Cold Land: A Mystery Thriller

by John Oakes

  “Maybe keep an eye on Vane while we’re at it?”

  Jerry dipped his chin. “I’d guess Melinda will reimburse you for the room.”

  Jake smiled and picked up his hat. “Either way. I don’t think that place is gonna break the bank.”

  After quietly acquiring room keys from the front desk, Jerry and Jake parked around back and slipped through a side entrance near their rooms. Once alone in his surprisingly clean room, Jake kicked his boots off and sat on the corner off the bed. An unpleasant smell greeted him up from the floor. “Good grief. Ain’t changed out my socks or skivvies.” Jake was dressed in the same clothes he’d thrown on in Texas before making a mad dash north. How long had it been? Two or three days of hard driving and running around Minnesota?

  He ran the sink and shower hot and stripped down until nothing but freckled lean flesh reflected in the mirror. A few days growth of stubble stuck out on his face, and he marveled at how red it looked. He didn’t know of any red heads in his family, but whenever he stopped shaving for a few days there it was, a mix of his light brown hair plus coppery and rust colored whiskers. He instinctually looked around for his razor, but not only did he not have his toiletry kit, he realized he didn’t technically work for the Bureau, nor did he know if they had grooming policies. He made the facial equivalent of a shrug in the fogging mirror and picked his briefs up off the floor. He gave them a vigorous scrubbing with the motel soap then set to his socks, leaving it all to stew in the hot sink basin while he showered.

  The hot water felt so good on Jake’s skin it almost buckled his knees. Surprised and impressed the cheap motel still had hot water at this time of night, he resolved not to harbor any critical thoughts about its otherwise shabby conditions.

  As he was draping his hand washed socks and underwear over the heater by the window, two soft raps of a knuckle sounded on the door. Jake opened it without checking and stood in the doorway holding his towel about his waist.

  Jerry held up a bottle of alcohol and carried a bucket of ice under the other arm. “Went and fetched us a little reward for a hard day’s work.”

  “Well, Mister Jerry, I don’t know what to say. Come on in.”

  Jerry passed through the room and plucked two plastic cups off the bathroom counter. “What’s your poison? Had to guess since you’re from Texas that you’d like Jim Beam.”

  “Jim Beam is from Kentucky not Texas.”

  Jerry stood straighter and gave Jake the stink eye. “I’m saying I’ve never met a Texan who’d say no to a Jim Beam.”

  “I can’t speak for the state as a whole,” Jake said. “But you ain’t wrong tonight. Thank you kindly.”

  Jerry handed Jake a cup with equal parts ice and whiskey. Jake took a cool sip that burned on his throat, then a second to grease the pathway.

  Jerry took the chair by the door and raised his glass. “Skol.”

  Jake sat with his back resting on the headboard of the bed, and raised his glass.

  “You got a heck of a scar on your leg there.” Jerry motioned with his cup.

  Jake looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Blew my knee out playing football in High School.”

  “You seem to get around okay.”

  “I was young, and I guess the doctors were good. I don’t give it much thought, actually.”

  “What about that one on your elbow?”

  Jake winced. “Breaking into a house, on the job of course, and I snapped this window pane and fell. Lucky it only got me on the arm. Lucky as hell.”

  “Oh, yeah. Windows aren’t funny at all. I walked up on a scene where this perp tried to rob a bank after hours but got locked in. He shot through a big plate window and thought he’d jump through it like in the movies. Cut him to ribbons, and he didn’t even make it outside. Bled out right there in the hotel lobby.”

  Jake blew out a breath and held up his drink. “Here’s to dumb criminals.”

  “God bless ‘em.”

  They both took a slug of their drinks.

  “What else you got?” Jerry asked. “Scar wise.”

  “You want the full inventory?” Jake asked. “Well, I got this here on my left shoulder where a lady burned me with her curling iron.” He pointed to a thin scar on his arm. “Knife, druggy.” Jake pointed to a scar on his hand. “Bite from a psycho fella I was serving with papers.” He pulled up his towel to show a patch of ugly tissue above his knee scars. “I chased these guys into a garage and ended up knocking some corrosive shit onto myself. I didn’t notice it until after backup arrived and we made the arrests. Someone pointed to the giant hole in my jeans that was sort of smoking and my skin all red and bubbly. Pretty nasty. Was in the hospital for two weeks.” Jake sighed. “That’s about it. My scars are half assault, half my own clumsiness.”

  Jerry’s eyes went wide in proper appreciation for the nasty wound, then he nodded with his lower lip pushed upward. He set his drink down and unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled it off and yanked his white undershirt sleeve back to his neck. A large divot out of his shoulder was missing. “Son of a bitch shot me with one of them potato guns. You know PVC pipe and air compressors and the like? Can shoot a potato at blistering velocity.”

  “A potato did that to your arm?”

  “There was a fair bit of shrapnel loaded in there too. Yeah it was back in the nineties. I was working for the Anoka County Sheriff’s Department, serving a warrant on one Glenn Franklin Felcher. Ha, I still remember the name. Well, he was this cross-eyed fella with a mean streak. He’d been hurting animals for years probably, and was just starting to get abusive with people in his neighborhood.”

  “Oh, we’re talking your classic serial killer path.”

  “Some such. So, the higher-ups finally made the call to bring him in and charge him. My partner and I had dealt with him before; We found him in this big new barn a neighbor had just put up. Told him to come to the station with us, but he was barricaded behind all sorts of auto and farm equipment. We had no idea what he was armed with. Then I hear this big thunk sound, and now I’m bleeding all down my arm, and my partner, Lenny Moore, is writhing on the ground beside me.”

  Jerry shook the ice floating in the remains of his whiskey. “The owner of the property, Mister Lundy, is watching it all from the back windows of his big house off to my right. Well, after Lenny and I got blasted, he comes out of his house with a shotgun and motions to the rear of the barn. I yell at him to go back inside, you know, because you’re supposed to let the police handle it.” Jerry looked down at his drink. “In hindsight, I maybe shouldn’t have done so. Lundy still goes trying to sneak behind Felcher and the barn. But it was a lot of ground to cover quickly, and I suppose Felcher heard me tell him to stay inside. Next thing, Felcher turns his gun on the old man running toward him.”

  Jerry set his drink down and slammed the heels of his palms together.

  “Hit old Mister Lundy center of mass with a potato moving four hundred feet per second. Put the old fella down as hard as any bullet in existence. Coroner said it pulverized his sternum and sent chunks of it into all his vital areas.”

  “A potato…” Jake shook his head. “Wait, was this potato cannon in the barn because—”

  “Because Lundy and his grandkids made it. Just for fun — launching potatoes into the back forty for kicks.”

  “I’ll be. That’s sad.”

  “So I had to make a choice, because we needed cover. I’d made it closer to the barn than the cruiser. I look back and Lenny is sitting up, bloody-faced but just from a nick— you know how head wounds bleed like hell — and a couple other flesh wounds. But he could move. I had to stay out of the field of fire but motioned for Lenny to get his rear to the other side of the barn. Felcher shot another potato at him and I saw it whizz just behind him hip-high as he ran. Just like that, we boxed him in. Lenny fired and backed him up, distracting him as I snuck in and rested my pistol on this old pickup hood. Felcher walked right into my sights. But then I see this elevator contraption above him, just a plat
form on a chain and pulley for hoisting hay up into the upper lofts of the barn. It was loaded with hay. So, I shot it. I shot the chain.”

  “You didn’t shoot him?”

  “The chains flew off, and the platform fell sideways, and twenty or thirty hay bails fell on him. Broke an arm and a leg.”

  “But he survived.”

  “He went to prison.” Jerry picked up his drink. “Six months in, he killed an inmate in a scuffle, then killed the guard that tried to break it up. When more guards arrived, he uh… he passed away in the ensuing fight, you could call it.”

  Jake blinked at the carpet, then drained his cup until unsuspended ice rattled about. “I’m sorry. That must be hard to bear.”

  Jerry didn’t respond.

  “That day at the barn, did it change the way you dealt with the work?” Jake asked.

  “No.” Jerry tilted his head, staring off at the still lit bathroom. “I didn’t want to shoot a man with a potato gun. Didn’t seem right.”

  “But he’d killed with it. He maimed you and another officer.”

  Jerry’s eyes softened as he locked eyes with Jake. “That’s what he chose to do.” Jerry stuck a thumb in his sternum, right where the potato had hit Mister Lundy. “I chose not to shoot a man with a potato gun.”

  “And the guard he killed? The other prisoner? Why mention them, then?”

  “Because they’re part of the story, Jake.”

  Jake winced, confused. “So, you don’t feel guilty?”

  Jerry’s mustache swished from one side to the other, as he looked for words. “I know that if I’d shot Glen Franklin Felcher dead, he wouldn’t have killed them. Couldn’t have. I know that. But that’s not the same as feeling guilty for things he did.”

  Jake squinted at Jerry, unsure how to parse his meaning.

  Jerry shook his own cup and drained it, then yawned. “Early start tomorrow. I’ll leave you to your rest.” He picked up his shirt and jacket, made a clicking with his teeth in parting and slipped out the door.

  Jake got up and locked it, then checked his socks and briefs on the heater, noting that they’d warmed to the touch. He walked to the counter where Jerry had left the booze and poured himself another. After one very long day in Minnesota, Jake summed it up out loud to himself in the mirror. “Bunch of real odd ducks up here.” He tipped his cup to his lips and took a long drink.

  THIRTEEN

  Unwelcome Callers

  Jake downed his fourth cup of whiskey and reached for his phone. He thought better of it, knowing his phone might come up on the Caller ID, and instead used the room phone to dial Jenny’s parents’ house.

  The rings whirred softly on his end of the line, the third, the fourth, the fifth. Right when he expected the phone to take a message, someone picked up.

  “Hello?” a high-pitched feminine voice said. Nora, Jenny’s mother.

  “Nora?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, it’s Jake. Sorry to disturb you, I—”

  “Jake,” Nora said, exasperated. “I’m not supposed to talk to you. Fred might hear me.”

  “Just put me on with Jenny.”

  “Oh, Jake. Have you been drinking. Oh, hun. You can’t be calling like this.”

  “Nora, I always liked you. I know you like me despite everything.”

  “Of course I do, Jake, but you’re not—”

  “Nora, just put Jenny on the phone. Please. I’m working with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Okay. I’m doing everything I can to make a life up here. I just want to hear her voice. I deserve that.”

  “Jacob Adler,” a deeper voice said on the line. “Son, if you call this house again at night, we’re going to have a problem.”

  “Fred, don’t do me like this. I’m trying, sir. I’m trying my very best.”

  “We’re all trying, Jacob.”

  “Fred,” he heard Nora say in the background. “He’s in Minnesota. He says he’s got a job up here.”

  “What now? No. No,” Fred said. “I don’t want to hear about it at this hour. I won’t hear it.”

  “He wants to see her, Fred.”

  Fred sighed. “If you want to go see her, we’ll arrange it. Same goes for the girls. But you cannot be calling at all hours, all foul-headed. You understand? Any man in your shoes is grieving. Of course. We all are. But you have to have your faculties. You have to see reality.”

  “Oh, Fred…” Nora said in the background.

  “Good night.”

  The call ended and Jake stared at the receiver before lazily dropping it back in its cradle. He thought about ripping the phone from the wall and smashing it into a thousand pieces. Instead, he picked up the bottle and took a long pull.

  Jake woke with a banging at his door. “Police-a-man!” Bang- Bang-Bang “Police-a-man!”

  “Hunh?” He opened his eyes blearily, looking about. The clock read one-something in the morning.

  Bang-bang-bang. “Police-a-man!”

  Jake slipped out of bed, feeling the air strike his undercarriage and remembered to slip on his jeans before opening the door.

  “There is mans fighting!” The young, foreign mother who managed the motel stood all of five feet tall before him, imploring him with both hands splayed. “Big mans fighting!” She clenched her hands like claws then pointed down the hall.

  “Aww, hell.” Jake stepped out and across the hall to knock on Jerry’s door. “Got a problem Jerry. Down the hall.” He swayed a little on his feet and went to knock again, but the woman pulled him away with all her strength. He gave in and jogged shirtless and shoeless with her toward the sound of grunts and creaking.

  “Big mans fighting!” the manager said again. “Cause big damage. You stop.”

  “Yeah,” Jake whined. “I get it.”

  He saw guests poking their heads out of their doors and one bushy-haired woman standing before Zach Vane’s room near a door that had been shattered and nearly ripped from the hinges.

  “Ma’am. Go back to you room, please.”

  She startled at Jake’s approach and skittered back inside.

  Jake stopped himself with a hand on the door jamb of Zach’s room. Inside, Russell Young had a small table hoisted over one shoulder while Zach Vane held a crowbar and a lamp.

  “You fucking scum,” Russell grunted. “You killed my brother.” Though Zach was taller and more muscular, Russell was still formidable enough to hurl the table with ease. Zach turned to his side, pulling a leg up and an arm down to protect his ribs. The table knocked the bigger man off balance, but the wall caught him, and Zach was able to keep his feet. He squared his thick shoulders to Russell. “I didn’t kill anybody, you fucking prick.” He hurled the lamp at Russell, darkening the room as it pulled from the socket.

  Russell ducked, and it hit the wall with a clatter instead of shattering, proving it was cheap plastic. Zach advanced right behind it, crow bar raised with the hook pointed at Russell’s exposed back. As the blow came down, Russell dove into Zach, easing the impact and avoiding the sharp claw. Russell pushed harder, and Zach tipped back onto the bed. Russell tried to climb on top, but Zach kicked at him until Russell tipped sideways onto the floor, his large frame jiggling with the impact.

  Zach’s legs and arms flailed like a beetle trying to flip off its back. Once he had his knees under him, he raised the crowbar to hack down at Russell. In two bounding steps Jake was there, gripping the bar, feeling the sting of the short blow he’d caught.

  “You murdered him!” Russell said, scooting away on the floor.

  Zach tried to strike at Russell again, but Jake’s grasp held. He pried the crowbar over Zach’s shoulder and out of his hand, then pressed him into the bed by the neck.

  Zach’s first instinct was to buck Jake off using his superior size, but Jake pressed the crow bar to Zach’s top lip threatening harm. “You’re done. Both of you.” With one hand on Zach’s neck, Jake swung the crowbar to point at Russell’s face. “Stay down.”

  Jerry swung
into the room barefoot, wearing his trousers and his undershirt, his white hair disheveled from sleep. He recognized Russell and hauled him to his feet by his shirt collar with the sheer force of authority.

  “Russell, what in the dang heck are you doing down here?” Jerry whined, pinning him against the wall by the door.

  Russell ran a hand over his mouth, staring daggers at Zach. “I came to see this piece of traveling filth. He killed my brother.”

  “I didn’t kill—”

  “Shut it!” Jake pressed the crowbar back into Zach’s face. “Take Russell out for a breather,” he said to Jerry.

  “Come on,” Jerry said. With soft words and soft hands he led Russell out the door and into the lobby.

  “Are you armed?” Jake asked Zach.

  “Not really, homes. You got my crowbar, but I was just defending myself.”

  Jake opened the three drawers under the TV and found nothing but a Gideon’s Bible. He rifled through Zach’s bag on the table, finding only a couple changes of clothes. Jake was careful to count the pairs of underwear and socks, as that was a better indication of someone’s plans. Only two each. Jake looked around, then dropped to his knees.

  “Hey man, this is my room.”

  Jake looked under the bed and hooked the crowbar onto a loop like a bag strap. He pulled and felt something heavy slide out, then unzipped the small duffel. Inside lay three canisters of acetylene and a torch.

  Jake looked up at Zach, watching for any slight movements.

  “Those are my tools, man.”

  “I can see that, Mr. Vane. Tools for what?”

  “For odd jobs.” Zach leaned up on an elbow. “I’m always looking for work.”

  “Seems like a real specific tool kit, doesn’t it?”

  “I got other tools in the car, man. I just brought these in in case it freezes.”

  Jake narrowed an eye at him. “It ain’t gonna…” He shook his head and took each of the twenty-four inch tanks and stood them up in the corner. “You ain’t supposed to store acetylene on its side. Supposed to be always upright.” Jake motioned with his hand up and down.