Buried in Wolf Lake

by Christine Husom

  I remembered. “No, I was on a run.”

  “Okay, good. You were on a run. Where?”

  “On Brandt. I’m trying to think. Um, maybe a mile from my house.”

  “North or south?”

  It took me a minute to process the concept of direction. “South.”

  “Good. What time was that?”

  “Time.” I had checked my watch at the end of my driveway. I envisioned looking at the face of my cell phone before I stuck it in my pocket. “It was nine eleven when I left, so about nine twenty.”

  “It’s nine forty-three now. What happened next?” he coaxed.

  “That’s the really fuzzy part.” My brain was clearing slightly. “Oh, yeah. There was a car, a Cadillac, one I’d seen before, on the side of the road in front of me.”

  “Also facing south?”

  I remembered seeing the open trunk. “Yes.”

  “What was it doing there?”

  “Well, I think the driver was changing the tire. Or checking the tire. I’m not sure. Wait. Now I remember. I was going to see if he needed help, and I think he hit me on the head with something. I remember seeing a flash, and the next thing I knew I was in here.”

  “You’ve been kidnapped?” Smoke’s voice was shaky.

  “Oh, God.” My heart pounded so hard, I thought it would break through my chest. Terror stabbed me, invaded my body, and struck all the way down to my bone marrow.

  His voiced cracked. “What did he look like?”

  Focus, Corky. “Youngish. Thirty, maybe. Shaved head. Familiar.”

  “How so?”

  Someone I had arrested? Someone I had seen at the grocery store? “I just don’t remember.”

  Smoke coughed. “We will find you, I promise you that. Vehicle color?”

  “White.”

  “License number?” He kept prodding.

  “Smoke, I—”

  “I know you know it.” I heard Smoke push numbers on a landline phone then relay my information to Communications.

  I tried to visualize the license plate, but the numbers and letters weren’t readable.

  “Come on, Corky, you can do it. You memorize license numbers as a matter of course. It’s your irritating, endearing habit,” Smoke added with a lighter tone.

  The plate would not focus. “I’m trying. Don’t talk for a minute and I’ll concentrate.” I closed my eyes and saw the white Cadillac with the hood up. I glanced at the plate. G-4-8-2-A-2.

  “George, four, eight, two, Adam, two.”

  A loud exhale sounded in my ear. “That’s my girl. I knew you could do it. Stay with me. I’m leaving my house, and I’ll be talking to Communications on my work cell. I’ll be in my squad car in a sec. You know I won’t leave you.”

  “I know.”

  “Corky? An APB is going out as we speak, and Communications says the registered owner is a Gregory Parker of Hamel. Parker’s DOB makes him fifty-three. Five foot nine, one ninety, gray hair, hazel eyes.”

  Parker. Hamel.

  “No, that doesn’t fit the guy on my road. I’m trying to put something together.”

  First one image, then another, took shape in my mind’s eye. A bearded man with longish brown hair, glancing up at me with look that made me uneasy. A clean-shaven man with the same cold, green-eyed stare, a split second before he knocked me over the head. I swallowed, trying to expunge an acidy, bitter taste from my mouth.

  “Parker, but a different first name. I stopped him near Wolf Lake a few days after we found Molly. Scary eyes. Green. Name? Langdon . . . no, Langley.”

  “Corky, I just walked into Communications. We got Minneapolis PD, Hamel PD, and Hennepin County all on the horn. I got one officer running Langley Parker, and Jerry just handed me the list of the other vehicles registered to Gregory Parker. They include a 2008 Ford Expedition and an A-1 horse trailer.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Langley owns a silver Lexus and a tan Chevy Malibu.”

  “Smoke.” Panic surrounded me in the dark space.

  “Just stay focused, little lady. Hamel is sending a cop, and Hennepin will have at least two squads at the Parker residence as backup, in case we somehow miss him along the way. There are three possible routes he could take, and we’re diverting every deputy we can to those roads.

  “I’m leaving as we speak to travel the most likely one: Highway Fifty-five. He couldn’t drive as fast as I do if he tried. What’s the surface of the road you’re on?”

  Smooth. I recognized the sound under the tires. “Blacktop.”

  “Good. Any stops?”

  I had to think back to my first moment of consciousness. “No.”

  “Good. My guess is you’re between Oak Lea and Rockwell. Most direct route. I’ll call our One twenty unit to take a stationary position along the highway.”

  A blackness threatened to envelope me. “I’m so scared and so sleepy.”

  “Stay with me, Corinne. You have all the skills necessary for any situation. Remember that,” he reminded me.

  “Smoke. He’s turning, taking a right on a gravel road!”

  “Find a weapon. You got a weapon?”

  I reached around the trunk. I felt a roll of rope, an empty canvas bag, a tire iron.

  Bingo.

  I gripped it close to me. “Yes. I got the tire iron.”

  Beep.

  “Good.”

  Beep.

  “Smoke, my battery’s low, my phone’s dying. I’m going to shut it off so I have a little left to call you back.”

  “Corky, don’t—”

  I tucked my phone into my pocket and prayed for clarity of mind and strength of body to handle whatever was in store for me. My adrenal glands released a massive dose of epinephrine when the car rolled to a stop and I heard the driver’s door slam shut. I’m not ashamed to admit I would have wet my pants if I had had anything to drink that morning.

  I tried to ignore my thumping heart and the pulses hammering from every pore of my body. My panting was drying out my cottony mouth, and I resisted the urge to cough. I willed every system in my body to concentrate on facing the demon that was coming for me.

  Thank God I had enough space to crouch on my feet and hands. When the trunk popped open, I sprang from my stooped position, a little too fast, and knocked the top of my head on the hood. I blinked in shock as I felt a tug on the tire iron. It started to slip out of my right hand, so I reached up, and with all of my strength, stuck the ring and pointer fingers of my left hand into Parker’s hate-filled eyes. Eyes the color of a dark forest.

  Parker’s head recoiled, and his grasp on the iron loosened a tad. I reached over with my left hand and, using the force of my body, punched the tire iron into his throat. He stumbled backward and a low, choking “aghagh” sound finally came out of his open mouth.

  His bulging eyes stared at me as I jumped to the ground. I was released from my prison at last.

  “Get down. Lie flat on your belly. Now,” I ordered.

  He clenched his fists, and the muscles in his neck grew taut and protruded from his skin. He wasn’t giving up. He lunged for me, but I jumped to the right and danced from one foot to the next, like boxers do in the ring. The tire iron was heavy, and it was getting more and more difficult to hold it up.

  Parker was still struggling for breath when he came at me again. I took a leap to the right. His words weren’t audible, but I knew he was cursing me.

  Before he had a chance to turn, I pivoted around, holding the tire iron like a bat. I swung with every ounce of my one hundred and ten pounds. The heavy metal smacked the back of his knees, and he dropped like an anchor. I wound up for another strike and drove a blow to his back, even harder than the first. I heard what had to have been ribs breaking, a muffled, cracking noise. He toppled forward, panting furiously to suck in what oxygen he could.

  I kneeled into his left shoulder on the pressure point next to the blade. He reacted with a grunt, but couldn’t move away. I didn’t dare let go of the ti
re iron in case he somehow broke free. I managed to retrieve the phone from my pocket, turned it on, and hit the 1.

  “Dammit, Corky—”

  I recognized a farm in the distance

  “We’re a mile west of Rockwell, south on Edward.”

  “I’m less than two miles away.”

  How long could I hold on? “Hurry, Smoke.”

  I had never been happier to hear sirens in my entire life. Zubinski was the Rockwell car and drove in on Smoke’s bumper, followed by a Minnesota State Trooper who was in the area. All three had their guns drawn as they approached. Smoke signaled Mandy and the trooper to train their guns on Parker.

  “Mister Parker, if you make one move, you will be shot in the head. Do you understand?” Smoke yelled.

  Parker surprised me by answering. “Yes,” he choked out.

  Smoke moved in from behind us, grabbed Parker’s right hand, pulled it back, and applied handcuffs. He knelt on the sciatic nerve in Parker’s butt. Parker flinched and shrieked. I looked over my shoulder at Smoke, and when he motioned to the left, I rolled away. He cuffed Parker’s other hand.

  “Either one of you got leg irons?” Smoke asked Zubinski and Trooper Weller.

  “I do,” Weller said. He had them on Parker in seconds. Smoke and Weller got Parker to his feet, but he couldn’t straighten up.

  “I think I broke his rib.”

  All three of them looked at me, and each smiled in a covert way.

  Smoke pulled the radio from his belt. “Three forty, Winnebago County.”

  “Go ahead, Three forty.”

  “We’re Code Four with one male in custody. Send a tow to our location.”

  “Ten-four.” There was obvious relief in Jerry’s voice.

  Parker lifted his head and glared at me, sending waves of emotions throughout my body.

  “It isn’t over,” Parker snarled.

  Smoke lunged toward him. Zubinski and Weller both reacted, ready to prevent an altercation, but Smoke stopped himself before he made contact with Parker’s body.

  Smoke’s jaw was clenched and his lips barely moved. “Let’s get this lowlife into your squad, Zubinski. We better get him checked out at the hospital so the jail won’t be liable in case his lung is punctured.”

  Parker wouldn’t look at any of us after that. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground. The injury and leg irons made it difficult to negotiate him into the small back seat of the squad car, but they managed. Trooper Weller buckled him in.

  Another Winnebago County squad car pulled up, adding to the growing line of vehicles on the gravel road. Todd Mason frowned when he saw me. I realized I must have looked a mess.

  “I can follow Deputy Zubinski to the hospital,” Trooper Weller offered.

  “Good. I’ll get two more deputies to meet you there. Mason, will you wait for the tow? I’m taking Corky in to get checked out.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I felt weak and dizzy, and I started to shiver.

  “Sure.” Mason glanced into Zubinski’s squad car and shook his head. “Didn’t figure him for a skinhead.”

  I was about to tell Mason the shaved head was a recent change for Parker, but my teeth started to chatter. Smoke tuned in to my physical condition and put his arm around my shoulder.

  “Mason, Zubinski, got a blanket in your car?”

  “Sure, it’s even clean.” Mason handed a wool blanket to Smoke, and he wrapped it around me.

  “Mason, take some photos of the scene: the vehicle, tire iron, trunk, scuffle marks on the gravel—they won’t show up well, but get ’em anyway. You can put the iron back in the trunk, and we’ll process it with the rest of the vehicle. You’ll follow the tow, get the vehicle secured in the garage?”

  Mason nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “Okay, let’s get a move on.”

  Zubinski and Weller backed their squads down the slight embankment to turn around.

  “What an ordeal. Corky, are you okay?” Mason asked.

  I shook my head no. “But I will be.”

  “Am I hurting you?” Smoke asked as he guided me to his car.

  I shook my head again. “Pretty numb still.”

  Smoke tensed slightly then eased his hold as he assisted me into the passenger seat. He reached across me for the seatbelt, drew it gently across my body, and snapped it in the lock. My right arm wouldn’t move, but I caught the back of his bicep with my left hand and pulled him in until my face rested in the crook of his neck. I felt his pulse and breath quicken. He didn’t move for a moment, then pulled back to look into my eyes.

  “I almost killed that bastard.” Smoke’s voice was quiet and intense.

  One tear, then another, ran down my cheek, but I had no words.

  “We’ll talk about all this later. Right now we have to get you to the hospital. It looks like a pretty good-sized goose egg on the side of your head.” Smoke’s low, calm tone didn’t fool me. His muscles were tight, and I knew a host of emotions were raging inside him.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

  “Corky, stay awake,” Smoke instructed as he slid behind the wheel.

  “I’m just so tired. I want to go to sleep.”

  “You gotta stay awake. I’m sure you’ve got a concussion, maybe a fracture.”

  “In this thick skull of mine?” My lips curled up slightly.

  “Well, you can be very hard-headed at times. Least you didn’t get your sense of humor knocked out of you.” Smoke’s detective squad car was not equipped with a light bar, but he had a flashing light for emergencies. It was clamped on the top of his car.

  Smoke activated his siren, and I let out an “Ow!”

  “Sorry. I don’t want to hurt your head any more, but I’m not driving the speed limit. Can you pull the blanket over your ears, muffle the noise?”

  “I’ll be okay. It’ll help keep me awake.

  41

  I drifted in and out of consciousness for two days in a lavender-colored hospital room. I had fleeting thoughts of how much my Grandma Brandt had loved both the shade and the scent of lavender, and how much I missed her. Every time I woke up there seemed to be another bouquet of flowers and someone new sitting beside me.

  I had maintained a stage-three concussion and hairline fracture from the tire iron blow, and although it wasn’t serious, the doctors wanted to keep me resting quietly for a few days. Whatever drug they had mingled with the intravenous fluids made me sleep a lot.

  Once, when I blinked awake for minute, Nick was holding my hand in both of his. Another time, my mother and grandparents were sitting as a group, their worried faces staring at me. Smoke, Sara, Sheriff Twardy, Mandy Zubinski, Carlson, Mason, Weber, and too many deputies to count were there on different occasions.

  I woke up on Monday aware of the fading late afternoon sun on my face and a hand resting on my arm.

  “Hello, little lady,” the familiar, melodious voice crooned.

  My eyes blinked closed. “Detective Dawes.”

  “How are you doing? Tired of sleeping yet?”

  “Isn’t that like an oxymoron, tired of sleeping?” A smile tugged at my face.

  He snickered. “Could be. I finally convinced your mother to go home for a while, told her I’d sit with you. She said they’re weaning you off the sedatives, so you’ll be awake more.”

  “Good, although I haven’t minded the break from thinking and processing everything that happened.” A brief retreat from reality.

  I felt his breath near my ear. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “My head hurts. Of course. But, I gotta say, since I actually lived through the very worst day of my life, I am mostly feeling just plain grateful.”

  That was it.

  His hand was heavy on my shoulder. “Corky, truth be told, I have to say it was the worst day of my life, too.” He made a “humph” sound. “I expect my hair to turn completely gray by Friday.”

  A man accustomed to stress.

  “You didn’t think you’d get
me in time, did you?”

  “Oh, no, I knew we would.” I saw him cross his fingers to cover his lie. “But you should consider less dramatic ways to capture criminals.”

  “Really? You think being threatened in my own home with a gun, or getting knocked over the head, thrown in a trunk, and driven away is dramatic?”

  “A little over the top, yes.”

  “I will strive for less drama.” The image of my captor’s wild, hate-filled eyes came to mind. “Tell me about Parker.”

  “He is our monster, all right, but you should heal some more before you get all the gory particulars.”

  “I’ve got a lot of the ‘gory particulars’ on this case already.” I pushed on his chest. “I need to know.”

  Smoke didn’t answer right away. “Parker’s locked up in the Hennepin County Jail, in segregation, mainly for medical reasons, but also for keeping an eye on his mental status. You were right when you thought you cracked his rib—you cracked two of ’em. You should’ve cracked his skull, like he cracked yours. Justifiable use of deadly force, in my book. Sergeant, you were badly injured, in danger of passing out again. Definitely justifiable to use deadly force.”

  Easy to say after the fact. “I guess. If he hadn’t gone down with that back strike, I would have gone for a spine or head strike. I was relying solely on my training. My brain was pretty rattled at the time.”

  “Corky, when we moved in to make the arrest, I was so overwhelmed with the need to shoot that depraved you-know-what, I had to holster my gun because I was convinced I would kill him if I didn’t.”

  I squeezed his hand.

  Smoke searched my face before going on. “We got four jurisdictions bringing charges against him, Minneapolis PD, Hennepin County—since rural Hamel is theirs—and Winnebago. And the feds want him on the kidnapping charges. That’s where he’ll get fried.”

  “What’d they find at his house evidence-wise?”

  “Turns out Special Agent Erley was right on. His parents have a hobby farm in Hamel, and he has a loft in the warehouse district of Minneapolis. It was no problem getting expedited search warrants after he made the stupid mistake of kidnapping a Winnebago County sergeant.”