Signs of Struggle (21 page)

She was wearing a thong, but not for long.

I
drifted somewhere between slumber and awakening, vaguely happy. The dreams were of a sweet-scented woman who had let me kiss her and had kissed me in return, a fragrant female who had molded her body next to mine, skin to skin, and held me and said nothing between kisses.

From the thick, warm fog of sleep I could hear her soft breathing, was aware of her weight in the bed next to me, her body shifting and drawing closer to me as I edged back to wakefulness. I felt her soft, warm breath on my face and I smiled at the luscious remembrance of the hours before. But my senses drew me back to the present and the warm body next to me, a morning kiss on her lips.

I reached out and caressed her floppy, silky ears and the dream began to fade, and then my hand slipped down to the twenty inch neck and the amorous chuckle in my throat stopped.

I opened one eye. I was face to face with a
face
, the bowling ball head of Gotcha, who had slipped into my bed in the middle of the night, when I was still remembering Olivia.

I laughed in spite of myself. “You booger!” I said, and the Bulldog pounced. In an instant she was on top of me, smushing her wet mug into my face, pinning me with her strength, hunching her shoulders, playing with her master. I tried to push her away and escape under the covers, but she was too strong, and the fact that I was laughing out loud and growing weaker worked against me. Finally I said, “Have your way with me then, my dear, but do be gentle.”

Nothing happened at first. And then she pounced again, this time going airborne before her fifty-five pounds landed on my chest. I laughed and rolled over onto my stomach, trying to protect my neck, but that left my ears exposed, and quickly Gotcha was slurping my ears, and when my hands covered my ears, the Bulldog went after my neck.

It was hopeless. When Gotcha paused, I slithered out of bed and onto my feet, the Bulldog right behind poised on the edge of the bed. She tensed, then launched herself. I caught her in mid-leap, roughed her up, then tossed her back onto the bed, where she quickly gathered herself into her pounce position, butt in the air, chest on the bed, eyes wild and playful. “You lose!” I said and ran into the bathroom, Gotcha right behind me. I slammed the door shut and laughed as I heard her butt her head against the door. She would be waiting for me. Or she would be sleeping on the bed.

Sleeping on the bed…that was how I had left Olivia. I was what the psychologists call conflicted, wanting to stay with her until morning, perhaps to revisit our passion from the night before, but also needing to leave, to get home, to avoid her neighbors, to try to squelch gossip before it got started. Liv was a native, and I didn’t want to cause any more harm to her reputation than I may have already.

When I left her bed and began dressing, it was three AM. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em, eh?” She was on her stomach, and she rolled over toward me onto her back, only a sheet half-covering her in the dark room. The candle still burned.

She said, “You have interesting scars.”

“And those are just the ones you can see.”

“
Feel
, then see. What’s that puckered thingy on the inside of your thigh?”

“Gunshot. Eastern Europe.”

“And the long, thin one low, very low, on your tummy?”

“Knife. Jordan. Ashamed of that one. I’m not supposed to let them get that close.”

“Did you Mirandize this rude person?” she asked, using her toes to push the sheet further down her body.

“Let’s just say that, after we met, I made the decision for him to remain silent.”

“Tell me more.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay.”

“Come with me. You still haven’t seen my house. I’m serious. Just slip on a robe or something.”

“Soooo tempting, but I need to take care of Milton, and you need to take care of Gotcha. I understand. One day I’ll get my mom to keep Milton for a weekend and then, who knows where you might find me? Besides, if you leave now, I can say you did not spend the night.” She’d stretched her arms over her head and I had gone to her, pulling the sheet away, kissing the point of each hip, then her belly, her breasts, her lips.

“My engine is starting to purr,” she said.

“I was hoping I’d have that effect,” I replied.

It was still dark when I forced my front door open. I heard Gotcha snoring, then stop, then start again as she realized who it was coming in so late. Or early. I went to bed, only to have my Bulldog wake me later.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Gotcha was asleep on the bed. I dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a royal blue and gold Narnia College t-shirt, socks and running shoes. I called Gotcha and let her out into the front yard, closed the damaged door, and turned to the kitchen.

I fixed breakfast and thought about Liv. But that joy was nudged aside by guilt. I should never have called her. For a moment, I felt like I had taken advantage of her. For weeks I have suspected that she was attracted to me. So what was she supposed to do after letting me in and hearing my story? What had I wanted to happen?

And then I just let it go, said my standard, heartfelt prayer of, “Lord, forgive me, a miserable sinner.” I added a caveat, “And God bless Olivia Olson.” I did not add anything more, other than thanking God I was able to respond to her. There was that. Sometimes I surprise myself.

The microwave clock read ten twenty-nine. I let Gotcha back in, gave her meds and breakfast, filled up her water bowl, and sat down to eat. I ate breakfast, peanut butter and honey on real bread for a change instead of from a spoon, cleaned up, grabbed the shotgun and walked down to the mailbox, realizing my stroll made me vulnerable to an ambush. I watched the woods and hustled down the drive.

The air was still cool. I could hear birds calling, and the wind roughing up the topmost leaves in the tall trees along my driveway. At the blacktop, I picked up my copy of the
Des Moines Chronicle
, and retraced my steps.

Back indoors, I tossed the paper on the coffee table, set the shotgun next to it, found my cell in the drawer under the computer, and punched in Gunther’s number. Julie answered, we chatted briefly, then she agreed to give Gunther my message that the front door needed some adjusting.

“He’ll be there today,” Julie promised. “I’ll give him a call on his pager and get him over there during his lunch break, if not sooner.”

“Where is he?”

“Working on another house,” Julie said, and I could sense her smile through her voice. “And he has a potential buyer for the house he built last year up in Allamakee County. Thanks to you, Thomas.”

“Shucks, missy, I didn’t do nothin’,” I drawled.

“You’re a nice man, Thomas.”

“No, I’m not. Sometimes I do nice things, though.”

“You are a piece of work,” she laughed. “I’ll give Gunther your message as soon as we hang up.”

I picked up the Mossberg. No more waiting around. Time to do a little in-depth searching for the one person on the planet who could unravel this mess. Time to find the snake and cut off its head.

After I stopped by the Sheriff’s office to write my report, I would snoop around, see if there were any inspirational hunches that might surface as the day unfolded, do a little legwork. “You wanna go for a ride?" I asked Gotcha. Her ears perked up and she jumped down from the recliner. "Let's go, then," I said.

On the way, I hung my arm out the window, opening my hand wide to feel the air through my fingers and along my fingertips. I thought about Olivia. I had never expected to ever again sleep with a beautiful woman, resigning myself to bitter, pouty celibacy for eternity. Another element of my grief. Liv had changed it all in just a few days. I wanted to see her again.

Once in town, I turned down First Street. A leg was sticking out of the lilac bushes at the edge of Arvid Pendergast’s property, and I honked the horn. I think I saw the leg wave in return.

I turned right on Bridge Street, crossing the bridge, and then pulled into the parking lot at the courthouse. Gotcha and I got out. I put the shotgun on the floor in the back, locked the doors, and then Gotcha and I sauntered over to the steps leading down to the courthouse basement and the Sheriff’s Office. We went in. Payne was there.

The Sheriff looked up from behind his battered desk and said, “The Angel of Death and Injuries walks among us. With his fierce protector. What's his name? I didn't catch it last night while I was investigating some routine trespassing out in the woods.”

“Her name’s Gotcha, and she bites dangerous men,” I said. “You’re safe.”

“Come ‘ere, Gotcha, defender of the daffy,” Payne said, rising from behind his desk and going to the dog. Gotcha wiggled her little warped tail. Payne was grinning.

I said, “See what I mean? That dog’ll bite.”

Payne said, “She only bites dangerous bad men.”

I changed the subject. “I’ll bet the chauffeur from last night’s simple trespassing spilled his guts once he realized he was in your custody, didn’t he?”

“Won’t tell me a thing,” Payne squatted, stroked Gotcha’s head, and rubbed her ears. “The car was, surprise, stolen. As for the immediate news, there are no fingerprints on anything, including the two incompetents you plugged and the guy Gotcha chewed up.”

“You mean no record of their fingerprints?”

Payne continued to play with Gotcha, rubbing her spine at the base of the tail. The Bulldog was licking her chops in obscene bliss. “No, I mean there are no fingerprints because all three of those guys have had their fingertips surgically removed, sandblasted, acid-dipped or something. They are as smooth as a baby’s butt. That can be a tip-off that one is dealing with those who have found a previously-rewarding career in opposing the goals of law enforcement. I do not think they were acting on their own. Also, I do not think we will ever know who hired them.”

“Dammit. I’d like to know so I can get to the root of the problem and deal with it. I’m getting impatient.”

“These guys probably don’t even know who’s behind it. They couldn’t tell you if they wanted to. They got cash from some guy they might know only by reputation and first name, who got the money from another guy, and so forth. Nothing in writing, no real names if any names are given. You could put a gun to our boy’s head and he might be inspired to let you know who was behind the hit, and still couldn’t tell you.”

“Dammit!’

“You already said that.”

“But not as fervently.”

“I did some thinking last night, before I went to sleep, Thomas, just to turn over a new leaf in my career, you understand, and I was wondering just where you learned to shoot like that. I mean, with them firing at you in close quarters and there being two of them apparently having done this sort of work before…” Payne said, not looking at me, scratching the deep rough at Gotcha’s throat, “it might make one think you have some kind of training, perhaps a bit of experience in such activities.” He massaged Gotcha’s shoulders. She looked as if she might fall asleep.

“Oh,” I said, “I’ve had bits and pieces here and there, over time. I used to hunt a lot as a kid, target practice, qualified as ‘Expert’ in the M-16 in Basic. Occasionally shot with a friend of mine outside Georgia. On a shooting range in Belue.”

Payne rose slowly to his feet and looked at me. “Last night, Thomas, you killed two professional shooters and wounded another. According to you, two had weapons drawn and were looking for you in your home. I assume it was an unexpected visit.”