Vengeance Is Mine (11 page)

The lot by the skating rink was full, and cars were parked in a solid row, lining Twelfth Avenue. Steve made a circle around the park and came back on East Lake Boulevard, but both sides of the street were filled with parked cars. It looked as if WinterGame was off to a much better start than they had anticipated.

Since there were no legal parking places, Steve exercised one of the perks that went with his job and left the car in a red zone. Michele was standing by the skating rink with Louise and Judith. All three women had official badges pinned to their coats. They were judging the snowman contest.

There was a smile on Steve's face as he walked over to join them. As acting chief of police he didn't want to look worried. He was here in an official capacity.

“Three
women
judges? I'll bet you'll get complaints from the boys.”

“Hi, Steve.” Michele turned to face him. Her beautiful hair was hidden under a ridiculous purple and yellow stocking cap with the Minnesota Viking insignia on top. Steve thought she looked gorgeous.

“Three women judges
and
three men judges.” Judith frowned at him. “It's perfectly balanced even counting Brian and me. He's over on the other side with Ivan Blair and Carl Hunstiger.”

“Carl's taking Les's place.” Michele kept her voice low. “Margaret gave him the afternoon off.”

Louise blew a sharp blast on her referee's whistle. “Randall Jacobson! Throw one more snowball, and you're disqualified!”

Then she walked over to one of the second-grade contestants, not far from Steve. “Put on your mittens, Randy. Your mother'll have kittens if I bring you home with a cold.”

“Aw . . . Grandma!”

Steve waited until Louise came back.

“Aren't there rules about nepotism, Louise?”

Louise laughed. “I don't think there's any danger of that. Take a good look at Randy's snowman.”

Steve took a walk past Randy's entry and smiled at the boy encouragingly. He needed it. The head of Randy's snowman was twice as big as his body, and it was threatening to topple off.

“Your grandson's got an amazing sense of proportion, Louise. Do you think he'd make it as an artist?”

“I hope not. Whenever I baby-sit for Randy, I let him cut pictures out of my nursing magazines. I guess that's why he made a macrocephalic snowman. Randy's definitely medical school material.”

“We'd better walk around a bit.” Judith stamped her feet and shoved her hands in her pockets. “I'm going to turn into an icicle if I stand here any longer.”

As Michele left with Judith and Louise, Steve walked off in the other direction to greet several off-duty police officers, who stood at strategic points in the crowd. A liberal sprinkling of uniformed officers patrolled unobtrusively. Steve had called in the reserves for the WinterGame opening. He wasn't taking any chances.

“Time's up.” Louise blew her whistle again. “Stand in back of your snowman, and hold up your number so the judges can make their decisions.”

Steve walked to the snack bar and got in line. The judging would take a while. The man in front of Steve bought six hot dogs, and then it was Steve's turn. Greg Hendricks was manning the concession stand.

“Just coffee, Greg.”

Clouds of steam rolled up from the plastic cup as Greg filled it with coffee and handed it to Steve.

“Better drink it while it's hot. It'll turn into an ice cube in less than five minutes.”

Steve took a sip and grinned. Greg's coffee was a lot better than the stuff in Henry's office.

“How are we doing, Greg?”

“Not bad at all.” Greg leaned both elbows on the counter. “Trish Hollenkamp's speech helped a lot. We had a bunch of cancellations this morning, but after her speech was televised all but one reentered. And I've taken in close to three hundred dollars here in less than an hour.”

Steve stepped aside so a woman in a green quilted parka asked for three coffees and two hot chocolates and Greg rushed off to get her order. As he wandered back toward the judging Steve took another sip of his coffee. Greg was right. It was lukewarm already.

“And the winner for the fifth grade is . . . Christopher Heino!”

Steve watched the tall blond boy rush up for his prize. Each of the winners got a transistor radio furnished by RadioShack. Christopher's entry was certainly precocious. His snowman was really a snowwoman with a
Playboy
centerfold figure. The only thing he'd left out was the staple.

The parade of winners went on, one for each grade. Finally it was over, and the announcer reminded them that the bar team hockey play-offs would start at seven that evening. Steve was glad he'd scheduled extra security. He'd be washed up in St. Cloud for good if the killer struck at WinterGame.

There was a predictable rush as the snack bar got ready to close. Every spectator seemed to want hot coffee before heading for home. Michele came back to help Greg with the crowd. Steve stood to the side, lending a hand when he could, and then he helped Michele and Greg pack up the snack bar things and lock the shutters in the temporary wooden building. They'd be using everything again tonight, but everything had to be stowed away in the meantime. At last they were ready to go.

“Michele?” Steve helped her into his car and slid in behind the wheel. “Let's run over to your place. I want you to pack a bag and stay with me for a couple of days.”

Michele glanced at his worried face and sighed. “Same killer?”

Steve nodded. “Henry's positive, but we're not releasing any details yet. I'd really feel a lot safer if you bunked in with me.”

“I'd feel a lot safer too. Is this an entirely official arrangement?”

For a second Steve was puzzled, and then he leaned over and kissed her lightly.

“That's not the only reason, of course. I want you to stay with me—killer or no killer.”

Steve started the car and drove toward Fourth Avenue while Michele rummaged through her purse for her key. When they got there, she handed it to Steve with a smile. He was a real gentleman. He opened car doors, helped her with her coat, and unlocked apartment doors for her. Her mother would be impressed.

Michele watched Steve unlock the door to 3-B. It felt good to have a man do all these little things for her, and she was beginning to suspect her independent women's lib friends were wrong. Steve's attentions certainly weren't chauvinistic. They were just plain nice.

Steve got her suitcase down from the shelf in the closet and wandered out into the living room. In a moment he was back.

“You've got the Pro-Bass fishing tapes too!”

Michele felt her heart pound in her throat. The fishing tapes. She should have thought to hide them. She certainly didn't want Steve to know what a dunce she was about fishing.

“Oh . . . yes. Yes, I do. I find them . . . uh . . . very helpful for the beginning angler.”

“Me too.” Steve nodded. “And I'll bet you're just as bored with them as I am. The only good parts are the underwater photography. Remember that great shot of the big lunker hitting a Wig Wag?”

“Yes. That was really . . . impressive.”

Michele smiled nervously. A lunker must be a species of fish, but what was a Wig Wag? She'd better change the subject in a hurry.

“I'm glad you asked me to stay with you, Steve.” Michele folded her green slacks and matching sweater and put them in the bottom of the bag. “I think I'd be afraid to stay here alone.”

“You should be. Those locks on your door are completely worthless. Even a novice burglar could get in here in less than a minute.”

“But my landlady said they were police-approved.”

“Oh, the locks are good. It's the door that needs to be replaced. An outside door should be solid, and yours is hollow. Anyone could kick right through it.”

“But that would make noise, and then the police would come. I have the utmost faith in our police department, especially the acting chief.”

Steve smiled back, but he didn't feel nearly as confident as he looked.

“I didn't do so well at protecting Les Hollenkamp.”

“Oh, Steve.” Michele dropped the clothes she was folding and put her arms around him. “It's not your fault. There was no way you could know that the mayor was in danger.”

“Maybe not, but if I'd put the right pieces together, the killer would be behind bars right now.”

Michele kissed him soundly on the lips. Steve was worried, and she wanted to make him feel better.

“I'm almost through packing. Why don't you phone for a pizza and we'll pick it up on the way to your place? Then we can share it with Pete. Anything but anchovies is fine with me. There's something gross about fish on a pizza.”

Steve laughed and went into the living room to call. Michele had just folded her nightgown and put it on top of the clothes in the suitcase when he came back.

“Didn't your mother teach you to pack only the necessities?” Steve picked up the nightgown and tossed it back on the bed. “Let's go. Our pizza will be ready in ten minutes.”

 

 

Sister Kate smiled as she watched the two of them. Bishop Donahue was playing chess, and Major Pietre sat beside him, staring intently at the screen.

“Saints be praised!” Sister Kate laughed and clapped her hands. “Why, Bishop Donahue, you beat the computer!”

“Thank you, Sister Kate, but that was only a level one game. I'll practice on my real board all afternoon and try level two tomorrow. Major Pietre, would you like to play a round of Infantry Attack before I go to my room?”

Bishop Donahue smiled as Sister Kate left to go downstairs. Now she wouldn't think it strange if he sat at his chessboard for the rest of the afternoon.

Major Pietre punched out the codes on the keyboard and began to explain the game. Bishop Donahue listened carefully. The sooner he caught on, the quicker he could play the silly game and leave.

“. . . and this is a joystick. That's how you control your army. My joystick controls my army.”

Ten minutes later the game was over. Although Major Pietre's army had won, Bishop Donahue had come close to upsetting him a couple of times.

The major smiled as he put away the joysticks. “That was fun. You're a superb tactician, Bishop Donahue. I think you could have been a great general.”

“Thank you, Major.” Bishop Donahue got up and pushed in his chair. He heard Major Pietre talking to himself as he went out the door.

“Of course, Infantry Attack's only a game. There's no real war anymore.”

Bishop Donahue smiled. The major would be pleasantly surprised if he learned of the very real war that was taking place right here in St. Cloud.

CHAPTER 13

Michele sat across from Steve at his kitchen table, the open pizza box between them.

“Okay, okay . . . just wait a second.” Michele took a slice of pepperoni off her pizza and tossed it to Pete. “How can a little guy like you eat so much?”

Steve grinned. “Just watch. He'll hide it when you're not looking and come back for more. He's got caches of food all over the apartment.”

Pete dashed out the kitchen door with the pepperoni in his mouth. A quick trip to the living room, and he was back, begging for more.

“Give him one more piece, Steve. I want to check this out for myself.”

Michele followed the little poodle to the living room and glanced around. The floor pillow next to the table looked as if it had been moved.

“Aha.”

Michele lifted the pillow and uncovered Pete's stash. She hurried back to the kitchen to give her report.

“I found four pieces of pepperoni, a gob of Romano, and three black olives under the floor pillow. Now I'm glad I didn't give him any tomatoes. I think Pete's saving up for a long, cold winter.”

The phone in the living room rang. Steve and Michele exchanged glances.

“The tie line?”

Steve nodded and got up to answer.

Michele put down her piece of pizza, unfinished. Suddenly her appetite was gone. The tie line always meant trouble. In just a moment Steve was back.

“Norm Ostrander died ten minutes ago. I have to call Brian.”

“Oh, no! Does that mean Brian has to go back to jail?”

“Not until new charges are filed. I just want to tell Brian to stay home tonight. Public anger might run pretty hot.”

Michele poured herself another cup of coffee and sipped it as Steve made his call. Things were happening much too fast. It was the same feeling she'd had when she took her first roller coaster ride as a child. She'd no sooner gotten her equilibrium back after the first hairpin turn than the car had taken a swift, frightening drop. It had happened again and again, twists and lurches and downhill drops when she'd least expected them. It had taken all of Michele's courage to get through the ride, but at least there'd been a smiling ticket taker in a red jacket waiting for her at the end. People survived roller coaster rides, but this wasn't a friendly amusement park. Michele had the frightening premonition that there'd be others who wouldn't survive this ride.

Sister Kate lifted Father Murphy's bedspread and pulled out her blue carpet slippers. This had not been one of his good days. This morning she had found Mother Superior's watch in his closet.

“Sister Kate? I just heard a news flash. That Defender of Decency died, and they're doing a report in five minutes.”

Father Murphy winced when he saw what Sister Kate was holding. “I did it again, didn't I? I'm really sorry, Sister Kate.”

“That's all right, Father. Just try to control yourself for the rest of the day. Let's get the others and watch that report.”

Sister Kate turned up the volume on the television as everyone trooped into the dayroom. Bishop Donahue sat on the edge of his chair as he waited for the report. Black had moved at last. And he'd captured Bishop Donahue's White Rook.

“Norm Ostrander, thirty-year St. Cloud resident and current president of the local organization Defenders of Decency, died this afternoon at St. Cloud Hospital. A spokesman for the hospital said that death was caused by complications from injuries received in an altercation three nights ago.”

Monsignor Wickes got to his feet. “We'd better say a prayer for Norm Ostrander's soul. Will you join me, Mother Superior?”

“Oh, dear.” Mother Superior looked crestfallen. “I suppose I should, but I'd rather pray for that nice boy from GALA. Now he's in terrible trouble.”

Monsignor Wickes laughed. “You pray to St. Jude for Brian Nordstrom and I'll pray to Dom Pérignon.”

“Who's he?”

“Dom Pérignon's the blind monk who discovered how to put bubbles in champagne. I've always thought he should be the patron saint of alcoholics. Don't forget that Norm Ostrander was drinking when he started that fight.”

Bishop Donahue had all he could do to keep from exploding. His White Rook was dead, and Monsignor Wickes was joking about it!

Cissy stood up and took Monsignor Wickes's arm. “I'll come with you. I'd like to say a prayer for Norm Ostrander too. Would you come, too, Sister Kate? We all could say a rosary.”

Bishop Donahue gave Sister Cecelia an approving nod. She'd done exactly the right thing. While they all were in the chapel he could study his board. The loss of his White Rook was significant. Now Black held the upper hand. Somehow Bishop Donahue had to turn things around to his advantage.

 

 

“Look, Brian, I don't have to go. Everyone'll understand if I beg off tonight.”

“Don't be an asshole, Greg. I'm counting on you to take my place. I'm fine, now . . . really.”

“Well, all right. I should be home by midnight at the latest. You know how my parents are. They'll want to go out for breakfast before they drive back to the farm. Do you want to meet us at Perkins?”

“I don't think I'd better. Steve said to stay out of public places for a couple of days.”

Greg gave him a long, hard look. “I can make some excuse to my parents. They'll understand.”

“No, don't be silly. You haven't seen them in more than a month. And wear my moon boots. It's supposed to get down to zero tonight. If your feet are warm, the rest of you won't get cold.”

“You sound just like my mother.”

Greg laughed as he pulled on Brian's silver and black moon boots. They were clunky-looking things, but Brian was right. His feet started sweating almost immediately.

“I love you, Brian. Don't forget to lock the door behind me.”

“Now you sound like
my
mother.”

Brian put on the chain when Greg left. He wiped a space clear on the frosty window and watched as Greg pulled his Rabbit out of the garage. He struggled not to call Greg back. He didn't want to be alone tonight. Norm Ostrander's death had shaken him much more than he'd let on.

There was coffee left over from dinner, and Brian poured a cup and put it in the microwave. Sixty seconds ought to do it. He still had trouble believing he'd killed a man, but Norm Ostrander was dead.

Brian pressed the START button on the microwave and watched the time tick off on the digital display. Fifty-nine, Norm was dead. Fifty-eight, dead and gone. Fifty-seven, bit the big one. Fifty-six, crossed over. Fifty-five, passed away. Fifty-four, deceased. Fifty-three, expired. Fifty-two, departed. Fifty-one, croaked. Fifty—He had to stop this. Maybe some booze would help.

Greg kept a bottle in the cupboard by the water glasses. He liked Benedictine in his coffee. Brian wasn't all that fond of it, but he poured a shot in his coffee anyway. Greg had been in the seminary for a while, until he discovered that religious life wasn't for him. Drinking booze out of a bottle shaped like a monk probably tickled Greg's sense of humor.

Brian carried his coffee up the steps to the attic. Perhaps work would get his mind off Norm Ostrander. Painting was supposed to be good therapy. They used it in mental hospitals. Brian frowned as he thought of all the paint-by-number bowls of fruit that came out of Willmar State Hospital. At least he wasn't
that
unhinged.

 

 

“Pull over, Gross. I gotta take a leak.”

Junior Ostrander had the door open before Alan Gross pulled his '68 Buick Skylark over to the side of the street and slid to a stop. Junior came close to falling as he staggered over to the fence by Bernick's old bottling plant.

“Go out there and make sure he doesn't do anything dumb.” Alan nudged Lyle Skuza. “I promised my dad I'd keep an eye on him.”

“Sure thing.”

Alan watched as Skuza waded through the snow to the fence. Poor Junior. Their attempt to cheer him up wasn't working. Usually Junior was the one with all the wisecracks, but he hadn't said much of anything tonight except to cuss out the queer who'd killed his father.

They were coming now. Alan was glad he'd sent Skuza out there. Junior was having trouble staying on his feet. This night was a real bummer.

“Hey, Junior. You want to drive out to the skatin' rink and see who's there?”

“Naw. Not hungry. Open the beer hatch, Skuza. I'm ready for another one.”

Skuza crawled into the backseat and pulled open the flap Alan had cut into the trunk. It was the slickest idea they'd ever thought of. You could reach right into the trunk to get a cold beer without getting out of the car. If the cops happened to pull them over, they just threw the bottles in the trunk and closed the hatch.

“Here you go, Junior.” Skuza handed him the beer. “Well, what do you want to do? We're wasting gas just sitting here.”

“Drive past that queer's house. I'd like to beat that little freak to a pulp.”

“Hey, Junior, that's not going to do any good. You really want me to drive past?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but I'm not letting you out of the car. Is that understood?”

“You're an old lady, Gross.”

Alan shrugged as he put the car in gear. He had fifty pounds on Junior, and Skuza was on the wrestling team. Between the two of them they'd keep Junior in the car. He could understand why Junior wanted to beat up Brian Nordstrom. Alan knew he would have felt the same way.

They didn't say much as Alan negotiated the icy streets. The college girls weren't out tonight, and there wasn't much to look at as they passed the dorms. Alan turned the corner and parked in front of the Newman Center. The lights were on in Brian Nordstrom's house across the street, and someone pulled back the curtains and looked out.

“That's him.” Junior's voice was hoarse. “I recognize him from that picture in the paper. I'd sure like to smash him just once for my dad.”

Alan nodded. He could get behind that. If he thought they could get away with it, he'd back Junior up. Mr. Ostrander had been really nice about taking them to all-star wrestling last year. He owed one to Junior's dad.

Skuza nudged Alan and pointed at the nun and priest who were standing outside the Newman Center.

“Hey, we'd better move on. They're staring at us.”

Alan stepped on the gas and drove slowly up the street to the turnaround. He sure didn't want anyone calling the cops. His dad had given him the Buick for his seventeenth birthday, and he'd take it away at the first hint of trouble.

“Pretend you're looking at a map or something, Skuza. There's one in the pocket on the door.”

Skuza turned on the map light and unfolded a map of Wisconsin as they parked in front of Brian Nordstrom's house.

“Oh, shit! That priest is headed this way. Let's go, Gross!”

“That wasn't a priest.” Junior looked out the back window as they pulled away. “That was a
bishop
. There must be something big going on at Newman tonight.”

The more Alan drove around, the more he began to think that Junior was right. The law wasn't going to do a damn thing to Brian Nordstrom. His dad said the charges would probably be dropped. The only witness left was Herb Swanson, and it was his word against Brian Nordstrom's. Herb had lied through his teeth so often that nobody'd believe him this time. Alan didn't know if Herb was telling the truth or not, but it didn't seem right that the guy who killed Junior's dad should get off scot-free.

It took Alan quite a while to make a decision. He knew he was risking a lot, but Junior was a good friend. When McDonald's came up on the left, Alan pulled into the drive-through and ordered six Big Macs, three large fries, and two coffees apiece.

“Hey, Gross, what are you doing? I said I'm not hungry.”

“Shut up, Junior. I know what I'm doing.”

Alan paid for the food and pulled into a parking space by the kiddie playground. Ronald McDonald looked stupid with snow on his red bushy hair and an icicle hanging from his big plastic nose.

“Okay, here's what we'll do.” Alan passed the white bags of food around. “Chow down, both of you. We've got to get totally sober. Just as soon as we're through, we'll go back and punch that queer out for Junior's dad.”

“All right!” Skuza wolfed down half of his hamburger in one gulp.

“We'll each hit him once, and then we're leaving. Is that understood?”

“Thanks, Gross.” Junior smiled for the first time that evening. “You guys are real friends.”