Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  At seven Bishop was on the move. He pulled out of the driveway of his home just west of Duluth and headed west. It would have been faster to go east and take the freeway, but Bishop assumed there would be far less traffic this way, fewer people that would see him. He was right, except after turning north, he had to reduce his speed. Deer. Everywhere. There was an army of them in a field he passed on his left and the ditches were full of them. Bishop cursed the animals that ate his garden down to nothing each year. Nothing more than big rodents as far as he was concerned. He passed a car on the shoulder, a man in the ditch in its headlights, flashlight in hand. The car had likely hit a deer. Roadkill for dinner.

  Bishop continued north around the airport and then turned east. After a few miles of dense woods, he hit Rice Lake Road. A few homes started to show up. Small places with small yards cut from the woods. Gravel driveways and yard lights high on telephone poles. About half were old modular homes, the others two-bedroom ramblers. Most didn’t have a garage. Bishop wondered how they ever got their cars started in the winter. Then he wondered why anyone would live out here in the first place. He turned north on Gleason Road for half a mile before turning east again on Fairview.

  Fairview ran east and west for nearly a mile, running into Harmony on the east. Harmony ran north and south like Gleason, both connecting to roads that would lead eventually to 61 in the east or, in the west, to roads heading south the way Bishop had come, or even further west. Easy for Bishop to disappear if he needed to.

  Tom Bishop’s home was the third one on the south side of Fairview, nearly half way between Gleason and Harmony. The closest place was across the road, the driveway to that home about fifty yards to the east. The homes were nicer here, but the lots were still small, dense growth all around. Ken figured the mosquitoes must be hell in the summer. He slowed as he reached his brother’s driveway, checking first to see he had the right fire number. Although they lived only ten miles apart, Ken had only been to the house one other time. His brother had tried to have a family Christmas of sorts six years ago but it had not gone well. The house was too small, and there had been no alcohol, his brother being a recovering alcoholic. The only other time Ken saw his brother was at funerals and weddings. He thought his brother had always been weird. They had not been close.

  The light beside the white rambler’s front door was on, but the house itself appeared dark inside. There was a big window to the right of the door that Ken remembered was in the living room. Two windows were to the left of the door. One was for the bathroom, the other for a bedroom. Was that Tom’s bedroom? Ken couldn’t remember. A single-car unattached garage was to the west of the house.

  Ken drove past his brother’s driveway, into the next driveway on the south side of the road, and then backed out. He went slow, thinking. His plan had been just to drive in, get in the house, and then shoot Tom. Even if someone drove by and noticed the car in Tom’s driveway, the light was so poor it would be impossible to identify. But he did not want to pull in and then have his brother come in behind him, boxing him in. That would not be good. Needed to get in and out and be gone. Ken didn’t think parking on the road was a good idea. If someone came by, they’d likely stop to see if someone was inside having a problem. Probably call the police with the license number. Minnesotans were too nice.

  Ken pulled into the driveway, a car length from the front of the garage. Looked around, thought he could turn into the yard, back up, and drive by Tom if he pulled in behind him. But it would be close, depending on how far Tom pulled in. There wasn’t room for two vehicles to pass on the driveway by the road. Too many trees.

  Bishop pulled his pistol out from under his seat. Put it in his jacket pocket and got out of the car. No lights on that he could see inside the house. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. It was quiet here. Way quieter than his neighborhood. The doorbell chime was easy to hear as he stood on the step. No sounds inside. No lights coming on. Tom wasn’t home.

  “Shit.”

  He rang the bell again with the same result and then went back to his car. No need to get boxed in. He backed out onto the road across from his brother’s house. The ditch was steep on either side of the road here, not much gravel on the side of the asphalt before it fell off. Bishop pulled off the road as far as he dared and turned off his lights. Now what? Wait? He had no idea when or if his brother would be home. And someone was sure to drive by and see him parked. Didn’t want that to happen. He could pull off on Gleason or Harmony, but he had no idea which way his brother would come home, and he still ran the risk of someone stopping.

  “Shit.”

  Bishop took a chance and waited. Two deer walked in front of him, dark shadows coming out of nowhere. He ran the motor every fifteen minutes, enough to get the inside of the car warm, keeping the lights off. By nine-thirty Bishop was exhausted from the day before. He’d probably be asleep if his feet didn't feel like they'd been caked in ice. He'd nearly frozen them one drunken night in college, and they never seemed to stay very warm after that. The heater did not seem to have an effect on them.

  A car turned onto Fairview from Gleason, coming at him. Bishop realized he had no idea what kind of car his brother drove. The car kept coming but slowing. Now he was thinking whoever was driving had spotted him and was thinking about stopping. Could be his brother, but Bishop was thinking that the car was slowing way too soon if it was going to turn into his brother’s driveway. Bishop had been slumped back in his seat, trying to avoid the lights, but now he sat up. He reached for the key. If the car stopped he needed to go.

  The car was stopped now, about three hundred yards from him, angled slightly to the left so that its lights were shining directly on him. Bishop wasn’t sure what to do. There was no way he could back away. If he pulled into his brother’s driveway and turned around, it would look suspicious. They might follow. His only other option was to drive at them. Bishop turned the key just as the car turned off the road, disappearing down a driveway.

  “Damn.”

  He realized he was no longer cold, but also that he couldn’t sit there any longer. If people were out for a Saturday night, they would soon be coming home. Might be his brother, but he couldn’t take that chance. Bishop drove home the way he had come, still chilled by the time he pulled into the garage. Walking inside, tossing his jacket on a chair in the kitchen, Bishop saw the bottle of whiskey on the table and immediately poured half a glass. He took a large sip. Tired and angry, Bishop walked into the living room, sitting in his chair in front of the television. The house didn’t feel much warmer than it was outside. He got up, checked the thermostat, finding it had switched over to night mode, the temperature at 59.

  Bishop went back to his chair, removed his shoes, and rubbed his feet. They were cold. He wrestled an afghan from the back of his chair and stepped on it, draping the rest over his legs. Reaching for the television remote, Bishop noticed the blinking light on the phone.

  He had two messages. The first was from a collection agency. He was supposed to call immediately. That was not going to happen. He deleted the message and looked at the transcript for the next. It was from his sister Fran. She wanted him to call her. Helen was dead.

  Bishop listened to the message just to be sure the transcript was right. Tom was over at Fran’s. The police had called. They had found Helen dead in her driveway. They didn’t know how she died yet.

  Bishop stared at his phone for a moment like it might speak to him at any second before he set it back on the table. He grabbed his tumbler and took another sip.

  “This is great!”

  Chapter 21

  Carlisle and Pearson had spent all Saturday at his place. Had a late breakfast, Pearson making waffles and bacon. Took a dip in his indoor pool, fooled around, and then took a nap. Lunch was a shrimp salad. They watched a little college football in the afternoon and then spent time in his hot tub. Dinner was a pasta dish his company was coming out with in January and a nice bottle of merlot. They never g
ot out of their bathrobes all day, ending up in bed watching the American League Championship game between the Red Sox and Houston.

  “Who do you want to win?” said Pearson.

  “Houston, I guess. They beat Cleveland and Cleveland is from our division,” said Carlisle.

  “What about the Angels? They’ve got two former Twins on the team.”

  “No. It doesn’t work that way. Cleveland beat out the Twins in the Central and Houston beat the Indians. You got to follow the right path.”

  Carlisle was focused on the game. Pearson watched her for a moment and then brushed her hair behind her ear.

  “So, what path are you on?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she said as she turned her head.

  “I mean, I don’t get women telling me they want to get married every day. Maybe every few days, but not every day. You ready to talk about it?”

  She turned away, staring at the screen. Pearson picked up the remote and pushed the mute button. He waited.

  A deep breath. “Ever since Meeker, I guess I’ve kind of been trying to not get too attached to anyone,” she said, still staring at the television. “So, the last few months, it was happening with you, and I was frightened.”

  “That was what the deal was at the mission the other night?”

  She looked at him, her eyes glistening. “Yeah,” she replied, turning away again. “Anyway, Friday night, I had to go tell a guy that his wife was dead, and he was crushed, fell to the floor. He had his baby in his hand, and I grabbed her as he fell. I knew what the guy was experiencing, and I know how he’s going to be. And the little girl, I just held her in my arms thinking she was never going to know her mother, never see her again.”

  Carlisle was sniffling now, wiping tears off her cheeks with her hands. Pearson handed her a tissue. She blew her nose and then took a deep breath.

  “So, anyway, both of those things should have made me want to tell you I never wanted to see you again and cured me of ever wanting to have kids. But they didn’t. All I could think of was that I needed to be with you. And when that little girl was holding onto my ear and smiling, I knew I wanted to experience that for myself. You’d think that all the complaining Hill does about her kids would have cured me by now, but I see the way she looks at her kids and how they look at her. I want that too.”

  Pearson handed her another tissue, and she blew her nose again. She searched Pearson’s eyes.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to blabber.”

  “If we’re going to make this work, Danny, we need to let it all out with each other, even if there is blabbering involved.”

  There was a small smile on Carlisle’s face. “So, does that mean you will marry me?”

  “This will be extremely disappointing news to a lot of women,” said Pearson.

  “Like who?”

  “Well, there’s Gladys,” he said.

  “Your cleaning lady. She’s sixty.”

  “And Betty,” he said.

  “The neighbor of your parents? She’s got to be seventy-five.”

  “They may have a few years on you but they have experience on their side.”

  “A few years?” she said.

  “OK. I’ll agree to marry you but only on a trial basis.”

  “Trail basis?” she said.

  “Let’s say fifty years, and then we can re-evaluate.”

  “Make it seventy-five, and you have a deal.”

  They kissed. Pearson held her close.

  “So, what happened to the guy’s wife?”

  Carlisle stared at the screen again. “She was murdered. And I have an idea about who did it.”

  Linda James made her way slowly down the steps of their townhouse Sunday morning, holding the railing as she went. Her naturally wavy red hair was a tangled mess, her eyelids half open. She walked into the kitchen to find her husband making pancakes.

  “What are you making, Trask?”

  “Pancakes. You going to want your usual half-dozen?”

  James eased herself into a chair by the table. “Maybe a couple. Could you get me some juice?”

  Trask set down the mixing bowl with the spatula resting in the batter. He poured a glass of juice for Linda and set it in front of her.

  “Coffee?” he said.

  “Don’t think so. Doesn’t sound too good.”

  “You OK? Green said that a reduced appetite was a sign the baby would be coming soon.”

  “Marcy?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Good grief. Where did she get her medical training?”

  “She’s got two kids. She seemed to know what she was talking about.”

  James shook her head in disbelief. “Trask. In case you forgot, I am a doctor. And my doctor, who I saw just two days ago, said it will be awhile.”

  “Sorry.” Trask walked back to the stove, put his hand over the frying pan to see that it was hot, and poured in some batter.

  “Better make that one pancake. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

  Trask turned to her, eyes wide. “Really?”

  “No, I’m kidding,” she said with a grin. “So, you haven’t said much all weekend about the Bishop murders. Anything going on?”

  “Not sure. Nothing was taken. The killer could have been scared off, I suppose, but I got to think it was someone they knew. Lisa Bishop watched her husband get shot, and she didn’t turn away. Looked right at the killer. We’ll look hard at the family and the couples’ business clients. Maybe someone’s insurance policy didn’t pay off, and they blamed Bishop.”

  “I thought you said there was a possible drug angle?”

  “No, I don’t think so. BCA is looking at it as the reason for the killing of Dan Bishop’s sister. Their informant was murdered Friday.”

  James struggled to her feet.

  “Where are you going? Pancakes are almost ready.”

  “Bathroom.”

  Chapter 22

  It had taken all Saturday and until noon on Sunday for Grace Canton to work up the courage to bring Fran Bishop one of her special cookies. Despite the feeling of satisfaction she got from Helen Johnson’s death, it was still hard. And there was the driving. It wouldn’t be quite as far as it had been to Helen’s house but she would have to go over the bridge. Canton had a fear of bridges, something that had been with her since her childhood.

  Fran Bishop, Fran Naulty for the last twenty years, lived in Billings Park, just west of Superior. Naulty lived with her husband, Bill, and their two boys, both in high school. Billings Park was essentially a square grid of homes, Naulty’s home being on the southwest corner of the grid. The Naulty’s brown split-level home was on one of the largest lots in the area, the result of a holding pond behind the home. Their home was also one of the first to be built in the area, the woods that surrounded the holding pond running up the side of their lot on either side, affording them privacy not found in the other homes in town. The lot took up what amounted to a short block, the home across the street situated slightly south of the Naulty’s.

  Fran Naulty was a third-grade teacher in Superior, her husband a teacher at the junior high. She was short and perky. An active person, Fran liked to garden, walk, and cross-country ski. She and her husband also liked to golf. Neither was very good, but they were in a league with other teachers and enjoyed the socializing. The boys were average students, home only for dinner and at night, more interested in sports and hanging out with friends than studying.

  It would have been faster and easier to take 35W from her home, but Canton did not like to drive that fast. She had done it occasionally when it had been necessary, the other vehicles and the big semis buzzing past, honking, cutting back in her lane too close for her comfort. The other drivers and their passengers craning their necks to see who was driving the old Passat, shouting at her and making obscene gestures. Canton stayed on the side streets as she worked her way south, eventually finding Third Street before making the turn east to get onto Highway 2.<
br />
  She made the left turn and knew immediately that she was in trouble. The road was two lanes, Canton in the left lane after making the turn, the speed limit immediately going from 30 to 55MPH. She had reasoned that the traffic would be light on a Sunday afternoon, but suddenly there were vehicles pushing her from behind. Angry drivers were passing on her right, more than one rolling down a window and using profanity as they screamed at her to move over. Canton’s hands were frozen to the wheel, her arms shaking, biting her lower lip. She finally reached up and put on her turn signal, another older woman in a red Ford in the right lane slowing so Canton could get over.

  Her reprieve was short. The highway moved onto a bridge, crossing over 35W, a park, and then a backwater of the St. Louis River. A moan rose in Canton’s throat and escaped her lips as she picked up the water below in her peripheral vision, her eyes drifting to the right. She drifted out of her lane, the barrier on the edge of the bridge suddenly next to her and she over-corrected, nearly hitting a pickup on her left. Canton regained control, sliding back into her lane, her heart pounding when out of nowhere there was a truck on her right. Canton screamed, nearly swerving into the left lane again, hitting the brake.

  The entrance lane from the freeway heading north was on her right. Two cars followed close behind the semi, cutting into Canton’s lane from the acceleration lane. A car following close behind Canton when she braked had gone into the left lane causing a car there to brake hard. Canton heard the screeching tires but did not look in her rearview mirror, her eyes frozen on the road ahead, eyes now beginning to water. She was in a panic, looking for any way off the bridge as she crawled along. A teenager in a rusting Honda Civic with a failing muffler roared past on her right as the entrance lane disappeared, cutting over at the last minute, inches from her front bumper. Canton shrieked.