Signs of Struggle (29 page)

• I am beyond redemption. I do not know if Hell really exists, unless it is the absence of Heaven. I hope that is all there is to it, a bleak nothingness separated eternally from God. So I send myself there by my own hand.

Larry Soderstrom hired the men who attacked Thomas O’Shea on the bridge, and the men who tried to kill O’Shea at his home, so don’t blame me for that.

One last thing, and perhaps this warning will ease my eternal fate: there is one more killer coming, a professional. O’Shea will be killed in Rockbluff in July to keep him from interfering with the sale of Soderstrom Farms on or before September 19th. I hired this person through intermediaries I never saw. He cannot be called back. I cannot find the first link of the chain that led to the hiring. This was as planned. With Larry dead, the only thing between Wendy and me escaping was O’Shea stumbling onto our plan. So, O’Shea had to die.

I hate Thomas O’Shea for his relentless, do-gooder nosiness. Everything would have worked if he had never come here.

I will be thinking of Wendy’s body as I fall asleep.

The letter was signed with a flourish,

Ernst VanderKellen, D. Div.

I did not realize I had been holding my breath, but after reading the suicide note, I exhaled loudly.

“Now you know why I encouraged you to be armed,” Harmon said, carefully taking the note from me and sliding it into a plastic evidence envelope.

“I am so sorry about this,” Mrs. VanderKellen said, standing and coming to my side. She smelled good, and I wondered what was wrong with me that I noticed her fragrance right after learning someone was coming to kill me. Gallows hypersensitivity? The guy stepping up to the guillotine realizing the grinning peasant in the fourth row has an abscessed tooth? That there is a ruby-throated hummingbird darting from flower to flower five hundred yards in the distance as the trap door falls away?

“Nothing to apologize for. We’ll catch the guy and then all of this will be finished,” I said.

“Except for living with it the rest of our lives,” she said.

“Obviously, we need to keep this note as quiet as possible,” Harmon said. “I let the state Division of Criminal Investigation know about Larry’s murder and they’re on their way right now. They have resources for gathering evidence that I don’t. I’ll bring aboard a few more part-time people to keep their eyes open for strangers. Doctor VanderKellen said the hit is supposed to take place in Rockbluff, so that helps.” He looked around, said, “Well, we better go.” He gave Mrs. VanderKellen a brief pat on her shoulder and left.

“You two can go ahead and go home,” Mrs. VanderKellen said to the Heislers. “I want a word with Mr. O’Shea, in private. Thank you so much, Molly, Carl, for coming to my side at this time. You two are blessings, and I am grateful for you.”

“You are more than welcome to come over to our place, at least for the night,” Molly said. “We love you, Ruth.”

“Thank you. You are so kind, but I’ll be fine in the manse. I love you, too.”

When the Heislers left, Mrs. VanderKellen took me by the arm and escorted me out of her dead husband’s office and down the hall to the foyer, where she sat next to me on a large sofa upholstered in green silk fabric adorned with peacocks.

“I regret that we have met under these circumstances. I have heard a great deal about you, Mr. O’Shea, from both of the Heislers, some from my husband, and quite a bit from people in the community. Mike Mulehoff, others. I feel like I know you a little bit.”

“Please call me Thomas,” I said.

“Please call me Ruth. Thomas,” she said, shifting her weight, “did you notice anything odd about that note Ernst wrote, other than the rather unusual length? I apologize for my attitude, but right now I'm not only hurt, but angry. His sermons were often too long, and now this,” she said, shaking her head, a furtive smile coming and going. “Anyway, did you notice anything else peculiar about his note?"

“I noticed several things about that note, besides the implications in it for me.”

“What did you notice, other than the deeply disturbing revelation about Ernst’s business relationship with Jurgen Clontz?”

“I noticed, and I don’t mean to hurt you any more than you’ve been hurt already, that he never once mentioned you, or any children.”

“You are astute, especially under the circumstances. How interesting,” she said, looking at me with a slight smile. “It’s true. Well, he wouldn’t have mentioned any children because we didn’t have any. I wasn’t able to give him a child. The fertility experts said it was me. That was not as big a problem for him as it was for me. I wanted to have children, could not. Ernst was not interested in adopting, either, so that subject was dropped.” She looked at her hands, folded them in her lap, looked up, went on. “They say a woman knows when her husband is straying. I knew.

“You see, about three years ago, Thomas, I had a radical mastectomy. Ernst lost all interest in me, at least in the sense of physical intimacy. It started with that. He made up nicknames for me, cruel nicknames, and we grew very much apart. Separate bedrooms. That was painful. I had no idea it was Wendy. Makes sense. She has youth.”

Ruth shrugged her shoulders. “So, our marriage was no longer complete, and that’s why he didn’t mention me in the letter. He didn’t care about me anymore. He did, obliquely, get in one last dig.”

“That last line was unspeakable.”

“Not as unspeakable as other things he mentioned. Now, did you notice anything else unusual in his letter, other than not mentioning his wife of twenty-nine years?”

“He made it sound like he was beyond redemption, but that last bit made me think he was finally hopeful."

“You are a lovely man. I believe that is what I will hold onto, instead of my anger. God bless you, Thomas! Molly was right: You are an angel.”

“As unlikely as it is that I am an angel, I would be foolish to try to disabuse you of that notion. My pastor in Georgia suggested maybe God put me here to help bring all of this stuff to the surface. But my pastor in Georgia is a nutcase. What can I say?”

Ruth smiled, then took my hands in hers and looked into my face. “Ernst was a fine man, committed to the sharing of the Word and this flock, at least initially. But he made mistakes, all driven by pride and resentment. You heard his comments about salary and the manse. I can’t imagine. His salary was generous. The manse is a beautiful, big house with wonderful views from every window. I wish you had known him when we were first married. He was so in love with his faith and life…and me.”

“But Ruth, this is also an opportunity for you, for new life, for freedom. Beauty for ashes.”

Her face brightened, then, quickly, impulsively, she stood up, as did I. She gave me a hard hug, and then she released me. “You are a blessing, Thomas. Now, I need to let you go. Please, please, Thomas, take care of yourself. I am worried about you.”

“Thank you, but don’t worry. I can take care of myself,” I said. “Now, may I walk you to your door?”

“Of course. I’d like that,” she replied, and we walked out of the church and across the sidewalk that led to the manse, dark and cold.

At the front door, she turned and faced me. In the half light in the shadows, she was even more beautiful than she appeared in the office of her dead husband, a mean man gone totally down the drain. I felt a surge of compassion for Ruth VanderKellen, and I said, “Would you like for me to come inside for a while?”

Her eyes went soft and moist and she stepped forward and put her hands on my shoulders and said, “Yes, and that’s why you should not. But thank you so much for asking; you have done wonderful things for my heart.”

And then Ruth VanderKellen came to her tiptoes and kissed me softly on the cheek, more of a light touch than a kiss, then turned away saying, “Good night, Thomas,” disappearing inside her empty manse. I heard the door lock.

I stepped back toward the church and looked at the stone house and saw lights go off downstairs and lights go on upstairs, and I turned away. For a moment, just a moment, I had seen her not as a new widow, scarred by a mean man, but as a beautiful woman all alone. It flickered in her countenance briefly, then fled, as did she. But there was hope for her, peeking out from the pain.

Not so much hope for me, though, ashamed of myself for my thoughts. Again. I turned around, walked to the parking lot, got in my truck, and drove to my house in the darkness of a very dark night.

D
riving back to my house in the middle of the night, I realized that, since I had arrived in Rockbluff, multiple murders, two killings by my own hand, suicide, abortion, fraud, greed, lust, and several physical assaults on my delicate self were keeping boredom at bay. And that doesn’t include Bulldog bites on a scumbag. I had to believe property values in Rockbluff sucked. Jurgen Clontz had no choice other than to hate me.

I passed Arvid’s house, no lights on in any of the windows, no body draped over the wrought-iron fence. I guess he only fakes his death when he’s sure to be found. Or maybe he was practicing in the kitchen, face down in a batch of chocolate chip cookies, glass of milk tipped on its side, white puddle spreading, spreading.

I drove on.

All that remained to clean up the mess I started was to avoid my own murder while catching the professional paid to put my lights out. No sweat. Clarity is one of my favorite words, and I was about to achieve it. Muddy water I did not even know about rinsed clear with Wendy’s confession. People wanted me dead because I kept asking questions, and the fact that $42 million was part of the equation probably ramped up their motivation to have me move on into the next world.

If the hired gun were successful, someone else would have to deal with it all. I’d be in Bonhoeffer’s “true country,” and I could find out whether the streets of Heaven really are paved in gold, and, if so, if that indicated how worthless gold is in Paradise, or just represented a little beatific bling.

The hit was going to happen in Rockbluff. In July. And this was already the night of the 19th, the morning of the 20th. Valuable information, and I thanked VanderKellen for the tip. Not at my house, not in the country, not in Busted Druggie State Park. Rockbluff. Theoretically, if I avoided Rockbluff for the rest of the month, the trouble would just go away. Something I maybe should have done back in April.

But did the hired gun know why he was going to knock me off? Was he paying attention to what was going on in Rockbluff? Would he realize that VanderKellen was dead, Wendy was blabbing, and Clontz was exposed? If so, would he just shrug his shoulders and go away? Or was I just a target to be hit? I suspected the latter. Hit men just do the job, no questions asked, I am told. It’s just business.

I wanted what the therapists call “closure,” and so I would have it. No confronted hit man, no closure.

So the hit would happen in Rockbluff, and the most logical time would be during the upcoming regional gala that put every Olympiad to shame—The Annual Rockbluff County Pork Festival, three days of fun, food, and soaring cholesterol levels. And that would begin in just eight days. In ten days it would all be over, one way or another.

I drove on home through the dark, interrupted Gotcha’s sleep enough to give her goozle a good kneading, then ambled into the kitchen and retrieved my cell phone out of the drawer where I had last thrown it. I knew he would still be up, so I gave Payne a call and told him what I thought about getting shot during the Pork Festival. He agreed with my analysis, then he said he would double his patrols and give me a bodyguard at the festivities.

“What good would a bodyguard be?” I asked.

“Well, he could, um, guard your body?”

“And keep the hit man from making his move until some other time. Harmon, I appreciate the gesture, but the idea is to get the bad guy to make his move so you can snatch him up, give him a Dutch rub, and put him in the slammer. I respectfully decline. Use my bodyguard to step up surveillance.”

Payne reluctantly agreed, and I went to bed.

I woke up at ten-thirty with Gotcha snorfeling my neck. She wanted to go out. I got up and let her rumble into the edge of the woods.

I took care of my morning ablutions, let Gotcha back in, and left to go have lunch. On the way, I wondered about Liv. I had done the right thing telling her to keep away, but I still didn’t like having her angry with me. I thought about Ruth, too, as I drove into town. Like all sinners, there is a thorn in my flesh, but in my case, it is me. And it is flesh. When it comes to attractive women, I tend to confuse the creation and the Creator.

Pulling into Moon’s parking lot, I thought about other things of more immediate importance. I felt secure knowing I would only have to be on edge for the three days of the Pork Festival, maybe just one if I got lucky, so the next few days might turn out to be okay.

The usual lunch crowd was keeping Loon Moon in high cotton. I spied Horace in his favorite booth, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with “Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam” across the chest in block letters. A head shot of a leering Paris Hilton was directly under the lettering. Horace’s thin hair was combed straight back. He looked like a demented television pitch man or a college football coach, I couldn’t decide which. Same basic profession. We acknowledged each other as I sidled up to the bar.

The joint had gone noticeably quieter when I entered, and now, at the bar, I looked around to see that just about everybody was looking at me, some whispering, others just looking. A few people I knew smiled and waved. I waved back, then turned around to look for the bartender.

Moon came over and placed a pint of something dark in front of me. “You just missed your columnist girlfriend. Suzanne what’s-her-face.”

“She was in here?”

“Yeah, looking for you. Said she might go up to your place, but didn’t seem too eager to actually do it. I told her these days you just shot anyone who approached. She wanted your angle on last night’s unpleasantness. She’s already talked to Harmon. You’ve certainly been a busy boy lately, Thomas. What’s wrong, did your satellite dish break?”

“I’ve been a little busier than I would like, Moon. I’ll be glad when things get back to normal, or is this normal in Rockbluff?”

“This is a small town, and the whole story’s out already about Wendy, and Doctor VanderKellen’s suicide. Man oh man it’s getting interesting. Everybody in here right now is talking about it. You’re quite a newsmaker. No wonder what’s-her-face is after you and, by the way, she’s quite a looker.”

“Her last name is Highsmith,” I said, taking a slug of cold Three Philosophers. “I was right about Hugh’s death not being an accident. Hugh was murdered by Larry and Wendy, Wendy murdered Larry, and Doctor VanderKellen killed himself. Clear as can be. If Wendy had just turned Larry away when he started to hit on her, none of this would have happened.”

Moon said, “Oh, those girls from Davenport.”

“Yeah, that’s the core problem, Rockbluff girls wouldn’t do what Wendy did. Clinton girls wouldn’t either. Or Dubuque girls, for that matter.”

“So, it’s all over now? Does it end with the sealed bids being opened?”

“I sure hope so.” Astoundingly, for a small town, he didn’t know the details of the suicide letter, and I wasn’t going to tell him. No point.

Moon gave me a look that had just a tinge of skepticism in it.

“What?” I asked.

The look fled. He said, “There’s a lady sitting alone back in that corner booth. Just got here. You might go over and say hello.” I looked. It was Liv. I took my pint in hand and said to Moon, “Much obliged,” and tipped an imaginary Stetson. I strode back to her booth and sat down across from her. She looked up and smiled and I felt that little flutter in my chest.

“Hey, big boy,” she said in a sultry voice, “wanna have a good time?”

“I’ve got Hershey bars and panty hose in my truck, babe. What could be better?”

She batted her eyelashes at me and said, “You have a very limited concept of ‘better.’” She reached her foot under the table and rubbed her arch against the inside of my thigh. My pulse took off.

“It’s good to see you,” I said.

Her smile grew. “Thank you. Thomas, I am so sorry about what’s been happening to you. Last night…”

“Was awful, wasn’t it?”

“I enjoyed dinner, and your little repartee with Jurgen. And I enjoyed our side trip to Larry’s. Exciting beyond the definition of the word. But what we found was horrible, and Wendy’s capture and confession were, too. And then, before I could even get ready for bed, a friend called me about Doctor VanderKellen’s suicide. I had nightmares. Specific ones. Icky. You sure know how to put together an intriguing evening.”

“It’s not easy orchestrating all that stuff.”

“I liked how you orchestrated your hands on my bare ass.”

“Too bad the cell phone sounded off.”

“Ummm. I’m beginning to hate cell phones, too. Still, I can’t imagine what Ruth is going through, and Carl and Molly. My God, it just goes on and on.”

“I think all of it’s going to be over pretty soon,” I said, and Liv seemed to relax. “I have felt like a lip reader at a ventriloquist’s convention since I got here, having all this stuff happen and not knowing what in the world was going on. The old ‘Why me, Lord?’ syndrome was in full flight, but last night, hearing Wendy’s confession, then Ruth finding her husband dead at his desk helped wrap it up for me.”

Liv said, “Some good things might come from all this now that you’ve lived through it. I am happy you came by that night after the men tried to kill you. I thought I would faint when you kissed me. I did not want you to stop. I’m glad you didn’t. Truth? I never thought I would ever be held again by a man who was tender and gentle and warm.” She looked down, then looked up at me again. Her eyes were soft, blue, deep, intelligent.

“Me, too,” I said.

“You mean you never thought you’d ever be held again by a man who was tender and gentle and warm?”

I made a face. “Let me revise my statement. I didn’t think I would ever again be with a wonderful woman who wanted to be held by me, who wanted me to kiss her. I thought those things were over for me. I guess I was just numb to that part of my life.”

“Did I un-numb you?”

“Indeed, you did. You were the light at the end of the tunnel beneath my wings.”

“You did that on purpose, mixing your metaphors, trying to get me to rise to the bait.”

“Yep.”

“You have better bait than that,” she said as Rachel arrived to take our order. When Rachel left, Liv’s face grew serious. She said, “I need to tell you something about me, my past, that you need to know.”

I kept the smart comeback to myself. I could see she was serious.

“I was married, once. His name is Preston Myers. We went to school together here. He was the star quarterback, I was the cheerleader. All that stuff. I loved him, and when he asked me to marry him, I jumped at the chance. I had everything planned out for us, the usual—three kids, growing old together in productive lives right here in Rockbluff.”

“Sounds good.”

“It did sound good. But it didn’t last long. Very quickly he found fault with me. My breasts were too small, I didn’t cook well enough, I was lousy in bed, being a teacher was too important to me, I cared more about my students than I did about him, and so on. Nothing I did would please him. Nothing. I won’t go into the details, but let me just say that he is now a life partner with another man. He lives in Baltimore, last I heard.”

“I can’t imagine someone being mean to you.”

“The marriage endured two years. I’ve gotten over it, but for a long, long time I didn’t want to be around any man who seemed interested in me. Small town,” she said, smiling ruefully, “but for a while the word was I was a lesbian and had driven Preston away because of my sexual preference. Ironic. That rumor died out years ago as the truth gradually surfaced, but not by my lips.”