Heaven's Fury

by Stephen Frey

  As I stare down at her, I realize that it’s beginning to snow. I feel the fine, icy crystals hitting my face and see the glow of the streetlight over in front of the washette.

  “Sheriff?”

  Bear begged me not to say anything about what’s going on with Karen and him. He’s breaking the law, he’s defrauding an insurance company out of fifty thousand bucks, but he’s my best friend and he saved my life. Twice. How can I break that trust or walk away from the greatest debt anyone can owe? How can I destroy a friendship that’s lasted twenty-five years and put my best friend in jail? “Maggie, can we talk after the meeting?” I suggest. “Or maybe first thing tomorrow morning at the precinct?” I hate to dodge her, but I don’t want to talk right now. Bat was right. I’m conflicted, so conflicted everywhere I look. “I haven’t had a chance to check for anything that might have come into the precinct today. You know, calls or emails from any of the other counties or the state boys.” Which isn’t true. I just went to the precinct to pick up a vitally important envelope I haven’t had the guts to open yet because I’m afraid of what might be inside. It’s information I requested late last week that’s tucked beneath my jacket right now, and what’s inside the envelope could have awful ramifications. “Is that all right?”

  Maggie looks down dejectedly. “It’s just that I’m getting frustrated,” she says. “It’s been—”

  “I know, Maggie,” I interrupt, getting frustrated myself. I don’t mind being a little curt with her at this point because I know Karen’s all right, and maybe Maggie should have given her sister a little more of what Gus and Trudy left behind after all. “Tomorrow morning. Okay?”

  “Sure, I guess.” She wags a finger at me. “You just promise me that—”

  “Sheriff! Sheriff Summers!”

  My gaze flashes past Maggie and into the gloom at the person who’s yelling at me now. As I search the darkness I have to shield my eyes because the snow is really starting to come down. Then I recognize the face. It’s Lewis Prescott. Maggie scurries off as soon as she looks over her shoulder and sees who it is. Christ, the whole town is afraid of this guy.

  “What do you want, Lewis?” It’s the first time I’ve ever called him by his given name and it feels especially good because I can tell I’ve surprised him. “And make it fast, damn it.” I nod up the street. “I’ve got to get to this meeting.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that, boy,” he snaps. “You better show me respect, because I can have you—”

  “What the hell do you want, Lew?” He stares at me from beneath his fur hat like he doesn’t recognize me, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “Come on, out with it.”

  His eyes narrow. You don’t surprise Lew Prescott for long, even in the desperate state he must be in right now. “Remember what I said about any talk of a cult,” he warns. “Put it down right away if anyone even whispers anything about it in this meeting. Be firm on the fact that there is absolutely no cult.” He takes a satisfied breath, certain he has me where he wants me. “Or else.”

  I stare down at him. We didn’t get anywhere when I went to the compound in Minneapolis to talk to him about why he wants me to squash any talk of a cult. He wouldn’t come clean with me even though I gave him every opportunity. “Or else what?”

  “Or else you can kiss your job bye-bye,” he warns. “Tomorrow morning you’ll be out on your ass, and I promise you won’t get a job as a cop anywhere else in this country. My people will follow you wherever you go and make the authorities in that jurisdiction aware of your less-than-exemplary record.”

  I don’t even bother arguing about how he’s made everything up. I just gesture toward the church. “Chances are I’m going to be out of a job in an hour anyway, Lew.”

  “Well, if you just do as I say, I’ll find you another job. And I’ll put you on the payroll at Prescott Trading until that happens. At the same salary you have now.” He holds up a finger. “Plus, I’ll pay for your move to wherever the new job is.”

  “If you can. Well, if Prescott Trading can.” I’ve hit him with another howitzer, and it’s registering all over his face. For the second time in a few seconds I’ve shocked this man I’ve hated most of my life, and it feels almost too good to describe. Better than eating a dozen chocolate-covered doughnuts in one sitting. Even now as I’m headed for one of the most difficult situations I’ll ever face. “Pay for it, I mean.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Lew. The fact that Prescott Trading is going under unless you come up with a lot of money real fast.” Prescott takes two steps back, like I’ve actually hit him. “Otherwise the banks are going to foreclose on you and take everything you have including the estate up here and the compound in Minneapolis. I mean they’re going to take everything. Everything your family has built for over a century. It’s all going to be gone like that,” I say, snapping my fingers loudly right in front of his patrician nose.

  The old man grabs his chest. “My God, how did you—”

  “But then there’s all that bloody taconite in the ground behind the estates.” Prescott’s eyes roll back in his head when he hears that one, and I keep the pressure on even though I know the meeting’s about to start and I want to be there for everything. “That could save you, couldn’t it? And that’s the real reason you don’t want anyone to start talking about a cult in Dakota County,” I barrel on. “Because it might scare off the two mining companies you have bidding for all that taconite. Not because of how Cindy will be remembered, or how your wife will feel. You don’t give a damn about either of them. You never did, you bastard. That’s why you don’t care that Jack was beating Cindy, that’s why you didn’t care about screwing old Bill Campbell’s wife seven years ago.”

  “Oh, my God,” he whispers, overwhelmed by what I’ve said.

  “You’re worried about this cult maybe killing someone from Edina Engineering or somebody from one of the mining companies who’s looking at buying the taconite from you.” I put a finger in his face. “Because maybe people in the cult like Dakota County the way it is, maybe they like the way it’s isolated from the rest of the world and they don’t want a lot of strangers coming in here and messing it up. Maybe they don’t want all that land ripped up between the ridge and River Road.”

  “Paul,” Prescott gasps, “how did you find out?”

  I lean down so our faces are close. “What you really need to worry about isn’t how I found out. What you need to worry about is my telling everyone in the meeting what’s really going on here.”

  “I’ll pay you,” he blurts out. “Whatever you want. Whatever.”

  I stare at him for several moments. It’s an odd feeling when you realize you’ve finally beaten a man you’ve always wanted to take down. A man who’s manipulated you for years, and now the situation is suddenly reversed. Suddenly you hold his fate in your hands. “I’ll let you know, Lew. I’ll let you know.”

  I turn and head for the church, and as I do my cell phone rings. It’s a number I recognize right away. I stop fifty feet from the church door when I end the call and slip the phone back into my pocket. Then I shake my head for a second and put my face in my hands. Finally I pull the envelope from inside my jacket, rip it open, and gaze at what’s inside in the dim light coming from the church. It’s even worse than I thought.

  29

  “EVERYBODY PIPE DOWN!” Davy shouts over the hum of voices inside the packed church. He’s standing up on the pulpit with his arms outstretched. “Please!”

  On Sunday mornings you can hear a pin drop before the processional. Before the choir members follow the cross and Father Hannah down the narrow center aisle to the altar, then break away to their special section of pews. Hardly anyone in the congregation even talks before the service begins. And when they do it’s in a low whisper only to the person next to them and almost directly into that person’s ear.

  Right now it’s like being at a Saturday night danc
e at the fire hall up Main Street from here. You can hardly hear yourself think. Mostly the same people who come to Sunday service are here now, but I guess they figure God’s gone to bed or something. That or it’s flat-out impossible for them to control their anticipation and excitement at the prospect of what might happen in this meeting, and they’re all speculating wildly about how it’s going to go down. The bad thing is that they’re probably right. It probably will be a Fourth of July fireworks show worthy of New York City’s harbor or the Mall in Washington.

  The other thing that’s different tonight is that the church is brightly lighted. That occurred to me as soon as I walked in. It’s almost always dim in here on Sunday mornings in the winter because Father Hannah doesn’t like using anything other than candles during his services. And it’s usually gloomy outside, so not much light gets in through the windows.

  “Enough!” Davy yells, banging a gavel on the tilted piece of lacquered dark wood that’s bolted to the banister on which Father Hannah places the yellow pieces of legal paper he preaches his sermon from. Finally the crowd begins to settle down. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter to myself, casing the crowd from my corner in the back near the double doors. “It’s not right.”

  The entire town council, including Cam Riley, sits in the pew directly in front of the pulpit, and Lewis Prescott sits two rows behind them. His seat was taken when he got here, but the townspeople who were in that row when he showed up scattered like lambs from a butcher when they saw him coming. All except Mrs. Erickson, who didn’t budge an inch and gave Prescott a smirk when he eased into the spot vacated by Janet Carlson, the woman who’s Vivian’s boss at the washette. Bear’s standing up front against the wall on the opposite side of the church from the pulpit with a scowl on his face. The same ugly scowl he has on his face the morning after a Badger or Packer loss. Bat McCleary sits a few rows in front of where I’m standing, flanked by his two boys. And Frank and Chugger—the other two traitors on my staff—stand in front of the pulpit with their arms folded tightly across their uniform jackets.

  I’m about to look back at the floor, at the spot of red carpet I’ve been focused on since I came in, when someone else’s presence catches my eye. At the back of the other side of the church stands Bill Campbell. He’s a big man with a barrel chest and a shock of white hair. With him is a young Turk I don’t recognize who looks like Bear except that he’s wearing a stylish blue sweater and cuffed flannel pants and his hair is shorter and neatly combed. He’s not quite as big as Bear, but almost. I’m amazed that Campbell and his guy would show their faces at this thing, but I guess the outcome of it is that important to him.

  “Let’s get to it,” Davy says.

  Davy glanced at me when I first came in but he hasn’t made eye contact with me since.

  “In the last two weeks,” he continues in a dramatic voice, “we’ve had two terrible murders in Dakota County.”

  I see Lewis Prescott’s shoulders pinch together at the sides of his neck. He’s afraid that Davy’s going to get graphic with his description of the murders. Maybe he’s even more afraid that if Davy does, I won’t respond, that I won’t deny the existence of the cult as he so desperately wants me to. After all, I walked away from his offer. Something he probably has no idea how to handle. I wonder if he knows Bill Campbell is here. If he doesn’t, I have a feeling he’ll find out soon enough. If what I’ve deduced is right.

  “The first was Cindy Harrison,” Davy says in a melancholy tone with a deferential nod to Lewis Prescott.

  Which tells me something right away.

  “And the second was Darrow Clements.” Davy takes a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have the deepest respect for Sheriff Summers.” He hesitates and nods toward me now. “Who’s standing in the back of the church.”

  The entire congregation looks over their shoulders at me in unison and my gaze falls to the carpet again. I can’t stare down a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes. It’s impossible.

  “He’s a good man but he’s over his head in this situation.” Davy motions toward me. “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” he says in front of the crowd, “but I have to say it. Frank, Chugger, and I believe—”

  “You don’t have to say anything!” Bear shouts out of nowhere.

  There’s a collective gasp from the crowd. You just don’t see this kind of thing happen in the north-country. People may be thinking nasty thoughts, but they rarely shout them out in a public forum. Usually it’s the stiff upper lip for Lutherans on the south shore of the Big Lake.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you little punk!” Bear yells, taking several steps toward the pulpit. Frank and Chugger make their moves at him, but he points a finger and it’s as though he’s got stun-gun powers, because they go motionless. “Touch me and I’ll kill both of you,” he hisses loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Even if this is a church.”

  “Tell us more about the murders, Deputy!” a voice thunders from the back of the church.

  My head swivels left as Bill Campbell takes the floor. Of course he does. It makes so much sense. It’s a perfect forum for him to do this in.

  Lewis Prescott shoots up out of his seat at the sound of Campbell’s voice and turns around. His face goes pale when he sees who’s yelling. It’s like he’s actually going to have a heart attack.

  “There’s a cult involved!” Campbell shouts. “A cult of devil worshipers! Isn’t that true, Deputy?”

  Davy Johnson suddenly looks like a man who’d rather be any place in the world other than where he is now.

  “There’s no cult!” Prescott shouts back. But his voice doesn’t have the same thunder to it that Campbell’s does. He’s like a mouse against a lion. “I saw my daughter’s body!” he yells as loudly as he can. “There weren’t any pentagrams or other ritual carvings on her body. She was murdered by someone who wanted to take her away—”

  “Liar!” roars Campbell.

  “By a man who wanted to take Cindy away from her husband,” Prescott yells back. “A man who’s wanted her for years. The same man who killed Darrow Clements because Clements was getting close to figuring out who killed my daughter.”

  “It was the cult!” bellows Campbell.

  “It was Paul Summers!” Prescott shouts back.

  Suddenly the church goes even quieter than it does on Sunday mornings just before the cross begins its journey down the aisle toward the altar. A pin hitting the carpet would seem like a volcano going off right now. I swallow hard as those hundred and fifty pairs of eyes stare at me again. Apparently, Lewis Prescott thinks he figured out how to deal with my turning down his offer of money.

  “It’s not true,” I say calmly. It’s time to begin my defense. It’s time to tell everyone what’s really going on in Dakota County. “You all know me, you know I’d never do something like that. It’s not in me.” I glance at Prescott, then point at him. “That man over there has a terrible problem. His company, Prescott Trading, is about to fail. It’s about to be taken over by the banks that lend to it.” I assume Prescott is about to start yelling anything he can think of to silence me, but to my surprise he doesn’t. “Unless he can come up with a million bucks in the next two weeks.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Prescott finally snarls. “You’re just trying to—”

  “So he’s going to sell all that land he owns between the Boulder River and River Road,” I shout him down quickly. “Those thousands and thousands of acres that stretch out behind all the River Family estates up and down Dakota County. He’s going to sell it to a mining company for lots of money because there’s taconite in it.” I see jaws drop and hear shrieks of surprise all around me. “Lots and lots of taconite. Then he’s going to use the money he gets from the sale of the land to save Prescott Trading.

  “It all sounds wonderful,” I keep going, “nice and tidy.” I hold up one hand. “But there’s a big problem. Something Mr. Prescott is very afraid of be
cause it could break his deal. If word gets out about us having a cult of devil worshipers here in Dakota County that’s murdering people, the companies bidding on his property might give him a lowball offer or back off completely. Especially if that cult kills somebody from one of the mining companies bidding on the land who came up here to inspect the site. And that’s something Mr. Prescott simply cannot have, because then he and his family lose everything.” Prescott sinks slowly down into the pew and puts his face into his hands. He knows there’s no way he can deny what I’m saying. I’ve got him dead to rights. He thought he knew how to deal with my turning down his money, but he really didn’t. See, I’m not in it for the money, and he doesn’t scare me, because ultimately I know the truth always wins out. And maybe I just don’t care whether I live or die anymore. Which can be a powerful thing when you’re in a fight, because it lets you take actions you’d otherwise be too scared to take. “Let me say that again, people. Mr. Prescott will lose everything, and he’ll probably go to jail.” My eyes shift to Bill Campbell. “The thing about getting taconite out of the ground is that it’s basically strip mining. It’s a nasty, loud, dirty process. You dynamite the ground open, then you haul away the rocks you blew out of the ground and process them somewhere else.” I point at Campbell. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Campbell?”

  Campbell looks around like he can’t believe I’m talking to him. “How the hell should I know?”

  “Oh, you know. You also know that Lew Prescott has all the permits he needs to go ahead with the mining and that the permits he has are transferable to any buyer. He did that before you could stop him.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Campbell snaps, “but for the first time in my life I agree with Lewis Prescott. You’re out of your mind, Sheriff Summers.”

  “Sure I am, Bill.” I like using their first names. Suddenly I don’t feel so inferior anymore. “I’m sure you’d just love to sit on that huge back deck of yours at your estate on a nice summer afternoon sipping your gin and tonic and listen to the soothing sounds of dynamite. Inhale the lovely scents of oil and gas exhaust as they waft gently through the air up the side of the ridge. Taste the dirt and sand in your mouth along with that gin and tonic while you try to read a book or listen to music.” I take a few steps toward him—and the door. “It’d be even better if you were having a party with your family and all of that blasting was going on right down the hill. Wouldn’t it, Bill?”