Dead Sleeping Shaman (3 page)

Still 15 days to go

I was a wreck
when I got to Leetsville; in no mood to put up with traffic. Least of all the unusual traffic stretching along both sides of US131, clogging the roadsides. Most of the cars were old, with big REPENT, THE END IS NEAR signs on their doors or roofs. The Chevys and Hondas and anything else that was on its last legs made slow progress along the road—like a bad small-town parade. Some of the vehicles headed north, out toward where I’d heard the cult was staying at an old spiritualist campground. Others were on their way into town. The IGA parking lot was filled, and so was Fuller’s EATS restaurant where people stood in a line reaching out the door, all waiting to get inside for Monday’s breakfast special.

Sy Huett, a used car dealer from down in Kalkaska, had joined the automobile parade, working his way slowly through town. The big sign on the black hearse he drove read: BEFORE YOU DIE, YOU’LL BUY FROM SY. Nothing like a small-town entrepreneur for creativity. Sy, a skinny guy with a comb-over to rival Donald Trump’s, was obviously betting the world wasn’t going to end anytime soon. People buying his used cars had to be betting it would, and he’d never get a dime. I wasn’t sure who I was rooting for in this one. Sy had a tendency to be a bit of a pain, especially if you drove a car as old as my yellow Jeep.

A motley group of people walked along the highway—a rare occurrence in Leetsville. Some of them wore pale, rough robes; nubby stuff like coarse linen or wool; something very old. The robes were hooded, closing faces into shadow. Waists were cinched by a length of white cotton rope—à la St. Francis, without the bird on the shoulder. A few of the devotees had thrown back their cowls to show shorn heads. Men and women, both, heads bare of hair. It looked like a Biblical movie being shot, but these were serious folks, come to Leetsville because the end of the world was upon us—only fifteen days away. Which made me wish I’d waited to pay my property taxes—just in case.

Quite a few of my friends among the Leetsvillians had been out to hear the Reverend Fritch, leader of the flock, preach. Some were scared. Some scoffed at the idea that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would be thundering down 131 at exactly noon on October 27. Leetsville, the reverend pronounced, was at the apex of a confluence of something or other—planets, prophecy. Maybe it was that Michigan was almost surrounded by big waters and water attracted cosmic change and Leetsville was at some perceived center of everything.

I waited at the stop sign hoping for a break in the traffic. I had to get to the police station, find Chief Lucky Barnard or Dolly Wakowski, and get back out to that poor woman under the tree.

Damned “happy” day, I thought as I waited for a semi trying to get through town. First I lost my Special K breakfast out there, after watching that awful fly sit on the woman’s cheek. Then I had to stop along the dirt road into town to give up the half bagel with cream cheese I’d had before the Special K. My mouth tasted like the inside of a crypt and all I wanted was to be around big, tough cops—like Lieutenant Brent from the Michigan State Police post in Gaylord, with his single dark eyebrow always knitted into a frown, his bald head shiny and tough looking, and his gun strapped reassuringly around a middle thick as a tree trunk.

Behind Sy Huett’s hearse, there was an opening in the traffic. I nosed the Jeep forward and across the highway. The station was a couple of blocks over, on Divinity Drive, past the Baptist Church and the wood-sided Church of the Contented Flock sitting under huge old oak trees as yellow as corn silk. The Leetsville Police and Fire Department coexisted in a low, gray, cinder-block building. The hand-painted sign over one of the doors spelled out LEETSVILLE POLICE.

I parked and suffered a slight twinge of conscience, gripping the steering wheel for balance. Maybe I should have covered her with something? What if a bear found her? What if one of those hungry, green-eyed coyotes came upon her? There were crows there already. And that turkey buzzard—like death itself sitting up in the tree.

I got out, ticking off what I had to do, and slammed the car door behind me
.
I needed a medical examiner; techs in their crime scene suits and booties … what else?

Naw, that was Dolly’s job. I took a few deep breaths and tried to shut my mind hard against the picture of the dead woman.

Dolly’s banged-up patrol car wasn’t in the lot, only Chief Lucky Barnard’s battered Saturn sedan. I dug into my jacket for a Kleenex, spit on it, and wiped at my jeans where a Special K flake had stuck.

I entered the green-painted, six-paneled door to the sound of the bell Dolly had installed as her early warning system. There was no one in the small lobby, behind the counter, or at the phone. No miserable teenager, who’d been caught batting down mailboxes, sat miserably awaiting pickup by angry parents. No Wilson Parker, our town drinker, snoring in one of the scarred oak chairs, his grizzled chin resting on a big, calloused fist, a bit of drool seeping down to his green flannel shirt.

“Chief?” I called.

It took a minute and then a tired voice yelled, “Emily? Come on back. I’m kind of busy.”

Lucky’s office was down the hall to the left. Before his office came the two-by-four converted broom closet reserved for Dolly and her files and rolls of toilet paper and a thermos bottle. He sat at his desk, phone to his ear, chin tucked into his chest. He nodded his dark head at me, gave a tired sigh, took a closer look at my face, and got off the phone.

“Better sit before you fall down,” Lucky said, his voice a long drawl, his tired eyes wary. I sat and tried to calm myself.

The chief’s office was a ten-by-ten room done in cheap seventies pressed-board paneling. Old green filing cabinets stood along the walls, some with the drawers hanging slightly askew. File folders, waiting to go into the cabinets, tilted dangerously on the chief’s desk. Chief Barnard was over-extended. Leetsville didn’t have a lot of money for their police force. All small towns were cutting back, but the people of Leetsville said they couldn’t imagine their town without Lucky and Dolly. “Why, that’s the path to anarchy!” Colby Mortenson, the Mayor, recently said at EATS one Sunday morning over blueberry pancakes. Right then and there the townspeople got up a petition which they presented to themselves at the next town meeting, backing the need for their guardians of liberty.

“I found a dead body,” I said, happy to have the words out and be absolved of all responsibility.

Lucky’s eyes were deeply and darkly puffed. A big man, Lucky could deflate when he got tired enough, lose bulk, and shrink down into himself. He was somewhere in the middle of a meltdown at the moment, blinking a time or two, then sweeping a large hand through his thick brown hair. His lips fell open, his tongue licked out. “Ah shit,” he said. “I don’t need anything else right now, Emily. Got a missing person; all these nuts in town …”

“I was out at Deward, doing a story for the paper …”

“So, where’s the body?” He cut through what he must have suspected would be a long buildup.

“At Deward. Under a tree.”

He made a face, leaned back in his chair, and shook his head. “You sure? Could be sleeping …”

“She’s dead. I don’t know who she is and I don’t know how she got out there. I need you … or Dolly …”

“Probably be the state police,” he said, then thought deeply. “We’ve got a Mutual Assistance Pact with them and with the sheriff’s department. Everybody’s so damned over-extended these days. Guess it might be best if Dolly went with you …” He nodded to himself. “Ok, go get her. She’s handing out jaywalking tickets as fast as she can write ’em. Probably by EATS. Or near The Skunk Saloon. I’ll call Gaylord. Lieutenant Brent’ll come out. You’ll need to be there to meet ’im.” He snapped into policeman mode, ticking off actions to take as he reached for the phone.

“Geez, Lucky, and all these people in town. I’ll probably have to cover this … this invasion for the paper.”

“TV already been. Making it worse, if you ask me. And all I can tell you is we’ve got near a thousand people on our hands and Dolly’s giving them tickets while they’re laughing at her ’cause they say they’ll never have to pay ’em. That makes Dolly mad, so now she’s slapping tickets on their trucks and looking into if they’ve got permits to camp out beyond town, and telling people to get right into the station, here, and pay or they’ll sit out the end of the world in our jail.”

I took a deep breath and got up. Ah, Dolly on a crusade. Too bad I was going to spoil her fun.

“I’ll find her,” I said, turning away as Lucky punched numbers on the phone.

“She won’t like leaving town right now,” he said.

“Too bad. Dolly doesn’t always get what she wants.”

“Say that again. Better not be a mistake—your dead body. She’ll never let you hear the last of it.”

He listened as the phone on the other end rang. “Lieutenant Brent and the medical examiner will get out there about the same time as you and Dolly. I’ll call an ambulance—in case you’re wrong. You don’t have a cell phone, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Take Dolly’s patrol car. I’ll be in touch.”

Someone answered and he asked for Lieutenant Brent. As I walked out the door I heard him saying, “Lucky Barnard here. That reporter with the
Northern Statesman
, you know, Emily Kincaid. She thinks she found a body …”

There was no use driving. I was better off on foot, especially when I got out to 131 and threaded my way through robed people and laughing strangers who had the nerve to turn and stare as if I were the weird one here.

In front of EATS, the line stretched out the front door and back around toward the IGA. A lot of the locals waited among the faithful looking like cats caught with their tails in a trap, eyes wide, mouths open. This wasn’t a usual day in Leetsville. Our own folks were out in force to get a firsthand look.

Anna Scovil, town librarian, stood straight and unhappy among the robed people pushing hard behind her in the line. She waved and called to me as I wormed my way past.

“Have you ever?” She put a hand out to grab on to my arm. “What’s this world coming to? Can’t even get into our own businesses. Why these people are taking over …”

“Be happy, Madam,” a bearded, robed man behind her chided. “For we bring you the news.”

“Well, for goodness sakes! I wasn’t even speaking to you.” She reared back and fixed the bright-eyed, hirsute man with a glower.

“But I’m speaking to you. We’re here with Reverend Fritch to speak to the world. There’s not much time. You’d better put your house in order …”

“My house is fine.” She turned her back to the man and rolled her eyes at me as I pushed on.

Bob Barley from Bob’s Barber Shop stood with George, of the candy store, and Winnie Lorbach, the lady slipper lady, farther up the line.

“What the heck do you think of Leetsville now, Emily?” Bob, gruff voice lost down in the blue flannel shirt he wore, asked. “Ain’t this something?”

“Something,” I agreed and stood a minute looking over the crowds along the street. It didn’t do to be in too big a hurry with Leetsville people. There was always time for chewing over the latest news, or the hottest piece of gossip. This new upheaval seemed to have shocked even the regulars at EATS into near silence.

“Have you seen Dolly?” I asked Bob.

“Saw her down a ways. Trying to give out tickets for jaywalking. Like givin’ a ticket to a grackle, you ask me. These folks so sure they’re going to die soon they’re rippin’ up her tickets and handin’ them back to her. Makin’ Dolly hoppin’ mad, I’ll tell ya.”

I started down where Bob pointed and spotted her in the middle of a sea of white robes, her blue, flat uniform cap bobbing and weaving, the people around her shouting and laughing, making a joyful sound.

I heard her squeaky voice when I got closer. She was yelling for everybody to stand back or they were all going to jail. There was hooting and hollering. The religious folks were having themselves a good time at Dolly’s expense. I pushed my way through the throng, caught her eye, and mouthed, “Need you. NOW!”

She frowned, tightening her small features into a bunch at the center of her face. “No time, Emily,” she called over. “Got my hands full here with all these lawbreakers.”

“I found a dead woman out in Deward,” I leaned in and shouted toward her ear.

She snapped back, hands going to her gun belt. Her pale eyes grew huge, the right eye wandering off slightly as she considered what I’d dropped in her lap. “What do you mean, ‘a dead woman’?”