professor changed the subject. “Bruce, I’m here because of Cal Troyer.”
Robertson looked sternly at the professor and stubbed out his cigarette. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, rubbed at a chafed spot on his neck, swung the counter door back, and led Branden down the hall to his office.
Inside, a massive cherry desk stood in front of the south wall where bookshelves ran floor to ceiling and wall to wall. The bookshelves held everything from knickknacks and law books to a tape player. Prominent among the assorted items was a matching set of several dozen red and tan Zane Grey novels.
On the west wall, two large windows overlooked Clay Street. The windows were open, and the roar of a diesel tour bus, stopped at the traffic light, mixed with the noise of a few passing cars and an occasional horn. The north wall had two matching windows overlooking the Civil War monument on the courthouse lawn. The east wall was split by the door into Robertson’s office. One short length of this east wall, nearest Robertson’s desk, displayed an irregular collection of a hundred or so police department arm patches, tacked randomly to the old pine paneling. Against the other section of the east wall, the one that backed against Ellie Troyer’s front counter, a low credenza held a coffee maker and several cans, filters, and mugs. Robertson eased into the swivel chair behind his cherry desk and clasped his fingers over his belt. Branden moved to the west windows and looked out at the traffic on Clay Street.
Directly, Robertson said, “Does Cal Troyer know I’m looking for David Hawkins?”
Branden answered plainly, “Yes.”
“You told him yourself?”
“Yesterday,” Branden said, turning to Robertson.
“Then, can you tell me where he is?”
Branden reached casually into his front jeans pocket, felt the folded map that Cal had drawn of the Raber farms, and said, “I don’t know where he is. It’s not likely that I’ll see him in the next day or two, either.”
“Can you tell Cal that I need his help with the bishops? Or his help directly, if he can locate Hawkins.” Robertson was still slouched in his chair, now leaning back with his fingers locked behind his head, giving his neck a swollen look. Only his eyes moved, following as Branden stepped to the north windows. The professor looked idly across the lawn to the statue of a Union soldier and turned to face Robertson again.
“Cal doesn’t know where David Hawkins is, Bruce.”
“Do you know that Hawkins is my most likely suspect in the murder of Eric Bromfield?” Robertson asked brusquely.
“Bruce, you’ve taken a wrong tack on this.”
“We’ve done a lot of checking. He was Special Forces, Mike, and he’s evidently disappeared after talking in the jail one night with Jesse Sands. If nothing else, he could be planning to kill Sands for murdering his daughter,” Robertson said. His eyes were narrowed and confident.
“Then tell me how you figure that,” Branden said, skeptical.
“Don’t toy with me, Mike,” Robertson said. “We’ve got two murders here, and I speculate we’ll have a third before it’s all over.”
“You found the Bromfield kid, Bruce,” Branden said.
“So?”
“So, a pro like Hawkins would not have left a loose end like that. It only points suspicion toward him, and I doubt he’d want to do that.”
Robertson nodded agreement and said, “Maybe he wanted Bromfield found.”
“I hope you’ve got other suspects,” Branden said.
“I don’t at this time,” Robertson complained. “I want Hawkins brought in, and I’m prepared to do everything possible to accomplish that, Mike. If for nothing else, so he can’t make a run at Jesse Sands.”
Branden pulled up a straight wooden chair in front of Robertson’s old desk and said, “Tell me what you know.”
Robertson rolled his swivel chair forward, propped the soles of his shoes on the casters of his chair, and leaned toward Branden with his forearms on his desk.
“It’s the whole pattern,” Robertson said. “Janet Hawkins murdered by Jesse Sands.”
Branden waved him on.
Robertson kept at it. “Next, we’ve got the Bromfield murder. We get to nosing around and Marty Holcombe tells us that Bromfield had done a little research. Found out that Hawkins was the sort of guy who wouldn’t want it known what he had been doing for a living. The same fella who came to my jail one night to forgive Jesse Sands. By the way, Sands’s lawyer has been screaming bloody murder since then about our violating his client’s civil rights. Plans to drag us into court.”
Branden said, “Hawkins had Sands by the throat. Don’t you think he would have killed Sands then and there if he were going to?”
“And get away how?” Robertson asked.
“He evidently didn’t have any trouble taking care of Ricky Niell.”
Robertson grimaced.
Branden said, “How does this all add up to three murders?”
“Hawkins was Army, Special Forces.”
“So?”
“So,” Robertson said, “I figure Hawkins is planning to make another run at Sands. Come back and finish what Ricky stopped him from doing that night at the jail.” Before Branden could object, he held up a hand and added, “I’ve got something that you don’t know.”
“And that is?”
“This morning in the jail, Jesse Sands started laughing. Danced in his cell upstairs like a drunken fool. The deputies came and got me, and when I got to Sands, he had calmed down some. Just stood in his cell, grinning out at me like he’d won the lottery. Looked like an idiot, too.
“Then he started taunting us through the bars. Said, ‘You country clods’ll never figure it out. You’ll never get him in time. I’ve got him, and you fools’ll never see it coming.’ You know, Mike, the old ‘You don’t get it now, and you never will’ sort of thing. I stood there for a while, staring in at him through the bars, and then asked, ‘Get what?’”
“He walked to the back of his cell and tapped on the glass over his window. That’s bulletproof glass on the inside, bars in the middle, and then another pane of glass on the outside. There was a rectangle of paper taped to the outside glass, with writing on it facing in so Sands could read it.”
Robertson slid the center drawer of his desk open and pulled out a rectangle of white poster board, about five inches by eight inches. He handed it to Branden, and Branden read it. Then he read it again.
Eventually Branden asked, “And you think this means that David Hawkins will kill Sands for the murder of his daughter?”
“No doubt in my mind.”
“This could mean any number of things, Bruce.”
“I’ll tell you what it means, Mike. It means we’ve got a squirrelly Vietnam vet running loose in Holmes County, and when we take Sands out of that cell, maybe to court, maybe to a doctor —anywher
e, Mike, anywhere at all—then Hawkins is going to make his run at Sands, and if Hawkins is still as good as they say he was, Sands will take a bullet, just like Eric Bromfield did.”
“Cal would say you’re wrong, Bruce, and based on what I’ve learned about David Hawkins, I’m inclined to agree with him,” Branden said.
“I need to talk with Hawkins. Cal Troyer at the very least,” Robertson said flatly.
Branden stood up, tossed the sign onto Robertson’s desk, said “If I see Cal, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” and strolled out of the office, endeavoring to appear unconcerned.
Robertson watched him go, lit another Winston, picked up the sign, and read the block letters again:
IT IS MINE TO AVENGE
I WILL REPAY
Then he tossed the placard back into his center drawer and sat back with his cigarette to think.
After a few minutes, Branden strolled back into the sheriff’s office with a brown grocery bag. He set it gingerly on the sheriff’s desk and used his handkerchief to draw out the pistol and silencer that Abigail Raber had given him. In a challenging tone he said, “Here’s a little puzzle for you, Sheriff. If you can prove this is the gun that killed Bromfield, I’ll tell you where I got it.”
8
Monday, June 9 6:30 P.M.
CAROLINE served dinner that night on their large, curly maple kitchen table, a gift from Bishop Eli Miller and his family in appreciation of the Brandens’ help the previous summer. The Brandens talked again about Abigail Raber and David Hawkins. About Cal Troyer and Bruce Robertson. About Marty Holcombe and his murdered reporter, Eric Bromfield. About Jesse Sands and the note stuck to the outside of his jail cell window.
Toward sunset, Branden ducked into the garage, loaded gear into the bed of their pickup, covered it all with a blue tarp, and tied it down. When it was secure, he called into the house from the door to the garage, made an excuse about a brief errand, and drove to a small shop where he picked out an extravagant bottle of wine and several boxes of crackers, some cheese, and a jar of peanut butter. When he returned to their house on the circle near the college, he left the truck out on the street with the motor running, bounded into the house, led Caroline out playfully, locked up, and drove them out to the high plateau where they had been earlier that day.
In an out-of-the-way corner of the high field of winter wheat, he spread a ground cloth, a double-wide sleeping bag, pillows, glasses, wine, and snacks. Caroline sat blushing in the cab of the truck and watched with embarrassed amazement. He looked over his handiwork, smiled his approval, stepped to her door, and opened it with a ceremonial bow.
She wrapped her arms tightly over her seat belt, blushed extravagantly, and said, “And just what do you expect me to do, Professor Branden?”
He tickled her on a spot he knew along her collar bone, slipped her seat belt loose when she laughed, and pulled her out of the cab into his arms. “I expect you, Mrs. Branden, to enjoy the sunset.”
As the sun fell, the clear sky quickly released the heat of the day, and they soon eased themselves into the sleeping bag. The sun grew majestically larger as it set and then lingered on the horizon. There was a delicate, expanding, golden-orange hue along the horizon and then a blazing rose, tinged with a flickering deep red. They slid deeper into the sleeping bag as a gentle breeze began to stir over the plateau.
Later, the stars came out, and they lay under the sky’s sparkling canopy. Long into the night, as the stars made their circuit around, she fell asleep in his arms. He rolled onto his back, eased his arm under her head, drew her close, and lay gazing up at the glittering sky.
In time, the troubles of the day found him there and would not set him free. He turned them inside-out and upside-down in his mind. He looked them over from every new angle he could find. He thought the puzzle through from every direction.
Cal had every reason to stand by Hawkins and defend him. And until Hawkins actually did something, up until the very moment when he might precipitate a crisis, Cal would be right about David Hawkins. Trouble was, Bruce Robertson was also right. David Hawkins was, if nothing else, certainly a loose wire. To Robertson he seemed a reasonable suspect in the murder of Eric Bromfield. He was probably also gunning for Jesse Sands. Then there was Abigail Raber, caught up, more than anyone, in the crisis of Hawkins’s dilemma.
In his mind, Branden saw her again, tall and thin at the edge of the field, a rare, deep beauty in her eyes, a cruel scar along her delicate cheek. He remembered her long Amish dress, her black bonnet and shawl. The way her fingers had held her shawl clasped against her breast. The way she had spoken softly of her hope and faith in David Hawkins, as she had gazed peacefully into the distance.
It was Abigail whose destiny now lay in the hands of a reformed soldier. Abigail whose love had been pledged to a man who now surely was making the decisions of a lifetime. Abigail who had told Branden on this high plateau that she had placed her future’s hope into the hands of the most uncommon man she had ever known. And it was Abigail, Branden realized, who had convinced him, even more than Cal had, of the faith and honor of David Hawkins.
9
Tuesday, June 10 4:30 A.M.
THE habit of a lifetime found Abigail Raber awake before dawn. She dressed quietly by the light of a kerosene lamp, carried the lamp from the little Daadihaus into the big house, and set it on the kitchen counter, next to the massive, silver and black, wood cooking stove. She gathered several kindling sticks from the woodbox, opened the iron door to the front of the stove, encouraged the flames to life from coals, added more wood, and softly closed the heavy door. From a cupboard overhead she collected two cups and two saucers. From the icebox, she took a tiny pitcher of whole cream. She poured water into a teakettle from a large counter pitcher she had filled at the hand pump the night before, and placed the kettle on one of the round heat plates atop the stove. As the water heated, she warmed herself by the stove. When her tea was ready, she poured in a splash of cream, stirred it with a small silver spoon, and sat down on a plain wooden bench at the large kitchen table for her morning devotions.
As had long been his custom, Abigail’s father soon joined her there. She closed her scriptures, made tea for him, and they sat together in the light of the kerosene lamp, talking quietly as they had done for years.
“Abi,” he said at length. “He will make you decide. If your David will not come home to you, you must let him go.”
“I cannot, Father. He is the only one I’ll ever have. You know that. He is the only one I’ll ever be able to love. The only one who will ever love me.”
“Abi. Herr Hawkins es der Hoche. He is a high one. After only a year with us, can you expect more of him than this?”
“He is one of us, Father. You saw him take the vows.”
“If he chooses the wrong path now, his vows will have meant nothing. Not to us. Not to God.”
“He will choose us, I know it.”
Tears flooded her eyes, and her father drew near and embraced her briefly, somewhat embarrassed. “Abi. Listen to me. He was a warrior. He will take a warrior’s revenge for his daughter. There’s nothing else for him.”
“He can be forgiven.”
“No, Abi. Sel ist net recht. You know that is not right.”
“I love him, Father. Only you have known how much I do truly love him.”
“Versteh, Abi. Versteh. I understand well enough. But revenge is a crushing thing. A burden that will eat away at him forever. It will destroy him. Eventually, it will destroy his ability to love you. Destroy his ability even to care for you. To show a father’s love to your children. If he avenges himself now, you’ll never be free of it. You know this, Abi. It is our creed. God has forbidden us to avenge ourselves on any man. Abi, it is our way. Vengeance destroys the avenger above all.”
10
Tuesday, June 10 8:15 A.M.
AS daylight crept out atop the hills, the professor drove Caroline home. After breakfast, he appeared at the jail. Th
e deputies lounging in the squad room at the rear of the jail reported that the sheriff could be found at Chester’s barbershop around the corner, and they joked among themselves about the pleasant few moments of peace that had fallen upon the jail in his absence. Branden got permission to leave his truck in one of the spots for cruisers behind the jail and walked the two short blocks to Chester’s.
It was an old barbershop in a ground-floor location, fronted with a tall picture window. The barber’s pole that hung over the sidewalk had stopped turning years ago, but the regulars knew when Chester would be open. The regulars knew, and the others didn’t much matter to Chester. Branden found Robertson inside, leaning back in the second chair, taking a shave.
Chester had once had a partner, but he had quit several years back, and now the first chair was piled high with an erratic stack of Field and Stream, Outdoor Life, and Lions International. There were a half dozen old wooden chairs backed up against the window in front, and, on the low windowsill, there were more old magazines and a faded cardboard display for hair creams. Chester had never paid much attention to housekeeping, and the only things not dusty in his shop were the shiny red plastic seat cushions, where customers’ pants had done the polishing for him. Branden took a seat against the window and waited.
As Branden turned the pages of a worn National Geographic, a young boy was brought in by his mother. She put him into a chair by the window and spoke a few words to Chester about the haircut that she wanted for her son. She paid in advance and reminded the boy to come straight down the street to the bank when he was finished. The little fellow muttered something inaudible to her, and blushed furiously red when she bent to kiss him.
Once she had left, Branden eased forward in his chair, caught Chester’s eye, nodded toward the boy, and winked. Branden leaned over toward the boy, said, “I see your mom brought you in,” and glanced back at Robertson to get the sheriff’s attention.
