The deadline to mail the Common Plants index to New York was just days away, but I wasn’t worried about making it. Well, not too much. I’d always worried about missing deadlines. I needed the indexing money, but I was confident about making this deadline, even with everything that was going on.
I expected to bring Hank home in a day or two, and then I could get things back on a normal routine, finish compiling the Plants index, start on the next one, the Zhanzheng: Five Hundred Years of Chinese War Strategy book, and do my own chores around the farm.
Jaeger had done a fine job of keeping up with the minimal October demands, and I was grateful for that. The hay had been brought in in September, along with the planting of winter wheat. About the only harvesting going on now was for sugar beets, and Hank and I had never planted them. They seemed to fair better in the eastern part of the state, not around our area. My woodpile had grown since the last time I had paid attention to it, which meant I could relax a bit about feeding the Franklin stove in the middle of January. I imagined that Jaeger’s life had gotten a little easier since he’d taken on Lester Gustaffson as a hand around his own farm, but I needed to slide some money into Jaeger’s pocket, too. I didn’t expect him to do work around our place for free, even though I knew he wouldn’t ask for a dime—and would refuse to take it when I offered.
Shep happily followed me as I made my way around morning chores. I’d saved retrieving the newspaper for last. I was in no hurry to see the headlines. I’d read enough bad news recently to last me into the next lifetime.
Oddly, I felt refreshed, invigorated, even though I hadn’t slept much—I’d laid my head down on the desk and drifted off for a bit just as the sun was cutting away the darkness, but I’d woken up not long after. My neck felt a little stiff, but I was accustomed to the discomfort. I’d slept at my desk more times than I could count. I thought working on both of the indexes had helped me set my mind right. And it felt good to be home, though I missed Hank’s presence terribly. The house was just a shell without him, something I never wanted to get used to.
All of the chickens were accounted for, and I was happy that none of them had been lost to hawks or foxes in my absence. Shep had done a fine job of keeping an eye on things. I didn’t know what I would have done without him.
I made my way to the road to get the paper, greeted by a hard gust of the ever-present wind. I had on Hank’s flannel jacket, which was a little long in the sleeves for me but was comfortable and warm enough to wear in the chill of October—and kept Hank near me in a way. I kept on walking, undeterred by the wind. I was used to that fight, though I did have to shield my eyes. The dust was loose from the lack of rain; little pellets peppered me relentlessly. I was glad for the coat, that my skin was covered; otherwise I would have been covered in welts. Not the look I wanted to carry with me to Calla’s funeral. It was hard enough to shake the farm off me in proper clothes.
The sky was pink on the horizon, but as the fingers of color reached up it grew darker, angrier. The taller reaches of light made the sky look blood red where it met the retreating darkness, although there were no obvious clouds. This dry spell was quickly turning into a drought, and I’d hardly noticed. If it kept up, all of Montana was going to blow onto North Dakota’s fields.
I grabbed up the newspaper and started to head back to the house, but something stopped me. Something I saw didn’t make sense. My heart nearly jumped into my throat. Shep followed suit and stopped at my ankle. He looked up at me curiously, wondering what I was going to do next since it didn’t seem obvious, even to me.
I had left the Studebaker parked up next to the door when I’d returned home the night before. Normally, I would have parked the truck in the garage, but that effort had been the last thing on my mind once I’d made my way inside the house.
The front tire was flat. And on second glance, so was the rear one. The truck sat low to the ground, like it was hunkering down, trying to avoid the wind and dirt just like Shep and I.
“What the hell?” I offered to no one. My words slipped away on the wind and Shep followed my gaze with his amber eyes, stopping where mine stopped: on the truck.
I took off and stalked straight to the front tire. Shep remained on my heels, silent, his ears up, his tail stiff, on alert. I was sure he felt my fear, my concern.
I leaned down and examined the tire, and there was no mistaking that the tire had been slashed. A twelve-inch gouge was slit from the air valve to the top of the tire in a perfect curve. I touched it, cold black rubber to finger, like I would touch the wound on a human, wondering if I could fix it somehow. I knew immediately that I couldn’t.
I spun away from the tire and made my way to the rear axle. Same exact thing, same exact slit. I stood up, numb, my mind swirling, trying to comprehend what had happened, what I was seeing.
I surveyed the truck from bumper to bumper and it didn’t take long to realize that the truck was sitting evenly, not tilted, which prompted me to hurry to the other side. Just as I’d feared, both of those tires were flat, too. All four tires were flat. Slashed. Deflated and destroyed on purpose, with intention.
A wave of panic washed over me. We didn’t have four spare tires for the truck. There was only one that I knew of. Thanks to Hank’s insistence, I knew how to change a tire; I wasn’t going to be stranded between home and town on a flat tire. But this was something else. I didn’t know how to fix this.
Someone had been here. Might still be here.
Someone didn’t want me to leave.
I looked around quickly and saw nothing out of place. There was no sign of anyone or evidence that anyone had been at the house. Then I looked down to Shep. “How’d you let this happen?”
The dog just looked at me, unable to answer, unable to understand my question. But I was sure he could smell my fear. I knew I could.
“Come on, Shep.” I hurried inside the house, pelted by the dirt and urged on by my discomfort of standing out in the wide open alone. Alone. All alone, I thought. I’m stranded. Trapped. Alone.
On the way inside, I grabbed up the .22 from behind the kitchen door and headed to the phone. I didn’t hesitate to pick up the receiver, wasn’t the least bit concerned that Burlene Standish might be listening in on the party line. The only person I knew to call was Jaeger. He was close by, would know how to fix the tires or would be able to help get new ones on, and he would come running once I told him what was going on. I wouldn’t be alone then. But I couldn’t call Jaeger. There was no dial tone.
The phone was dead.
CHAPTER 29
I made my way outside, staying as close to the house as I could, and found the telephone line had been slashed just like the tires. It had been cut as cleanly as a shaft of wheat at the stalk for harvesting. The sight of the line in two parts numbed me even more than I already was. I was completely cut off from the outer world.
You get used to being stranded when you live on a farm on the edge of western North Dakota. Losing power, or the use of the phone, happened from time to time, especially in winter, when ice, wind, or a combination of both, brought down the lines. Days could pass before the lights came back, which was one of the reasons that Hank and I still relied on the two Franklin stoves to keep us warm in the winter instead of a modern furnace of some kind that required a spark of electricity to light it.
It wasn’t that long ago that none of the modern conveniences were available to us this far from town. My grandparents and parents survived most of their lives with minimal intervention from technology, no electricity and no phone, and they got along just fine from what I could tell. But those kinds of survival skills fade fast. You got used to the power being there when you turned on a light switch or picked up the telephone to call the librarian in town for a quick answer to a question. Modern technology seemed to disappear into the daily routine and brainwash you into believing that it had always been there, that you couldn’t live without it.
At least it was morning. The darkness of night
would have only added to the confinement, fear, and loss that I felt as I stared at that cut line. Just considering such a thing nearly pushed me off balance and sent me into a fit of sheer terror. I took a deep breath instead and tried to calm myself.
I had no choice but to hurry back inside the house. I felt like a rabbit fleeing from the shadow of a hawk as I edged along the siding, hoping the house would protect me with its power of love and its persistence at surviving the winters since my grandparents had built it, would save me from whomever lurked out of my sight—but not out of my mind.
Shep followed along and charged past me and ran circles around me as I stepped foot inside the house. He didn’t bark, just eyed me with a stern look that said to stop and stay. I’d always trusted him, so I did.
I closed the front door and locked it. But I kept hold of the .22. That gun wasn’t going to leave my sight until I figured out what was going on and what I was going to do.
“Stay,” I said to Shep. Then I went around to all of the windows, peered out of them, and closed the blinds. I knew I was closing myself in more by doing so, but I didn’t want anybody seeing me move about. If they had a knife, they might have a gun, too. One shot through the window and that would be the end of me. I had to think like that. I had to get back to Hank somehow.
I gripped the .22 tighter as I made my way through the house closing the blinds. The odd red light in the early morning sky had faded, but there was still a pink glow penetrating the slats of the blinds.
What had I done?
I got to the bedroom last and, as I closed the blind and put the house into a sullen, stormy, gray darkness, I started to feel something else. Another emotion sprouted from deep inside me and began to overcome the fear I felt. I was starting to get mad. Mad at the crazy world I lived in, mad at the situation I found myself in, and mad at the person who’d sent me into a state of terror. I answered my own question then: I hadn’t done a damn thing. Not a damn thing. I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve this at all.
I have a funeral to go to, damn it! I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I was afraid someone would hear me, afraid that I would snap. Instead, I allowed a single tear to run down my cheek. One. It was all I had left.
CHAPTER 30
The idea of having two functional vehicles to maintain and look after was absurd, a luxury that Hank and I would never consider or be able to afford. The Studebaker had been our one and only means of personal transportation for nearly as long as I could remember. A single pickup truck to meet all of our needs, whether it was to pull a hay wagon loaded down with bales or drive to a funeral in our best clothes.
The only other operational vehicles on the farm were an old Farmall tractor that I was unsure of and the Allis-Chalmers Gleaner Model E combine that I was still making payments on. I had never driven the Gleaner. That machine had been Hank’s pride and joy, and the care and operation of it had fallen to Erik Knudsen after the accident. Now that task was another thing Jaeger had taken on. I didn’t even know how to start the darn thing. I’d have to check the index in the operator’s manual and hope to good heavens that the indexer had put an entry in for starting it—if not, I’d have to write it in.
The Model E had no driver’s enclosure, meaning I would be exposed to the world while I hunted for the ignition. Another bad plan. It’d be my luck that I’d get shot using the index. I almost smiled at the irony of the thought. Almost. There was nothing funny about murder as far as I was concerned.
Get ahold of yourself, Marjorie. Think. You can find a way out of this. You have to.
I took a deep breath and looked down at Shep. I wished I had trained him to run to the Knudsens’ on command, used him like a passenger pigeon with a note asking Jaeger to come rescue me, but I hadn’t. Shep had never been that kind of dog. Instead, he sat staring up at me, waiting to see what I was going to do next. He was always trying to figure it out before I did. If only I had his talents. But I didn’t; I had no clue about what to do next.
I was about to go peek out the window and see if I could see anything—or anyone—moving about, when Shep’s ears shot straight up. He turned his attention to the front door and ran to it, barking.
I panicked. “Shep, shut up. Shut up, boy,” I said through gritted teeth, as quietly, but as demandingly, as I possibly could. As usual, the dog paid me no mind. I didn’t have the commanding tone that Hank had. All that man had to do was utter a syllable in a deeper than normal voice and Shep would freeze at attention no matter what he’d been doing. I guess I was a pushover.
And now, whatever—or whoever—had gotten Shep’s attention, was alerted to the fact that we were inside the house. But I guess if they’d been watching all along then they already knew that . . . didn’t they?
Shep continued to bark, then he spun in circles like he always did when someone drove onto the land. I hadn’t moved an inch, and I wasn’t sure that I was going to be able to unless I had to, so I stood there and strained my ears to hear what the dog heard. And I did hear. At least distantly. A vehicle of some kind had turned off the road and was rumbling toward the house. It was either that or a tornado. I doubted that Shep had a different dance for bad storms. Besides, the sky had been red not green.
I repeated my demand again for Shep to shut up, but he ignored me, actually heightening the pitch of his bark. I knew the only way he was going to quiet down was to let him out so he could see for himself who had trespassed onto his territory without permission.
I sighed and made my way to the picture window that looked out on the road. Slowly, carefully, so I didn’t ripple my mother’s handmade curtains. I peered out.
A dusty, black, ten-year-old Ford sedan rolled to a stop behind the Studebaker and a familiar man stepped out of it, intent on making his way to the door. I sighed again, only this time in relief. It wasn’t a killer, or a bad man set on doing me further harm. The man was Pastor John Mark Llewellyn from the Lutheran Church in Dickinson. And then another wave of stress hit me. I had chicken shit on my shoes from doing chores, and I was sure that I smelled of fear and panic from everything that had transpired since discovering my tires had been slashed. I was in no way ready for—or expecting—company from a man of God. But I was, at the very least, certain that he hadn’t come to kill me, though even that was hard to be sure of these days. The truth was, everybody I encountered was likely to find their way onto my suspect list. At least until I, and the rest of the world, figured out why somebody had killed Calla Eltmore.
I took a deep breath, half ashamed of myself for thinking Pastor John Mark could kill someone. He was no more than a gentle boy just a few years out of the seminary. No, I was certain that Pastor John Mark had come to save me in one way or another. And for once, I was grateful for the idea of salvation.
There were five Lutheran churches in town. I never understood the difference between them, and the truth was I suspected that it didn’t much matter. My father always said that humans made God a lot more complicated than they needed to. And then he’d say, “All a man has to do is to stand in the middle of a North Dakota wheat field to know he isn’t alone in this universe, Marjorie.”
I agreed with him for the most part, but I’d had my own arguments with God long before Hank stepped into a gopher hole. That incident had only deepened the schism. Still, I had to say I was never more relieved to see a man of the cloth on my front stoop than I was at that moment.
The first knock came as I was halfway between the picture window and the door. Shep was spinning so fast that I thought for sure he was going to blend his black and white fur into a permanent gray. He was barking his fool head off, too.
I had just about given up trying to shush him. “Shep!” I yelled. “Be nice!” To my surprise, the dog stopped barking and sat down properly at my ankle without making another sound.
The second knock came as I slowly opened the door. I judged how long it would take for me to slam the door closed and lock it if I felt threatened. I couldn’t help myself.
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“Marjorie?” Pastor John Mark said. “Are you all right?” His voice was as soft as his sweet blue eyes. If he meant me harm, then there was no escaping it; I was sure of it. Pastor was a tall man, with hair as yellow as the best straw around, and he was lean and fit. He could have muscled his way into the house before I could raise the .22 to fire.
I couldn’t answer him. All I could do was shake my head and open the door a little wider to let him inside.
CHAPTER 31
Putting Pastor John Mark Llewellyn on my personal suspect list seemed like the worst kind of sin I could have committed at that moment. He was a calm, serene man, young, but wise in ways I would never understand, and he always seemed happy as a lark. And he should be. He was married to a beautiful girl—well, girl to me—Connie, who was pregnant with their second child. She was the perfect pastor’s wife—calm but energetic, comfortable in the shadow of a religious man, and amazingly unfazed by jealousy. Pastor garnered a lot of attention that could be misinterpreted by a less confident woman. Connie Llewellyn seemed completely comfortable in her skin, and every time I had been around her I’d been completely at ease. The two of them took pleasure in building a life in Dickinson after being transferred from another church—his first—in Minnesota. Their firstborn son, Paul Mark, was the spitting image of his father and just as happy. They lived in a well-kept bungalow behind the Redeemer’s Lutheran Church just off 10th Street. It was a Free Lutheran affiliation. As far as I knew, everybody in the congregation loved Pastor John Mark. My time in the pew had been sparse since his arrival, so I had been dependent on subtle gossip. Everyone at church hoped Pastor planned on staying on for the rest of his life—but no one believed that he would. A handsome, gregarious pastor like him was bound to be promoted to a larger church at some point in the future. The religious life suited him well, and even though he was fair-haired and fair-skinned, he looked good in black, not faded, pale, or weighed down by the color or the position at all.
See Also Deception Page 13