Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  In two years he was making enough to nearly pay for his gambling, thinking seriously about quitting the slots, when he became hooked on craps. His interest in gambling and his losses increased as the time he spent on consulting went south. Clients left. He didn’t bother to look for new ones. His current client list consisted of two small businesses in Duluth, both paying him $200 a month to assist in their marketing efforts. Barely enough for gas to the casino and drinks.

  And now Bishop was neglecting those clients too. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything, getting little sleep. He tried to tell himself it was the killing that was bothering him. That it would go away with time. But he knew that wasn’t the heart of it. It was the cops. He just hadn’t expected the attention. They’d talked to him a few days after Laura died, letting him know she had passed away, and now they had called him about Dan and Lisa. He’d tried to sound like he was heartbroken, struggling. Asked how Sam was doing. But he wasn’t sure they had bought it. Finally ended up saying he just didn’t want to talk about it anymore and hung up. Probably not good.

  He wondered if they were watching him now, watching his house. He’d look out the window to the street hourly. Looking for someone or something that didn’t belong. Streetlights lit the walk in front of Bishop’s home. The police could be parking close by, and he’d never see them. Even coming up behind the house. Bishop was in the kitchen, looking out at his small dark back yard when car lights shined on the front of his house, coming through the living room window. He shut off the lights inside and hurried to the front window to see a car sideways in the street, backing up, turning to head north. Had the cops dropped someone off?

  Bishop closed the curtains on his front window and went to the front door, looking out the small diamond-shaped window there. Nothing. Didn’t mean someone wasn’t there, he just couldn’t see them. He watched for ten minutes. A car drove by, normal speed. He finally grew tired and walked to the kitchen, turning the light back on. A bottle of whiskey he had started earlier was still over three-quarters full. After pouring an inch in a tumbler, Bishop added ice and then went to sit in his lounge chair in front of the television. He stared at the remote on the table by his elbow but left it alone. Bishop sipped and listened and thought, going over the calculations he had done a hundred times. There were four of them left. Too many. Get it down to three, and he could hold on to his house. Two would be better.

  Dan Bishop was dead. His wife too, but she didn’t care about that. Someone had killed Dan Bishop. He was supposed to be the next. She had decided just this morning. Now she would never get her revenge on him. Never see the shock on his face when he realized who had killed him. Never get to see the life drain out of him. To see him suffer like Helen, trying to get her breath, panic gripping her as she died. It had been so pleasing. So fulfilling.

  According to the news, someone had shot Dan Bishop. She watched the reports on the three local channels about the murder, but there was nothing more than that. They didn’t even have film of the house. Canton turned on her computer and searched the internet for more details, but there was nothing. She wanted to find that someone had shot him multiple times, that he had died in the hospital, that he had at least suffered. It was not fair. Not after Laura had died peacefully. At least she assumed she had. There had been a conversation at the funeral that she had overheard. The police were looking at Laura’s death. She may have been murdered. Canton had also discovered that the woman had suffered from Alzheimer’s at her funeral, but that was hardly suffering was it? Checking out of life without even knowing what was happening. Without even knowing who you were. Not fair. Not after what those two had done to her. They got off way too easy.

  And what about Helen Johnson? Not so much as a mention on the news. Television or radio. Not even an obituary. She hadn’t expected that the police would be able to figure out what had killed Helen, but shouldn’t there at least have been some small article in the paper? Had they even found her body?

  Canton was finishing her second glass of wine, something she never did. She had one with dinner and then had poured another while she watched the news. It was Friday night, and she told herself lots of people had a few glasses on Friday nights, but she didn’t really know that for a fact. Canton had grown up as close to living like a nun as one could. Staying by herself, always living with her parents when they were alive or on her own. Afraid of men, afraid of people, trusting only that they would hurt her like the Bishops had done.

  The radio on the kitchen counter was playing an Elton John song but Canton did not hear it. She was wondering now if it was possible that Helen Johnson had not been found. It made no sense. The driveway wasn’t that long. She would be easily visible from the road. Someone would surely have seen her by now. She couldn’t remember if Helen worked. If she had a job, they would have come looking for her. Or maybe they only would have called. That was possible. And then there were the wolves. And bears. Could an animal have dragged her body off into the woods?

  Canton went to the refrigerator and removed the inexpensive bottle of chardonnay. Held it in her hand, looking at it for only a moment before bringing it over to the table. She sat down and poured herself another glass, leaving the bottle on the table. After a long sip she sat back in her chair, holding the glass by the stem. The glass, and nearly everything else in the house had been her parents. They had been killed in an accident south of Duluth on 35W. It was early December and a dense fog coming off the lake covered everything from French River southwest to Cloquet. Her father was a cautious man, her mother saying that’s why Grace was the way she was. They had been creeping along on the freeway, approaching Duluth from the south when a semi plowed into them from behind. She still had dreams about the police knocking on her door that night.

  Canton tipped her glass back. The wine that had made her pucker at the first sip now seemed sweeter. She decided she didn’t care about Helen Johnson. The woman was dead, and she had killed her. And she had been happy about it. She didn’t care if anyone else knew about it or not. What she cared about was that she was the one to kill the rest. The three that remained. Who would be next?

  Chapter 19

  It was late by the time the medical examiner from St. Louis County had finished with Sandy Roberts. He could see no external injuries. The woman had likely been alive when her car went in the water. They towed her car to the Duluth Police Department to be locked up until the BCA technicians could go over it at the BCA building. Carlisle had canceled the dinner plans with Thomas, Thomas saying she’d have to get drunk on her own. Lerner had hung in there the whole time, not a single complaint, despite the fact that he and his wife were planning to get a sitter and go out. He had even volunteered to talk to Jake Roberts, but Carlisle told him she would take care of it, dropping Lerner at the office and then driving to the Roberts’ house.

  Jake Roberts had crumpled. Just inside the front door. His daughter had been in his arms and Carlisle had reached out to grab her as her father collapsed. The man lay on the floor of the entryway, silently sobbing, his daughter looking down at him and then at Carlisle before she started to scream. Remembering the playpen, Carlisle stepped over Roberts and went up the stairs. She put the girl in the playpen, but the baby continued to scream. Squeezing a rubber duck in front of the girl seemed to do little to calm her. Roberts was moaning at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Shit!”

  Carlisle looked across the room to the table by the chair Roberts had sat in with his daughter. No bottle. She went to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. A nearly full bottle was on the shelf. Carlisle tipped it so a few drops fell on her wrist like she had seen her sister do with her kids. Cold. She twisted the top off and popped it in the microwave above the stove. Figured out how to get it going, setting the timer for two minutes. After fifteen seconds of screaming, she decided that was too long and pulled the bottle out. Put the top on, shook it, and ran it back to the child. The sitting baby reached for it, putting it immediately in her
mouth. Pulled it out and looked at the bottle, Carlisle thinking she was going to start yelling again, but then put it back in her mouth.

  Roberts was sitting with his back against the wall in the entryway now. Carlisle stepped over his outstretched legs and closed the front door.

  “Mr. Roberts.” She bent and grabbed him under the arm. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

  The man was gone. A zombie. His eyes unfocused, his face blank. Carlisle had seen the look before. When she had informed others of the death of a family member, and in her own face in the mirror when the man she loved had died nearly two years ago. Carlisle helped Roberts up the stairs to his chair and got him a glass of water. He bent over, elbows on his knees, a glass in his hands, and looked at his daughter in her playpen.

  “Did you get her a bottle?”

  Carlisle turned to glance at the girl, still sitting, the bottle in her hands. “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked up at Carlisle standing in front of him. “How?”

  “Um, we don’t know yet. It’s possible she drowned. Her car was found in the lake.”

  “They did it,” he said.

  “They?”

  “Hillside. They killed her.” His eyes were red, his nose running, and he wiped it on the back of his hand.

  The baby began to scream again. She had pulled herself to a standing position, holding onto the top of the side of the pen, moving back and forth. Carlisle turned back to Roberts.

  “Would you mind?”

  “Um, no,” said Carlisle. She walked to the pen and picked the girl up. The baby was immediately quiet, Carlisle turning and bringing her back to her father. He made no move to accept the child.

  “Would you mind holding her for just a few minutes? She seems to like you.”

  The girl had hold of Carlisle’s hair with one hand and was feeling Danny’s chin with her other. She smiled, and Carlisle couldn’t help but smile back. Carlisle walked back and forth now like she had seen her sister and Thomas do.

  “You’re a natural,” said Roberts. “You have kids?”

  “No.” For some reason that made Carlisle feel sad, and Roberts bowed his head again. Danny thought he was going to cry. He sucked in a big breath and released it.

  “Oh, God. What am I going to do now?”

  “Mr. Roberts, is there someone I can contact for you. Someone who can come over?”

  “Julie. My sister. She’s close. My phone is on the counter.”

  Carlisle had him unlock his phone, and she found the contact for his sister. She called explaining who she was and the situation. The woman said she would be right over. Ten minutes later the front door burst open, and a blonde woman came rushing up the stairs. She was immediately hugging her still-sitting brother, both crying. A balding man in a black jacket came up the stairs and stood next to Carlisle.

  “I’m Mark Nelson. Jake’s brother-in-law.”

  “Agent Carlisle.”

  “You want me to take her, Agent?”

  Carlisle looked at the girl in her arms who now had hold of her ear, not sure she did, but handed her to her uncle. The girl went for his black glasses. Nelson intercepted her fingers, holding her hand.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Nelson. Will you two be able to stay here for a while?”

  “Yeah, we’ll take care of things,” he said and then sniffled.

  Carlisle noticed now that Nelson’s eyes were red too. A close family.

  “You will get whoever did this to Sandy, won’t you?”

  “Yes. We will.”

  The baby turned to Carlisle, reaching for her, Danny putting out her finger for the baby to hold.

  “She likes you.”

  Carlisle suddenly felt like she was about to cry. “She’s a beautiful girl,” she said. “There should be an officer here shortly to help. Thank you for coming.”

  Jake Roberts and his sister were still crying, still holding each other. Carlisle walked out.

  The night was clear, but the temperature seemed to have held steady. Was it supposed to be warmer tomorrow? Carlisle couldn’t remember. She sat in her car, closed the door, and took a large gulp of air, fighting back a sob. She picked up her phone. It was nearly eleven. She pushed the call icon.

  “I’m coming over.”

  Twelve minutes later Carlisle pulled up to the iron gates to Pearson’s home, less than a mile from where she had been this afternoon. She was about to announce her arrival on the intercom when the gates swung in. She parked on the circular stone drive in front of the limestone-faced home. She got out. Pearson was standing in the doorway. She walked up to him.

  “Thanks for opening the gate for me,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said.

  She stood looking up at him, staring.

  “Um, you want to come in?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pearson stepped to the side to let Carlisle pass. She walked past the twenty-foot freshwater aquarium lining the entryway, past the floor-to-ceiling wine rack, and through the kitchen with its granite-topped limestone-faced center island, cherry cupboards, and stainless-steel appliances. She proceeded through the great room with its distressed leather couches and chairs in front of the limestone fireplace and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Superior. There was a light on outside next to the flagstone patio with pizza oven and fire pit. Two does were feeding just at the edge of the light. She watched the deer for a few minutes, the animals glancing her way and then going back to feeding. Carlisle took a deep breath and turned.

  Pearson stood behind a chair, his hands on the top rail.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  Carlisle pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “No. Sit down please.”

  She used her cop voice, the one she used when she wanted a perp to listen. She hadn’t intended to, it just came out that way. Pearson’s eyes widened before he moved around the chair and sat. She took another deep breath and walked over to him, standing in front of him, looking down at his face. Searching his eyes for something.

  “OK. Here’s the deal.” Carlisle gulped air, holding it in. “I want to get married. And I want to have kids. I don’t know how many, maybe just one. I’ll have to see. But the only way this is ever going to work is if you never, ever, for any reason leave me. And if you even think you might get killed some way, you can be sure that I will kill you first.”

  Tears were running down her face now, her eyes bleary. Pearson sat frozen, expressionless.

  “How will you kill me?’

  Carlisle sniffed and wiped her cheek with her hand. His question confused her. “What?”

  “I asked you if you kill me, how you would do it.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Carlisle wiped a tear off the other cheek.

  “I always thought it would be nice to die having sex. Would that be OK with you?”

  She smiled. “I guess so.” Carlisle started crying again, and Jeff stood, holding her tight.

  “I love you, Carlisle.”

  Chapter 20

  Ken Bishop sat hunched over a cup of coffee at his kitchen table. He was in his pajamas and a bathrobe. It was nearly eleven. The house was cold. He was keeping the thermostat at 62 degrees during the day, 58 at night, to save money. He just never seemed to feel warm.

  It had been a long night. His paranoia about the police had kept him up until nearly two when he fell asleep in his chair. Waking two hours later, stiff and cold, he trudged to bed. His sleep had been fitful, dreams of police breaking down his doors causing him to get up and wander about the house, peeking out the windows. He’d go back to bed, laying on his back, listening to imaginary noises. Eventually, he would drift off, only to wake again with a start, and repeat the process. In his moments of consciousness, he resolved two issues.

  There could be no more delay. The next sibling needed to die. He wasn’t yet certain if this would be the last, but this needed to be taken care of sooner rather than later. The tim
ing of getting funds from his mother’s estate and avoiding the bank was already tight. He had to keep at it. Second, he decided Tom would be the one to go next.

  Tom Bishop lived northwest of Duluth in what was once the town of Arnold. Arnold was never really a town, it was what they called a census-designated place by the U.S. Census Bureau in 2010. The nearly three thousand people that lived in the place of Arnold were not happy about the designation. They wanted Arnold to be a town. Of course, Arnold had no post office, or government, or even any commercial buildings except for the Broken Tree Bar which served as a meeting place for those in Arnold who wished to have a few beers. This ruckus about being a town or a designated-place turned out to be nothing more than that in 2015. Arnold resided wholly in Rice Lake Township which incorporated as the city of Rice Lake that year, thus rendering Arnold as non-existent.

  Tom Bishop had stubbornly continued to put Arnold as the name of his town for his address after the incorporation. He did it more as a joke than anything else, and it never seemed to cause any problem with the delivery of any mail, although he changed his address to Rice Lake if he was having a package delivered. Bishop was a lifetime bachelor. He had dated a few times in high school but found he had no real interest in women. His family suspected he might be gay, but Tom had no interest in men either. As he grew older, he viewed with increasing frequency the troubles in the relationships of those he knew and decided he was perfectly happy not to get involved.

  The paranoia was persistent, driving Ken Bishop to check his locks, look through his drawn shades, watch the local news, search his computer for news of Dan’s killing. He had a whiskey after lunch, wanted another as it seemed to relax him, but decided against it. Didn’t want to get pulled over. The time crawled by. He tried reading and napping and watching reruns on cable. Tried to get interested in a college football game. Nothing worked. He was wearing a trail in the carpet going from window to window. The sun was setting a little after six now, and he wanted to wait until dark. Decrease the odds anyone would see him.