Signs of Struggle (20 page)

Reaching inside the car, I shut off the engine, not touching the end of the key, but just twisting it. Fingerprint potential.

I used the gun barrel to prod the bleeding driver forward, up to the house. He struggled to walk, moaning and limping, the jarring of each step no doubt agonizing. At the front door, I slipped around in front of the man, holding the gun on him, and shouldered open the damaged door. “Go in,” I said. He did.

Inside, he saw his two pals; both shooters dead now. The wheel man merely looked angrier.

I suddenly realized that, if Gotcha had not insisted on a rare walk, I’d be dead. Gotcha, too, probably.

I could kill the driver right now, I thought. Probably should.

I pushed the barrel of the gun against the back of the driver’s head, pushed it hard as the man began pleading for his life. If he somehow got off, or escaped, or served a few years and was released, he would come back. The world would be better without him, and I could make up a convincing story to tell Payne, and arrange the driver’s body, with a gun, so that when I shot him in the face, it would look like combat.

One of Ambrose Bierce’s four definitions of homicide is “admirable.” And in the South, “The man needed killin’” is a legal defense. But Bierce had disappeared into Mexico, and we weren’t in Georgia.

I took the barrel of the shotgun and prodded the back of the man's head again, hard, and then lifted the gun away. I said, "I'm not going to kill you." Maybe he had daughters.

The man wept, no doubt filled with remorse for not spending enough time in the library when he was a teen. I duct-taped the driver’s hands in front of him, taped his feet, then dragged him in front of the fireplace as his cries filled the house. There was blood all over the tile and the throw rugs, reddish-brown smears everywhere. I put Chief Justice on the kitchen counter and retrieved my cell phone from the drawer underneath, flipped it open, and thumbed Sheriff Payne’s number. I waited, keeping an eye on my prisoner. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was too busy staring at his dead partners, not to mention the disincentive to flee due to his broken bones and ripped calves. The phone rang at the Rockbluff County Sheriff’s Office.

“Payne here. How may I serve and protect you tonight?” Caller ID.

“I have three trespassers out here at the house that you need to gather into custody.”

“How many are without injury?” A hint of humor in the Sheriff’s voice.

“Two have been released from pain forever and one is broken.”

“On my way,” Payne promised. The bantering edge was gone.

Exactly twelve minutes later Payne was knocking on my damaged door. I lifted it up at the handle and swung it open. I would call Gunther in the morning and let him provide the expert repair needed. Overnight, duct tape would suffice. “Come in,” I said, forcing the door back into place once he passed me.

“Their car?” Payne asked, jerking his thumb toward the road as he walked into the center of the room, contemplating the crumpled man in front of the fireplace. I nodded yes. He carried a small gym bag and set it on a chair. Then he noticed the two bloody corpses. He stared at them for a moment, then looked at me. “What in God’s name?”

“They’re Yankee fans. We were discussing the Boston-New York rivalry. It got out of hand.”

“You okay?”

“My spirit is in turmoil,” I said. I smiled. Payne did not.

He pulled out his cell phone, made one call. While we waited for his people to show up, Payne took a camera from his bag and took several pictures of the scene. When he took a photo of Chief Justice, he paused for a moment and then looked at me. “Is that whose I think it is?”

“It is.”

Payne paused for a moment, as if weighing a response. Finally, he said nothing, just shook his head and continued to take pictures.

In minutes, I heard sirens and looked out a front window to watch a Deputy Sheriff’s car, an ambulance, a County Coroner’s meat wagon, and a wrecker crowd into my drive. The ambulance crew came into the house. It was Aldrich and Schumacher again.

I said, “Hey, John, Gene.” They nodded. Aldrich said, “Evenin’, Thomas” and I wondered about the significance of being on first name terms with EMS people.

They took out the driver and left. A crew from the coroner’s office removed the bodies. Deputies Doltch and Lansberger came into the house shortly after. It was like a reunion of some sort, and one I didn’t want to experience again.

Payne said, “You men follow the ambulance and assist in the transfer. Do not let that man out of your sight. I'll call some auxiliaries to stand watch at the hospital. Put those handguns over there in evidence bags and take them with you.”

The deputies followed Payne’s instructions and left, nodding at me. Friendly guys. They seemed stunned for some reason. Too easily impressed, I guess.

The Sheriff and I walked outside together as the various vehicles crept away down the drive, crunching gravel in the otherwise quiet night, throwing trails of red and blue light against the trees. The tow truck was easing the Lincoln Town Car onto its bed, the cable whining softly like a dentist’s drill. We went back inside.

Payne crossed the room to the wall where the two slugs were lodged. He studied the holes in the wall for a moment, then took out a Swiss Army Knife. He dug out the slugs, held them in the palm of his big hand, jiggling them, dumped them into his pocket. He folded up his knife and dropped it into his pocket, too.

“Tell me, from beginning to end, what happened,” he said, producing a small tape recorder from his gym bag and sitting down on a couch. I took a chair. He pressed a button, spoke into the tiny microphone, played it back to make sure it was working. Then he pushed another button and provided a few details including date, time, location, and reason for his response. After that, he placed the tape recorder on my coffee table and shoved the recorder toward me. I provided my narrative. It took less than five minutes.

I pushed the tape recorder back across the coffee table and Payne picked it up, punched the “OFF” button, and returned it to the bag. He rose to his feet. I did likewise. Payne clapped me heavily on the shoulder and said, “Glad you returned fire, Thomas, just glad you returned fire. Why don't you come down to the office in the morning and fill out a report,” he said, and then he left, awkwardly maneuvering the unhinged front door open, then shut.

I looked over at Gotcha, stretched out on her belly on the tile in front of the fireplace, licking a bloody spot on the floor. “Very good dog, Gotcha. I love you.” She wiggled her tale without looking up and continued to lick.

I walked into the kitchen. A moth flitted silently in front of me, beneficiary of the kicked-in door. I hate bugs. I reached out and captured the insect, clapped my hands together, and dropped the dead bug into the trash can under the kitchen sink.

Gotcha got up and followed me into the kitchen where I produced a package of Little Smokies. I gave her two, took one myself and ate it. She scarfed hers. I produced a little Milk-Bone from the big jar on the counter, scooped some creamy peanut butter on the end, placed an arthritis pill on the peanut butter, and tossed it to her. Gotcha accepted the goody with a loud, wet opening of her enormous mouth, then looked for more. I gave her a new “Giant Treat for Special Occasions” and she took the rawhide bone back to the fireplace to chew on there.

I opened the refrigerator, wrapped the fingers of my right hand around a Three Philosophers. I hooked a beer glass with my thumb and took the shotgun with my free hand.

Gotcha, highly interested in her special treat, chose not to join me on the deck. So I went out alone, slid the glass door closed behind me, and plopped into a chair. I set Chief Justice on the deck next to me, within easy reach. I was weary, but not too tired to drink my ale.

A few minutes later, something occurred to me that I could not ignore. I finished drinking, picked up the shotgun, and stepped inside. I dropped the empty bottle in the trash can under the sink, put the beer glass in the dishwasher, set the Mossberg on the countertop, and looked around.

There was a compulsion nagging at me, a need, several needs, pushing at me relentlessly, tenaciously. I cleaned up the blood from the tile in front of the fireplace. I studied the bloodstains on the area rugs and steps and wall, and decided to replace everything that had been bled on. I sprayed 409 on the wall and wiped the paneling clean.

It was only 9:30. It seemed like midnight. I wished it were midnight, then I could just collapse. It felt like the very center of darkness. I stood silently for a long time in the middle of my living room in the middle of July in the middle of northeast Iowa. I had just killed two men in my new house, and busted up another.
Jesus.
Talk about a non-traditional housewarming. I would have traded it for a Tupperware party any day.

I stood silently. Gotcha’s snoring resonated from the master bedroom. What I’d give to have the peace of mind of that Bulldog. Door kicked in, strangers cursing and tramping about, biting a man twice, gunfire, shouts, blood, bodies hitting the deck, sirens, more strangers in the house, and still, able to go climb on her tuffet and conk out in minutes, maybe even seconds. Pure admiration from me.

I strolled over to the kitchen counter, looked at the shotgun I had placed there, then picked up my telephone and set my thumbs to work. When Olivia answered, I said, “Hello, Liv, this is Thomas, and I was wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes. I need to talk to you.”

I could not read the tone of her voice other than the fact that it was pleasant, maybe a little surprised, curious. “Of course. Please. The house is a mess, but you are welcome,” she said softly, her voice trailing off.

“I’ll be right over,” I said, dropping the phone back in the drawer and sliding the drawer shut. I turned out the lights except for the one over the stove, grabbed the shotgun, and left the house, making sure to pull the door tightly shut behind me, Gotcha snoring, her pigeon coo softening the edge of darkness.

I
knocked once and Olivia opened the door. I said, “Thanks for letting me stop by on such short notice.”

“You are very welcome,” she said, gesturing for me to come in. I could not help noticing as I brushed by her that her blouse was unbuttoned four down, lush flesh visible. No bra. She wore baggy walking shorts with her blouse on the outside. Her feet were bare. I also noticed her fragrance without wondering what it was other than something very feminine, very nice. Subtle. Soft. Even better than gun smoke. She said, “Won’t you have a seat? May I get you something?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I said, walking to the sofa and standing, realizing I didn’t know what to say now that I was in her home.

Milton jumped down from a wing chair and stared at me, his tail wagging.

“Please have a seat, really, it’s okay. I was just getting ready to have a glass of wine. Won’t you join me? I have a wonderful bottle of Pinot Grigio chilled.”

I paused. The idea of a cold glass of wine with Liv Olson was appealing, rating far ahead of gunfire, blood and death. I said, “I would like that.”

“I’ll be back in a sec,” she said, ducking into the kitchen after scooping up Milton. I heard a door open and close and I thought of the shotgun in my truck. “I just put Milton in his crate on the porch,” she called from the kitchen. “He likes his crate.”

I looked around. Books everywhere, everything from Hemingway to Ivanovich, comfortable furniture, and a stone fireplace all spoke to the essence of the woman. I heard a cork pop from a bottle, then the sound of wine splashing into glasses. She reappeared and handed me a big wine glass half-filled, set hers down, and darted back into the kitchen, re-emerging with a wooden bowl filled with almonds and cashews.

She said, “Please sit down, Thomas,” and I did. Liv placed the bowl next to me, then plopped down on the sofa, the bowl between us. She pulled her legs up under her, leaned forward with her glass in hand. She raised it and said, “To summer, and friends.”

“And to the spontaneous hospitality of a beautiful woman.”

“And to a good man unafraid to call a lady and ask if he could see her just before Rockbluff’s ten PM curfew.”

Our glasses touched, and we sampled the wine. It was crisp, cold. “This is very good,” I said.

“Help yourself to my favorite snack,” she said, nudging the bowl toward me, scooping up a small handful of almonds, tossing them one at a time in her mouth. She sipped her wine again. She watched me, waiting.

I set my glass down on the coffee table next to us, shifted my weight so I faced her. “Three men came to my house tonight to kill me. They were professionals.” I stopped and watched her try to maintain the grip on her wine glass, some of the pale liquid slipping over the lip of the glass onto her hand. She licked her hand without taking her eyes off my face. “And two of them are dead.”

“You said three men came to
kill
you tonight? And you
killed
two of them?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, God, Thomas! I am so sorry! What happened, I mean, that’s
awful
!” she said, leaning toward me in absolute interest and focus. She took a deep breath, a deep drink, set her glass down on the coffee table, and sat back, looking at me differently than she ever had before. There was a little touch of horror there. Her eyes were darting all over my face, looking for something, I guess, to calm her.

I told her what happened.

Olivia stared at me, reaching for her glass. Her hand found it and she took it to her mouth, but just held it, staring at me. She spoke over the lip of the glass. “End of story? You just escaped your own murder and you tell it like a narrative, like washing your car, or picking out two videos at Mulehoff’s. I need
details
, Thomas! First, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Gotcha and I came through without a scratch.”

“Thank God! Look, Thomas. I think I’m going to cry, but don’t worry if I do, it’s just emotion. For you.
Me!
” she said. She bounced her right palm off her forehead. With her other hand, she put the wine glass to her lips and drained it.

Liv said, “I need more wine.” Her hand reached for my glass, and I handed it over. She drank. “You think they were professionals? Sent to kill you?”

“I guess they didn’t think there would be much of a problem, so they were careless. If they were less confident, they would have set up a two-point ambush, an angled crossfire from perfect cover, catching me from each side as I came out of my house or returned from someplace, like a walk. They would have studied my habits. They would have known where I was when they got there. It couldn’t have been easier. Have their colleague drop them off a couple miles down the road, hike in to the house, split up, get hidden, wait. Waste me when I showed up. Pick up their shell casings. Disappear. Job done. Destroy their weapons, go back to what they were doing before they were hired for the hit. No one would ever know.”

That brought the tears. Go figure. She began making gulping sounds, shaking her head vigorously, nose dripping, eyes staring at me in something like wonder. “How can you talk so coldly about how these guys
goofed
when they should have killed you? Are you giving out
grades
? My God, are you crazy? I don’t believe this!” she said, and then her hands were all over my face, my chest. “You sure you’re unscathed?”

“I’m the same as I was before they dropped by.”

“Dropped
by
? How can you be so calm when three men just tried to kill you? I don’t get it! Let me see you,” she said, and she pulled my t-shirt up and away from my body and peeked. I let her. She said nothing, but her mouth formed the word, “Wow!”

“Good genes, lots of beer,” I said, stifling a laugh that felt very, very good.

“Oh, God, I can’t believe I did that,” she said, and she actually blushed. First Julie Schmidt, now Liv. A local thing, I guess. “Oh, I’m sorry, Thomas. You must think I’m demented. Here’s your shirt.” She let go. It dropped back down. “I just can’t believe you don’t have any wounds. And how can you say they just dropped by?”

“It’s the Y chromosome, I guess. And Iowa upbringing. No emotions,” I said, a smile slipping out in spite of myself. Olivia pushed both of her hands onto her face, rubbing her eyes. Then she looked at me. “Wait! What about the person who hired them? Who is
that
?”

“Now that’s the question of the day.” I stood. I took a few fat cashews from the dish, popping them into my mouth, and not one at a time, either. I reached for my glass and stopped, realizing it was empty. She had drained it.

Liv looked at the empty glasses and looked stricken. “Whoops! I guess I got a little flustered. Did I just drink your wine, too?”

“You didn’t drink all of my wine, Liv. Honest,” I said. She looked relieved. “I got a little bitty sip before you snatched it out of my hand.” She slumped against the pillows on the sofa where we had been sitting together.

She laughed, made a little fist, shook it at me in mock anger. “I’m going to hurt you for teasing me, and blame the bruises on those three guys,” she said. Then she jumped up and hurried into the kitchen and returned with the Pinot Grigio bottle. She set it before me and sat down.

She took a deep breath. “And yes, I would like another very small amount of wine. You must help yourself to something comparable to your first serving that I gulped down. Good grief, what must you think of me?”

“That’s easy,” I said. “I think you’re a fantastic woman, a beauty, and extremely attractive when you’re excited, and that’s not the Pinot Grigio speaking, either.”

“How could it be? I drank it all!”

“I’ve had some, too. And I meant what I said.” I refilled our glasses.

“You are very, very sweet. And obviously in shock to make such a statement, but I accept it, with much gratitude. So,” she sighed, “who do you think hired these men tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I said, standing and walking over to her fireplace, turning back to her. “I’ve been asking around, trying to figure out what’s going on in Rockbluff with the death of Hugh Soderstrom, and I’m sure now that it was murder, not just another fatal farm accident. There are theories out there, floating around, but nothing to hang my hat on.”

“Tonight’s the result of your questions,” she said, taking her wine glass to her lips. I walked back and sat next to her and picked up my glass. Then her eyes went suddenly wide. “Wait! You never told me about the circumstances on the bridge with those two thugs, those guys who tried to beat you up. I had to hear it from Lunatic Mooning! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It just didn’t seem that important. Just a tussle,” I said, using Bunza Steele’s description. “Not worth mentioning.”

It didn’t fly. “Two guys try to beat you up, with some success I have been told, and it’s not worth mentioning to me? I’m your friend, Thomas, and I would have appreciated your telling me. You told Lunatic, Harmon knew about it because he was there, it was even in the news.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” It was quiet for a moment as we sampled more wine.

She just shook her head. “We can discuss that later. I’m just thankful you’re okay,” she said, unfolding those glorious legs from beneath her and lounging over next to me, moving the wooden bowl to the coffee table, out of the way. “I’m glad you called me tonight. I’d hate to go through something like that and have no one to talk to. I’m flattered, actually.”

“I have Gotcha to talk to, but she decided to go to bed.”

“Sometimes going to bed’s the best thing.”

“Gotcha swears by it.”

Olivia laughed. “Well, I’m glad you called. I am just amazed that you were able to survive that attack. Grateful, but surprised.”

“They were in unfamiliar territory, I wasn’t. They did not respect their adversary; believe me, I did. And I also had the element of surprise. Huge advantage.”

“Oh, geez, I’m so sorry, Thomas. How terrible for you.” And then she leaned toward me and kissed me, holding my lower lip in hers for just a second.
Oh.

“Ummm. You taste good,” she said. She snuggled up next to me and threw one tanned, shapely, nude leg over mine. “Will the one guy who’s left spill the beans?” Her hand slid up under my loosened t-shirt.

“So far, he’s not talking.”

Her fingertips drifted across the skin of my chest. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I guess. Now that I’ve come over here. Really felt like I needed to talk to you. Sorry I upset you.”

“I was reading a book when the phone rang.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t be sorry, Thomas. I’m glad you called and happy you survived, apparently without a scratch, any physical ones anyway, but let me take a closer look,” she said, her voice going husky. She removed my t-shirt, tossed it behind the sofa, and kissed my chest.

“I want to kiss you,” I said, no longer afraid. My heart was doing its best to break through my ribcage, but I was willing to risk the fractures.

“I wish you would,” she said. “You know, Shakespeare said that action is eloquence.”

Liv closed her eyes as I took her into my arms and pressed my body to hers, and then my kiss softly explored her mouth. She moved against me and raised her hands and I pulled her blouse up and over her head. She kept her hands high and arched her back a little, and I kissed her breasts, my lips loving her there. She moaned and dropped her arms and held my face to her bosom. And then we rose and she took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom, turning out the lights as we went, stepping out of her shorts just before she lit the small, red candle on the bureau.