Signs of Struggle (19 page)

“I’ll be right back,” Moon said, turning away from me to go around the bar and say hello to three couples who had come in as a group. They were in their 40’s, all six looking pleasant and prosperous, decent and solid. Lunatic escorted them to a big booth by a window, shook the men’s hands, touched the ladies on their shoulders, and returned behind the bar. Moon exchanged glances with one of his waitresses already on her way.

“Regulars, more or less,” he said. “Anyway, before we were interrupted, you were wondering what I could provide to help complete the picture surrounding Hugh’s death?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t know anything more. You’re already operating with a valid ‘heads up’ on Clontz, but I’m not sure he’s your guy. He might be greedy about land, and he might operate on the edge of the law from time to time, and he clearly bullies people into selling their land, but I just don’t think he would kill somebody.”

“Well, somebody
would
kill me, and it’s all connected.”

“Your curiosity is the fly in the ointment to the bad guys. And I must say, this is cool standing here talking to someone marked for death. A celebrity. By the way, did you know that your attackers’ combined age is less than yours?”

I shot Lunatic a faked smile. In the background, Elvis was singing “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You.” For a moment, I was back in junior high, slow dancing at the Clinton YWCA Summer Dances with pretty girls who made me dizzy with the fragrance of their hair. I tried to cling to the memory a tad longer.

“So, what’s your plan, oh marked man?”

I looked at Moon, jarred from my reverie. “Find out the truth. Get to the bottom of it.”

“You’re not alone, you know. Payne’s doing some pretty thorough snooping. I’m guessing it’s personal with you, but it might be smart to just let the law catch up to the truth. And the consequences.” Moon looked over my shoulder, recognition in his eyes. Almost immediately, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I rotated on the barstool.

A diminutive woman stood there. She radiated happiness and peace, energy and intelligence, as if a small piece of the sun had been placed inside her ample chest. She had very dark hair, pale blue eyes, and a lovely face with minimal makeup and a fetching smile. Obviously pregnant, she leaned a little bit aft, her hatching jacket a plain, white, cotton piece embroidered with flowers. Spring and summer.

“Are you Thomas O’Shea?”

“Yes, and you must be the Goddess of Fertility.”

The woman clamped a powerful hug on me, standing a little sidesaddle, rising up on her toes, burrowing the side of her face into my chest. The hug grew tighter, then she let go and looked up and crooked her finger for me to bend down. Totally under her command, I did so, and she kissed me on the cheek. Then she stepped back.

“I’m Julie Schmidt. Gunther is my husband. I just wanted to thank you,” she said.

Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard, her hands darting to her eyes. She clapped me hard on my shoulder, engaged my eyes with hers, nodded vigorously, and turned away.

“Wait a minute!” I said, and she stopped and turned back. “It’s my pleasure to meet the beautiful wife of a real man. I have great respect for Gunther, and admiration for his skills, not to mention his wisdom in choosing a wife. By the way, were you Snow White at one point? I mean your black hair and blue eyes and pale skin, well…?”

Julie Schmidt blushed. I could not believe it. I didn’t know people still blushed in this world. “We should have brought you a housewarming gift by now,” she said. “I make a wonderful tuna casserole that you would like, right Moon?”

“Ugh.”

She grinned. “But I will someday, and I’ll bring it over.”

“You won’t need directions.”

“No, I know your home well. Are you happy there?”

I paused, silent. “I will be. It's a fine house. Where’s your husband?”

“We’re over there, by the pool tables. We just came by for a night out. Gunther didn’t see you, but Moon caught my attention and pointed, for which I’m grateful. I wanted to meet you, but didn’t feel like I could drop by, although I’m sure you’d say I could. Anyway, a delight to make your acquaintance. Would you like to join us?”

“Only briefly,” I said, turning to Moon and saying, “keep me informed, okay?”

I picked up my beer and dinner platter and joined the Schmidts for half an hour, then moved on, swinging by the bar again to enjoy another pint.

“I just thought of something,” Moon said.

“What?” In the background, Leslie Gore was carrying on about being able to blubber at her own bash.

Moon said, “Do you suppose someone at Christ the King is involved in any of this?”

“I wouldn’t rule anyone out, although I must say, I really liked Carl Heisler.”

Moon peered into my eyes. “There are others at that church.”

“Something to consider,” I said. Moon shrugged.

It was early dark when I drove away. I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, so I cruised down the street and over the bridge and parked, then roamed through Blossom’s Bistro, where a decidedly slow night was expiring. Recognizing no one, I left, disappointed Liv was not there.

Over the next few days I kept asking around, trying to glean some scrap of useful information. I worked out at The Earthen Vessel and talked with Mike, who complimented me on my set-to with the two men on the bridge. “I would have paid good money to see that little debate,” he giggled, rubbing his hands together, making the muscles in his arms and chest jump. For the first time, I wondered if he was my little helper. Certainly capable.

“I wouldn’t recommend it for entertainment,” I said. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I’d survive.”

“One bit of combat in life is quite enough, eh?”

“I guess you could say that,” I said.

“I wish I had stumbled onto that scene. I would have been happy to help you out, but it doesn’t sound like you needed it.”

“Did you forget how this face looked a couple weeks ago?” I asked.

“I remember it well. What did Liv think when she saw the results of your set-to?”

“What?”

“You two are an item, aren’t you?”

“I think she’s a very fine person. I am now deliberately changing the subject, Mike. Do you know of anything that might help me find out who’s behind the hired muscle who met me on the bridge that night?”

“Larry, but I can’t prove it. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

“See ya,” I said, leaving.

“The invitation for Bible Study on Wednesday nights at seven is still open,” he said, picking up a pen and tearing off a piece of paper from a pad on the counter where the nutritional supplements were sold. He scribbled quickly and handed the paper to me. “My address, e-mail, and telephone number.”

I accepted the note and left.

As I cast about for information, I talked to Bunza Steele, John Aldrich and Gene Schumacher from the EMS team that had responded to Wendy Soderstrom’s 911 call, and Gunther Schmidt. No one could help me draw any closer to the money behind the thugs. Everyone had hunches, but not one scrap of new information.

And all the while, in the back of my head, there was the warning from Moon to take precautions. I did not sleep well that night, even with Chief Justice on the floor beside me.

I
stopped asking questions for a few days, focusing instead on lifting weights, running and reading. My workouts at The Earthen Vessel were effective and I found myself growing into a good routine. My body responded to the regimen, and I grew stronger, with more stamina. The man in the mirror was in much harder condition than just a month ago. All that beer obviously agreed with me.

One early evening when I was reading one of Robert B. Parker’s
Spenser
novels, enjoying the repartee between the protagonist and Hawk, Gotcha stared at the door, then made soft little crying sounds, and barked. For her to demand a walk, rather than just accompanying me on a stroll, was a rare thing—it had been a couple of months—so I decided to give in and reinforce exercise for my brindle-and-white Bulldog.

Putting down my book, I grabbed Chief Justice and dumped a handful of shells in my pockets. I looked at Gotcha.

As a puppy, she had enjoyed being outdoors in the summer heat of central Georgia, but when she came in, she always hurried to the cold air register on the kitchen floor, flopping down on it, pressing her pink speckled puppy belly to the cold air pumping through the metal grate. One day, Gotcha came in and dropped down on the register only to discover there was no cold air bursting forth. The thermostat was just about ready to kick in because the house was getting warm again.

That would not do. The little Bulldog puppy had stared at the register, and when nothing happened, she barked at it three times and the heat pump kicked in. This coincidence strengthened her self-esteem, and she has been confident ever since.

“You wanna go out, for sure? It's still hot out there."

She returned my look, did a little dance with her corkscrew tail wiggling, and looked again at the door. "All right, off we go."

It was just a little past twilight, and still steamy despite the cover from the trees. Gotcha led the way toward a favorite path, ranging a dozen yards ahead, ever alert to bear, cougar, or assassins.

We hiked longer than I expected. As we retraced our steps, it was now flat out dark. I looked up through the treetops and saw stars, and Venus. I realized later it was a good thing going out on such a long walk because, by being out in the woods that late, I was not in the house when the men came to kill me.

We were less than fifty yards away when I heard the front door being kicked in. Gotcha tensed immediately and growled, low and deep in her chest. Her ears pricked up and her muscles bunched as I leaned over and placed my hand on her big shoulders, ran it across her blunt muzzle and said, “Still!” in a hushed voice. She grew silent. I could feel the dog’s tension without even looking at her. We moved forward together.

As Gotcha and I approached the house, I saw a tall rectangle of light shining from the open front door. I did not see anyone or hear anything. I conducted quick reconnaissance around the property and found nothing. No other visitors. Knowing there had to be a car, we cut through the woods and emerged on a low hill looking over my private drive.

A dark Lincoln Town Car with Iowa plates, Woodbury County/Sioux City, pointed back down the road, engine running. Behind the wheel a man smoked a cigar. The window was down about four inches to let the smoke out.
Confident dude
. I wondered how many more were in my house as I chambered a round into Chief Justice.

We went back to find out. I stationed Gotcha in shadows near the front door and gave her the hand signal, palm open and passing before her face, to “Stay.” She was twitching, but she would follow instructions. She gets edible rewards for following instructions. Little Smokies are her favorite.

As I slipped around the broken door and into my living room I heard voices coming from upstairs as two men descended the steps from the upstairs bedroom. I was calm as I edged farther into my house.

“His truck’s here,” one of them said as I watched feet and legs slowly appear on the stairs. I took a deep breath and brought the weapon up. Both men came into full view on their way down. Each had a handgun at his side.

They both saw me at the same time I ordered, "Put’ em down!”

Before I could say anything else, they turned on me, pistols coming up. So much for following instructions. No Little Smokies for them.

I centered the Mossberg on the torso of the second man, who was ready to fire, a big blond with a brush cut, wearing a teal t-shirt. I squeezed the trigger, the shotgun blast loud and reverberating against the walls.

The pellets went true to the man’s chest, banging him back against the wall. He bounced down onto his partner, a man about my age, dressed in jeans and a dark blue knit shirt. Blondie’s gun clattered off the side of the steps, onto the floor as I chambered another round. I swung a few degrees to my right and aimed at the partner and said, “Don’t do it!” He had lost concentration fighting against the collapsed body of his partner. He used his forearm to shrug off the younger man’s body and brought up his weapon.

I squeezed the trigger again. The man snapped off two quick shots that I ignored. A long time ago I learned that, in a gunfight, the one who stands calmly and returns fire is often more accurate than the enemy in a hurry. Both slugs from my adversary’s booming handgun missed, but not by much. I felt the first slug whistle by my ear, and the second was only marginally farther off. Under the circumstances, pretty good shooting.

I fired before he could get off a third shot.

Chief Justice’s spray struck the man in the shoulder, slamming him sideways as he dove down the stairs and disappeared behind the sofa. I realized I was a little rusty. The man should have been killed with one shot at that range, even though he had been moving fast down the steps before tumbling out of sight. I chambered another round and dropped down behind the corner of a bookcase, grateful for Moon’s shotgun and the double-ought buckshot. My Stevens would have been a handicap and I would now be hurrying to reload.

From behind my sofa, the man cursed me in a low voice edged with pain. He was hurting, but as long as he breathed, he could kill. I stood ready and moved forward. No wisdom in waiting for something to happen. It already had, and now I had to clean it up all by myself. On rare occasions privacy can be a bitch.

I moved forward, weapon shouldered. The smell of gun smoke, one of my favorite fragrances, filled the room. I stepped around the edge of the sofa and swung the barrel of the gun around and down. We saw each other at the same time, expected each other at the same time, and as the man on the floor aimed his big handgun, I fired, the buckshot whomping into his gut. He made a whimpering sound and collapsed as if all his tendons had snapped. I watched his handgun tumble from useless fingers.

There was no need to fire again. The man couldn’t lift his hands, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d seen too many movies where the monster appeared to be dead, then came back to life. More importantly, I had learned through experience to make sure that a downed enemy was down to stay.

Blood oozed from his shredded shoulder, but the gut wound was hemorrhaging, and I realized he would bleed out before I could stop the bleeding, even if I tried. I kicked the gun away. We both understood. Still, he had the glare, the hatred in his eyes.
Sure, go right ahead and take an attitude when you go before God.

I picked up his handgun by the barrel, a .38 Police Special, and set it on a table by the door. The man looked up from the floor and said, "I'm hurt bad." That stopped me for a minute. The truth can do that.

"First things first," I said, and left the house. The first thing is my life, and I intended to preserve that before thinking about helping him as he slipped all alone into death.

I pulled the front door shut, muscling it into place to make sure it closed tightly. No point in getting any more bugs in the place. I hate bugs more than I hate cell phones. I released Gotcha from my order and we set off.

Had the driver heard the gunfire? Maybe. But even if he had, he probably just figured it was a bit more trouble than his partners had expected, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Or, maybe, he wasn’t overconfident, and was on his way to help kill me. I
ka-chunked
another shell into the chamber and focused on the business at hand. Three rounds left. I fumbled in my pockets, withdrew three shells and reloaded.

When I peeped down over the edge of the small hill overlooking my drive, the big car still sat there in the dark, engine running, the man still smoking behind the wheel, dash lights on. He looked at his watch, then puffed on his cigar.

Gotcha and I slipped down the bank from bush to bush until we hunched down twenty-five feet behind the car and to the right, out of sight of the rear view mirrors, motionless. I waited a few minutes, and when the wheel man tossed out his used-up cigar and lit another, I ducked down and came up fast, together with Gotcha, on the driver’s side.

He exhaled a pleasant plume of rich cigar smoke and I stood up and rammed the butt end of the shotgun into his window, shattering it into a shower of safety glass. Startled, the man turned toward me. I chopped down hard with the butt of the gun onto his left collarbone, breaking it. As he cursed and turned in pain, slumping toward me, his right collarbone was exposed, and a second chop broke it, too. The driver screamed, hands dropping to his sides. I like it when the bad guys can’t lift their hands. It’s a great start toward their understanding the balance of power.

Of course, feet are still available as weapons from the trained individual, but this guy was sitting down. I opened the car door, grabbed the man by the back of his flowery, Hawaiian-style shirt, and dragged him screaming in agony out onto the white gravel. As he exited the car, the man made a point of kicking at the steering wheel, sounding the horn, the noise loud and useless in an otherwise pleasant July night.

He looked like Danny DeVito on Dianabol, dressed in tight white slacks to go with his Magnum PI shirt. He wore too much cologne. From his position on the ground, he tried to kick me, cursing and crying out at the same time. That’s when Gotcha lunged and clamped her jaws onto his right calf, then jerked her massive head left and right, tugging violently on the muscle. I could have kissed her. Biting is out of character for English Bulldogs, but Gotcha made me proud.

The man shrieked. I caught Gotcha’s collar and ordered her to sit and stay. She let go, but with great reluctance.

“Good dog,” I said, over and over again. “Good dog!” Gotcha wiggled her hips in happiness.

“Damn dog’ll be dog
meat
when we get through with you!” the man on the ground shouted, grimacing as he tried to touch his calf with a dangling arm.

“There is no ‘we,’ pal. Your friends are dead. Didn’t you hear this?” I asked, holding up my shotgun.

“They’re both dead?”

I nodded, glad to know that only three men were sent to kill me. Information is power. I asked, “Who are you and who sent you?”

“Right, like I’m gonna tell you.”

I tapped the man on the mouth with the tip of the gun barrel, not enough to break his teeth, but enough to loosen the front ones a little and guarantee a fat lip in the morning. The man flinched and glared. I was not encouraged. No, these guys were definitely not from Dubuque.

“Again?” I asked. The man’s response, rich with Anglo-Saxonisms, suggestions to perform naughty acts upon myself requiring a gymnast’s flexibility, and various imaginative heresies shocked me. I broke his cheekbone with the stock of the gun, which still did not produce any information. He stopped speaking. I stopped hitting.

“Come on, Gotcha,” I said, grabbing the man by the back of his shirt and pulling him to his feet. He kicked at me again and, in a way, I admired his toughness. But Gotcha nailed him again, the other calf this time, tearing the flesh. Creepy, wet sound. I didn’t know the old girl had it in her, but I had suspected. Most dogs will defend their families. The man screamed and I ordered her off and the driver thereafter did not attempt to kick anyone. I felt sorry for him. Gotcha’s 400-plus pounds of jaw pressure per square inch had to have hurt.