by Cold Blood
“You finished or what?” asked the boy behind them.
“We’re finished.” Murphy rubbed her hands together. “I’m cold, Jack. Give him a couple of bucks and let’s go inside. Sun’s going down anyway.”
Jack pulled three ones out of his pocket and handed them to the teenager. He set his gun next to his wife’s.
“You sure the chamber’s empty?” she asked.
He picked up his gun and checked. “Chamber empty. Safety on.”
“Good.”
He set the gun back on the rack. “I’m a quick study.” He shoved his glasses and plugs into his vest pocket.
“Yeah. Right. Don’t quit your day job.”
He smiled and followed her into the South St. Paul Rod and Gun clubhouse, a building that resembled a ranch-style house with a deck attached. The Mississippi River snaked in front of it and railroad tracks cut behind it. It was a block off Concord, a long street connecting the city of St. Paul and the suburb of South St. Paul. The gun club shared the neighborhood with a furniture liquidator, a used-car lot, a beauty shop and a Dairy Queen.
Murphy checked the bulletin board inside the clubhouse door. Covered with handwritten index cards and flyers: “Beretta AL390 Gold Mallard 20 GA. $725.” “Custom Docks. Call for an estimate.” “4×10 Utility Trailer made by Cargo. ALMOST NEW. Drop down ramp. $900.” “Lab choc. M. AKC Exc. bird dog. $2,500.” “FOR SALE. Remington 870. Nice clean gun. $450.” “German Wire-Haired Pups. AKC. Exc. Blood Lines. MAKE GOOD HUNTERS/FAMILY PETS. $500.”
“Decent price,” Murphy muttered. She grabbed a bar napkin and wrote down a phone number.
“Shopping for a gun?” asked Jack, looking over her shoulder.
“A dog.”
“Since when? You’re not home enough. Your place is too small. A dog would go stir-crazy on that dinky houseboat. It’d chew the shit out of everything.”
“Stop hyperventilating.” She shoved the napkin into the pocket of her jeans. “We’ll discuss it over a beer.”
It didn’t take much to turn their discussions into arguments, and that’s why they periodically separated. In their eight years of marriage, they’d lived apart as much as they’d lived together. Jack stayed in the house they’d bought together when they first got married. She had a houseboat on the Mississippi River, moored across from downtown at the St. Paul Yacht Club. They kept trying to make their marriage work and were most successful in the bedroom; they never argued about sex.
All the tables were taken; they found two stools next to each other at the bar. “What can I get you?” asked the bartender. He was a big man with curly red hair, a red beard and a red flannel shirt. He could have passed for a lumberjack.
“Grain Belt,” said Murphy.
“St. Pauli Girl,” said Jack.
“No imports.”
“Grain Belt then.”
The bartender set two cans on the bar. “Sign up for the big shoot?” He thumbed toward a flyer behind the bar: MINI JACKPOT TRAP SHOOT.
Murphy took a bump off her beer. “You betcha.”
He eyed Jack. “You that ringer she been threatening to bring in?”
Murphy laughed and then coughed and held a napkin to her face; she felt beer coming up her nose. Jack glared at her. She cleared her throat. “No,” she said. She blew her nose and took another sip of beer. “This is my husband, Jack. Jack, this is Gunnar.”
“Gunner?”
“Gunnar,” said the bartender, without smiling. He walked to the other end of the bar.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No. Gunnar is Norwegian or something. Gunner is… I don’t know… a good name for a hunting dog maybe.”
“Back to the dog, are we?”
“I’m the only one in my family without a dog.” She had nine brothers, no sisters.
“Your siblings are nuts. You can’t eat dinner at their houses without swallowing a pound of fur. Rawhide bones everywhere. Yard’s all tore up. They live in giant kennels.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that compliment on to my brothers—and their wives.” She frowned and brushed the hair from her forehead with her fingertips. She wasn’t comfortable with bangs. Jack said he found them attractive, told her she looked like Cleopatra. She used to wear her hair parted down the middle and pulled back. She got bangs over the summer to help cover the scar, a constant reminder of the fight she’d gotten into with a killer.
Jack popped open his beer and took a sip. “Forget the damn dog. Dog’s a bad idea.”
She didn’t answer. She turned in her stool to see who she knew in the bar. The room had paneled walls, a low ceiling and was cloudy with smoke. Four guys in camouflage jackets were at a table playing cards and puffing on cigarettes. She recognized a couple of them. Retired towboat crew. Her family used to run a bar along the Mississippi that served river workers. The two men saw her and nodded. Another table was filled with guys in blaze orange caps. They were hunkered over a map, planning a deer hunt. Murphy was envious. She wished Jack was more of a hunter. Maybe she could get out this season with her brothers.
She turned around to sip her beer. The television behind the bar was turned to the news. Gunnar walked over to switch channels when a female reporter came on. She was standing in front of a church, interviewing a tall man. “Stop,” Murphy said. She strained to listen. “Turn it up.”
“One of your cases?” asked Gunnar.
Murphy didn’t answer. She stared at the screen. The reporter was talking about how the tall guy was a traveling salesman who’d volunteered to join a search party. They were looking for a Moose Lake woman who’d disappeared Friday night after a wedding. “A bridesmaid who vanished,” the reporter said. She emphasized the word bridesmaid to show it made the story different. Special.
Jack watched his wife’s face. “What is it, Paris?”
“I recognize him.”
“From where? Work?”
“No. Can’t remember exactly. But not work.”
“Fuckin’ tall as a house,” said Gunnar. He grabbed a bar rag and wiped the counter.
Murphy studied the man while he continued talking to the reporter about why he’d volunteered, how he’d wanted to help. His face was pale and smooth and his eyes dark. His lips were full. Almost a woman’s mouth. He had black, slicked-back hair. In a strange way, he was attractive. Seductive. He looked like a vampire from a black-and-white movie. His left ear was weird. Looked as if he had two lobes. Some kind of accident? More familiar than his face was his voice. He had a trace of southern drawl, and a stutter. She could tell he was concentrating on his speech, pausing at words that were threatening to turn into a problem. Who did she know with a stutter? No one came to mind.
“Hey!” yelled one of the deer hunters. “How about some ESPN instead of this crap?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Keep your shirt on.” Gunnar walked over to the television and switched channels.
Murphy rubbed her arms; she had goose bumps under her sweatshirt, but not from the cold. Talking more to herself than to Jack: “I know him. How do I know him?”
Jack drained his can and set it down. “How about some dinner, babe? Something from that Mexican market down the road. I could go for some beans and rice.”
“I’ve got stuff in the fridge,” she said. She took one more sip of beer and slid off the bar stool. “Let’s get the guns and get outta here.”
FOUR
THE SCHOOL BUS rattled down the road, kicking up a cloud that trailed behind like a phantom. The bus lurched to a halt and the dust ghost disappeared into the gravel. Thirty-three people in jeans and sweatshirts filed out, calling out the number each had been assigned before boarding the bus.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
Men. Women. Seniors. Middle-aged folks. A couple of teenagers. A few had water bottles strapped to their waists and candy bars shoved in their pockets; they were the ones who’d done this be
fore and knew they’d get thirsty and hungry out in the field. They squinted in the fall light and wrinkled their noses. The air smelled of skunk. All wore coats or down vests over their sweatshirts and some donned mittens and stocking caps. The sunshine was deceptive; it was raw outside. Gusts of wind bent the tall grasses and blew the remaining leaves off the trees. It could have been December instead of October. Last off the bus was a sheriff’s deputy, a short, husky woman. “Number One takes the ditch along the road and the rest of you follow him in order,” she said.
The civilians lined up in firing-squad formation at one end of the meadow. They stretched their arms out so they’d be spaced apart evenly. Number One was the tallest in the crowd by two heads. The ditch was knee-deep, but when he stepped into it he still towered over the deputy and half the others in the group. The deputy studied his feet. “Hope those are decent boots,” she said. The ditch was swampy.
“Sorels,” he said. “I know how to d… dress, ma’am.”
“Guess you do,” she said. She noticed his baseball cap. A suede brim and E.P. embroidered on the front. “Those your initials?”
“Elvis Presley,” he mumbled. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and averted his eyes.
He’s a weird one, she thought. She turned her attention to the rest of the group, eyed the row of volunteers. She wished she had someone as tall as Number One anchoring the other end, and the middle for that matter. The middle man kept the line straight. No matter, she thought. It was the second day. Missing people cases go bad after two days. Same as fresh fish in the fridge. After two days, the missing become the dead and clues turn cold. It would be a miracle if they found anything useful out here.
“Ready?” They all nodded. “Let’s go,” she said. The line started moving. The deputy walked behind them, surveying the evenness of the line. The speed. “Slow down, people,” she hollered. “This ain’t a race. Wait for the middle to catch up while they go through that brush. Take your time.” No one talked. They kept their eyes down as they walked, searching for something. Anything. A strand of thread from her dress. Footprints. Bobby pin from her hair.
A crow landed on a tree stump ahead of the line, eyed the humans heading toward it and cawed. A woman—Number Fourteen—looked up. “No bird-watching,” said the deputy, and a few in the line laughed. Then another stretch of walking and no talking in the line. The sound of boots crunching down dried grass and leaves. A menacing noise. The sound of an invading army. Halfway across the field, Number Seventeen caught the toe of his boot on a rock and fell on his face. He stood up and spit out dirt and weeds. The line stopped while he brushed off.
“You okay?” asked the deputy.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, red-faced.
The line continued moving. They’d nearly reached the end of the meadow when a yell went up.
“Found something!”
“Everyone stop. Now,” said the deputy. She ran to Number One. He had his right hand raised like a kid at school and with his left pointed to the ground. Her eyes followed to where he was pointing. She squatted down. Couldn’t believe what she saw.
“Shit,” she breathed. A finger. Peach polish on the nail.
“Stay where you’re at!” she yelled to the line. Then, so only he and those next to him could hear, she said lowly, “Good eye, Number One.” The deputy stayed hunched over the finger while she radioed for help.
Number Two, a pretty blond woman, kept her place in the line but turned her back to the finger. Stared up at the sky.
“You okay, ma’am?” Number One asked in a low voice.
“Sorry I’m such a baby,” she whispered.
“N… no,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”
She turned to face him and touched his arm. “Thank you.”
He lowered his eyes and nodded. His heart raced. He tried to keep from breathing fast. Tried to keep from grinning. He covered his mouth with his hand, pretended to cough. Don’t grin, he told himself. This wouldn’t be the time or the place for grinning. It would peg him as a creep, and it would tip them off.
FIVE
SUNDAY AFTERNOON JACK relaxed on the deck off the living room while Murphy chopped and mixed in the galley. Every time they had a quiet moment, she wondered if she should tell him about the affair she’d had over the summer. The urge to confess was overwhelming; she blamed it on her Catholic upbringing. That morning she’d gone to the cathedral without him. All during mass she’d thought about their marriage, their problems. She scanned the pews in the cavernous church. Saw couples worshiping together. Families. The fact that he wasn’t next to her in the pew spoke to one of their differences.
When she was growing up, Sunday mass and meals were a big deal for the Murphy clan. She and her mother would be up before church preparing the feast. They’d make Lebanese flatbread from scratch. The first loaf out of the oven would be theirs. They’d spread butter on the hot bread and wash it down with mint tea. The smell of baking would fill the house and rouse the males out of bed. They’d all attend morning mass together, filling up two pews. After church came a family meal that seemed to last all day. Jack was raised differently. He was the only child of two University of Minnesota professors. They seldom went to church and rarely cooked. Jack’s childhood memories of Sundays involved sleeping late and going out for brunch at a restaurant. Murphy didn’t relish visiting his parents in their upscale St. Anthony Park neighborhood. Their house was too quiet and the copper pots they had hanging in their kitchen were covered with dust. Murphy thought there was something sacrilegious about buying nice cookware and using it solely for decoration. Jack was equally uncomfortable in her childhood home. Holidays were especially crazy with her brothers’ wives and children added to the mix. More than one Thanksgiving she’d found Jack sitting alone on the back porch. “Too much noise,” he’d mutter.
She watched him sitting on her deck, his feet up on the rail and a Sunday paper next to his chair. She went over to the refrigerator and stood in front of it, hand on the door handle. She ordered herself to go out on the deck and spill her guts. She stood still for a moment, and then pulled open the door and reached for the tomatoes. She told herself she’d unload her conscience on another day. She slammed the door shut and returned her attention to something she could control: the food.
She was glad she had all the ingredients on hand for tabbouleh:
Half cup of bulgur (cracked wheat)
Four cups of chopped parsley (no stems)
Two medium tomatoes, diced
Half cup of finely chopped green onions (including tops)
Quarter cup of finely chopped fresh mint
Quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil
Quarter cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice
One teaspoon of salt
Half teaspoon of pepper
She covered the cracked wheat with lukewarm water and let it soak until it was soft—about twenty minutes. She drained it and squeezed it with her hands to get out as much water as possible. She tossed the bulgur with the other ingredients and chilled the salad in a covered bowl while she made the rest of the meal.
They ate in the galley; it was too cold to dine on the deck. After lunch, he sprawled out on the couch to watch the Vikings game while she cleaned up. The galley was separated from the living room by a counter. He scrutinized her camel statues, figurines and pillows. “Where’d you get that big wooden one?” he asked. It had a leather saddle and was nearly a foot tall.
She was loading the dishwasher and froze with a plate in her hand. “What’d you say?” She was glad he couldn’t see her face.
“Never mind,” he mumbled.
She heard snoring a few seconds later and was relieved. She finished loading the dishwasher. The camel was a gift from Erik Mason, an investigator for the Ramsey County Medical Examiner’s Office. She hadn’t thought Jack would notice a new addition to her collection.
That night Murphy and Jack sat up in bed; he was in his boxers and she was in a
n oversized Old Navy tee shirt. She had the remote and switched from one channel to the other. The tall guy was all over the ten-o’clock news; every station led with him. He’d uncovered a clue during the search, and now the Moose Lake cops knew it was murder. Murphy stopped at one station. The reporter tipped her head toward the tall guy, as if the two of them were sharing a secret. “And what did you find?” The way she asked the question—slowly and dramatically—made it clear she already knew the answer.
The guy paused and swallowed. The camera closed in on his face. He was looking off to the side, as if he was shy, and rubbing the brim of a baseball cap he held in his hands. “A finger. Her p… pinkie, I think.”
“A final question,” said the reporter. “Is there anything you want to say to the person or persons who did this to Bunny Pederson?”
For the first time he looked up and into the camera. “Turn yourself in and tell the p… police where you buried her, or you’ll never be able to sleep at n… night.”
The reporter: “Will you be able to sleep tonight, after that horrible find? Expecting nightmares?”
He smiled, head lowered again. “I’ll be fine, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Trip. Back to you in the newsroom, Blake.”
“Trip.” Murphy said. “Why is that name so damn familiar?” She switched from station to station until she finally caught his full name: Justice Trip. “Bastard’s everywhere,” she said. “Dammit. I wish I could remember.”
Jack grabbed the remote and pulled it out of her hands. “Why’d you put a set up here when you’ve already got one downstairs? I don’t like a television in the bedroom.”
“Fine. Then don’t put one in your bedroom.” She grabbed the remote back and switched to another channel. Justice Trip on that news station as well. She studied his face; that weird earlobe. She said suddenly, “Wait. I know how I know him. Sweet Justice.” She threw the remote at Jack and hopped out of bed.
“Babe. It can wait,” he yelled after her. “Who gives a shit?”