MEN FROM BOYS
The high-pitched screech of a seagull in distress rattled Cubiak awake. He could ignore his several alarms when he remembered to set them but not the bird’s urgent and prolonged squall. The bed was empty and the room cold. When he’d turned down the heat the night before, he’d forgotten to toss the quilt on top of the thin wool blanket that he and Cate had been using. Trying not to think about where she might be, Cubiak rubbed his hands warm and listened to the raucous bird. There are those who would take the shrieking as an omen, but he didn’t believe in such things.
Eventually the bird quieted, and Cubiak made his way to the kitchen. From the window he checked the weather. Beneath a red sky, a ridge of black clouds blotted the horizon, and sharp, short waves churned the lake. The sheriff texted Rowe: OK today? The reply was immediate and what he expected. Too rough.
Tomorrow, then, Cubiak thought, as he opened the door for Butch. Seeing his breath crystallize in the cold air, the sheriff remembered that the weatherman had predicted plummeting nighttime temperatures. A record low, the forecaster had said. Had the kidnappers paid attention to the forecast? he wondered. If Sneider was being held outdoors or in an unheated room, they might be in a race against time.
While Butch whined at the door to be let in, Cubiak studied the refrigerator door. He hoped his array of possible clues would inspire some new insight, but he came away feeling at even more of a loss on how to connect the bits to each other.
In a nod to the cold weather, Cubiak cooked oatmeal, drank an extra cup of coffee, and dug through the hall closet for his winter jacket. He skipped his morning run and headed to the office. Maybe today he’d get there before the feds.
The sheriff was turning into his spot when another vehicle came up behind him. He hoped it was Rowe coming in early, but no such luck. Wrong car, wrong plates. The morning sun reflected off the tinted windows, making it impossible for him to see the driver, but this early he figured it was Moore. He seemed the type to be up at dawn. As Cubiak stepped from the jeep, the front door of the other car swung open, and a familiar pair of shiny black shoes hit the pavement. But they were heels, not wingtips.
“Morning, Sheriff,” Agent Harrison said. She smiled at him, bright-eyed and uncharacteristically chipper. “Finished your run early?”
Cubiak grunted, miffed that the feds were aware of his routine. Suddenly he wished he had gone for a run that morning and not wimped out because of the cold. Harrison was bare legged and hatless. Her only shield against the weather was a fringed plaid shawl wrapped tightly around her ubiquitous suit coat. Cubiak unzipped his jacket.
“Big day, today. I can feel it in my bones,” the FBI agent said as she got in step alongside the sheriff. “If I’m reading this situation right, and I think I am, the perps will contact Andrew Sneider today and tell him where to make the drop.”
“Right on schedule.”
The sheriff meant to be sarcastic but if Harrison caught his meaning she ignored it.
“Something like that. I’m guessing he’ll hear from them by twelve, maybe three,” she said. “They usually don’t wait more than a day or two, and it’s already Thursday. They’re anxious to get hold of the money and be finished with the whole business.”
Oblivious to the icy gusts that had dogged them from the lot, Harrison stopped outside the door. “For your ears only. We’ve got a couple of people in our sights. Not locals.”
“The Madison link.”
“All indications point in that direction. Quigley’s in Green Bay now coordinating efforts with the district office.”
“You think they’re holding Sneider somewhere down there?”
“Probably not. They don’t shit where they sleep—pardon my language. If anything, they’re keeping him ensconced as far away from their home base as possible.”
“So we wait for the signal from Agent Moore and then coordinate our approach.” He saw her look away. “Or we just sit tight while your team closes in.”
Harrison pressed a finger to Cubiak’s shirtfront. “You got it.”
The sheriff ’s pique ratcheted up and then Harrison turned away, forcing him to follow her into the lobby. “We’ve got trained officers and resources . . . ,” he said. Cubiak was about to go on, arguing for greater involvement, when he noticed a man with a mangy dog at the reception desk. The man was waving his arms and demanding to see the sheriff, while Lisa was trying to lower a bowl of water to the floor. In her condition, this was not an easy maneuver.
“Jesus,” the sheriff said, muttering under his breath.
Harrison smirked and uttered a quip about lost animals when the man turned and started hurrying toward them, dragging the dog along.
As Harrison clicked down the hall away from the lobby, Cubiak waited.
“Sheriff. Bob Franklin.” The man held out his hand.
“This isn’t the animal rescue society,” Cubiak said curtly.
“I know, of course not. But this here’s Verne Pickler’s dog. I found her tied up by the canal. Hungry and thirsty. Wet, too. Looks to me like she’s been there a couple of days.”
“Who’s Verne Pickler?”
Franklin rubbed his skull and tottered unsteadily.
Was the man drunk? Annoyed, the sheriff went on. “Maybe Verne forgot to come back for her. Why don’t you go ask him? Better yet, I’ll have my assistant call him. You got his number?” Cubiak glanced toward the desk but Lisa wasn’t there. That was unlike her to disappear without a word. Was she okay?
“I did call him,” Franklin replied, suddenly composed. “And I went over to his house, too, but he wasn’t home. You don’t understand, Sheriff. Verne’s a real animal lover. He’d never leave Maize like that.”
At the sound of her name, the dog began whining. Franklin took a biscuit from his pocket and let her eat it from his hand.
“All I can say is something must have happened to him. Maybe he was kidnapped like that Sneider fellow.”
Cubiak had been watching for Lisa to reappear at her desk. Hearing Gerald Sneider mentioned, he turned his full attention to the visitor. “Why would you say that?”
“Because Verne used to work for Sneider. When this kidnapping business happened, he got kind of nervous and said maybe he’d better start looking over his shoulder, too. I thought he was kidding, but now . . . I don’t know. Maybe he was serious.”
“What do you mean, he worked for Sneider? What did he do?”
“I don’t know. He never said.”
“When did you last see Mr. Pickler?”
“A couple two three days ago.”
“And after you found the dog, you went to his house?”
“Right, like I said, but Verne wasn’t there. I knocked on both doors, front and back, but there was no answer.”
“He didn’t leave a spare key around that you knew of?”
“Verne don’t lock his house, Sheriff. He’s old-fashioned that way.”
“But you didn’t go in, even though you were worried that something might be wrong?”
Franklin colored. “I’ve never been inside Verne’s place, and it didn’t seem right. That’s why I came here. I figure you can walk into a man’s house uninvited.”
Cubiak took a deep breath. “When exactly did you find the dog?”
“About six o’clock this morning. She was tied to a tree midway between the two overlooks along the canal.”
“You walk that way every day?”
Franklin had bent down to pet Maize. “Nope, I can only walk on days when it’s not too windy. I got tinnitus”—he pointed to his ear—“and wind makes it worse.”
“When’s the last time you were out that way?”
“Sunday. It was sunny early and I took a nice stroll before church.”
“And you didn’t see the dog?”
“No.” Franklin shook his head vigorously. “Maize wasn’t there.”
Verne Pickler lived on a little-traveled road not far from the Sturgeon Bay coast guard station. The a
rea was heavily wooded, and the house wasn’t visible from the road. From the mailbox Cubiak followed a long, narrow lane through thick woods that led to a modest frame house. There was no yard to speak of, just enough cleared land amid the towering trees to hold the small brown ranch and matching garage. Judging from the thin layer of moss on the two rooftops, very little sun penetrated the encroaching forest.
Despite what Franklin said, Cubiak didn’t feel right walking into a man’s house uninvited, even when he knew he had good reason to, and the isolated nature of Pickler’s place made him even more uneasy. Maybe Franklin was wrong about Pickler not being home. The man could be waiting inside, prepared to shoot anyone who trespassed. Or maybe he’d booby-trapped the place before he took off.
The sheriff looked in all the windows and checked the exterior before he pushed the back door in and stepped into a mudroom crammed with the usual assortment of jackets and boots. The inside door opened to a glossy white kitchen. All neat and tidy. Nothing out of place. Dishes washed. Sink clean. Stove spotless. A fresh plastic bag in the trash container. A single placemat laid out on the small oak table under the window. In one corner, a fifty-pound sack of dog food leaned against the counter, near bowls of water and kibble. All signs of a compulsively orderly mind, not that of someone who would leave a beloved dog tied to a tree two miles away. Unless Pickler had tidied the house in anticipation of an extended absence. Then why not make provisions for Maize?
The sheriff considered Pickler missing, on the basis of Franklin’s discovery of the dog and Pickler’s sister’s statement, when he reached her by phone, that she hadn’t heard from Vernie in several days, which she said had never happened previously. Well, almost never. There’d been a couple of times when they’d been out of touch for two or three days but that had been years ago and she hoped he wasn’t falling back into old habits. Clearly agitated by Cubiak’s call, she said she had intended to notify the sheriff ’s office herself if her brother hadn’t telephoned by the afternoon. Cubiak found her explanation overwrought and had the suspicion she was less concerned about her brother’s well-being than about having Franklin assume the lead role in her brother’s alleged drama.
According to both Franklin and the sister, Pickler was a confirmed bachelor. No girlfriends that they knew of, though he’d “played the field” in his younger days. Now at nearly sixty-nine, he was a quiet man, given to looking out for himself and his dog, they both said. Nothing in the house raised any concerns. Pickler watched TV on a big flat screen, collected bird nests that he arranged on shelves in the living room, and filled all the remaining wall space with black-and-white photos of bridges, those that were local and those well known and far flung. In one of the two small bedrooms, he’d built wall-to-wall work counters and on them was constructing two elaborate matchstick models of bridges. The second room held a double bed covered with a plaid wool blanket that was laid over the mattress. A plain wooden cross hung over the bed, and a well-thumbed prayer book sat on the nightstand.
As Cubiak walked through the house, he glanced about, looking for some hint of the ordinary mess that people leave in their wake, but Pickler had moved through the damp house like a whisper of wind, leaving nothing unruffled. Even the hunting magazines stacked on the rough-hewn coffee table were aligned edge to edge. Cubiak checked the closets for a rifle or shotgun but found no weapons.
The garage was empty, but a fresh oil stain on the floor meant his car had been there recently. What did Pickler drive? Cubiak wondered. He’d get that information from Franklin and put out an APB.
The sheriff was nearly at the jeep when instinct turned him around and pointed him back toward the garage. Walking behind it, he found a nondescript wooden hut. The building, which looked like a garden shed or a Finnish sauna, seemed to be deliberately tucked away. And it was locked.
Why would Pickler leave his house open and lock the shed? Cubiak wondered.
The sheriff broke the lock and stepped inside. “Well, would you look at that,” he said as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior and the contents came into focus.
Cubiak had seen many strange sights over the years, and this was one to add to the list. On the wall to his left, dozens of cattail whips hung in a neat line. The whips were made of leather and rope and varied in both length and number of tails—five, nine, and twelve, each one knotted at the end. The facing wall was filled with barbed and spiked chains of various lengths and thicknesses. It was a private torture chamber.
Seafarers, jailers, and religious fanatics were known to use whips and chains as tools of discipline and punishment. But they were also instruments favored by masochists. So how to explain Pickler’s collection? Cubiak wondered. Did he use the instruments on others or on himself? Did he belong to a cult of self-abusers or did he act of his own accord? In either case, what drove a seemingly benign man like Verne Pickler—a professed lover of dogs and a builder of matchstick bridges—to resort to such abhorrent behavior?
A wooden cupboard hung on the wall opposite the door. It was about three feet high, roughly the size of the cabinet over the sink in Cubiak’s utility room. The cupboard was installed at eye level and stained a dark mahogany that blended in with the surrounding wall. Cubiak crossed the room and opened the double doors. This was no ordinary cabinet; the interior was a shrine that held a large, color print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
Cubiak winced. This was the Christ image that had hung in the classrooms of his Catholic elementary school. For eight years, he’d been forced to look at and study under the benign gaze of this smiling Jesus whose parted cloak revealed a flaming heart set in the middle of his chest. The nuns said that the flames represented the transformative power of divine love, whatever that meant. The heart was surmounted by a cross, pierced by a lance wound, and encircled by a crown of thorns, all neatly orchestrated to remind the world of the horrible nature of the Savior’s death. The image was meant to help the students understand the pain Jesus had endured for them, but mostly it gave young Davie nightmares.
Months after Lauren and Alexis died, when he was in the deepest throes of grief, Cubiak had stumbled into a local church in search of solace. But instead of peace, he found a large rendering of the image that had haunted his youth. With his own heart racked with pain, he’d finally understood the torment the portrait was meant to convey, and, in the darkened church, he’d fallen to his knees and wept.
Looking at the image in Pickler’s shed, he felt cold and unmoved. Pickler’s bedside cross and prayer book indicated a moderate devotion to religion, but the enshrined icon along with the instruments of self-flagellation were signs of an excessive and out of control infatuation with punishment in the name of religion. Did Pickler belong to a radical Catholic group devoted to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, or was he one of a kind, a religious fanatic on a mission of his own?
Cubiak was about to close the cupboard when he noticed a wide slat nailed across the inside of one door. Several pieces of paper were stuck behind the thin lath, and when he tugged at a loose corner, he pulled out two slim booklets.
The title of the first pamphlet was printed in a large, bold font that was easy to read even in the dim light: “Men from Boys: A Manual.”
The prose was stilted and old-fashioned but the message clear. Children were born uncivilized and possessing a pure animal nature. They required the guidance of a firm, mature mentor to ensure their safe passage into meaningful adulthood. Boys more so than girls were in need of special handling.
What followed was a strict, no-nonsense step-by-step guide on how to eradicate the rebellious and curious nature of young boys and to transform them into “mature, right-thinking men of strong moral character.”
Under a section headed “Behavior That Is Not Allowed” was a long list of forbidden activities: back talk, questioning of orders and directives, idle free time, the reading of any forbidden books or magazines, inappropriate thoughts, fighting, subversive behavior, daydreaming.
“Behavior That Is Mandate
d” included daily cold showers, weekly haircuts, surprise inspection of quarters, obedience, proper address of yes, sir and no, sir, morning and evening prayer, Bible study.
An adult who’d discovered the right path had a moral obligation to provide direction and guidance, following the seven laws for adult interaction with youth.
Discourage free thinking.
Use corporal punishment to correct deviant behaviors.
Act as the authority in all matters.
Demand obedience at all times.
Exalt physical strength.
Prohibit sexual excitement and punish all unclean actions.
Discourage individual pride.
The second pamphlet, “The Spiritual Wasteland of Poverty,” declared that God was just and rewarded the righteous. The poor were deprived of goods and material comfort because they lacked the mental and emotional ability to appreciate the wonders of God’s creation.
According to the treatise, the average person sinned once every twenty-seven minutes, but among the poor, the rate jumped to a sin going down every thirteen minutes. Poverty’s spiritual wasteland encompassed all manner of ills, including diminished mental capacity, moral stagnation, a natural propensity to take things that were not one’s own, an inability to distinguish right from wrong, a natural tendency to lie and to embrace the baser instincts of humanity, as well as six of the seven recognized vices: sloth, envy, lust, gluttony, wrath, and greed. Which was missing? Cubiak wondered. Of course: pride! The author went on to caution that some of the poor, those firmly entrenched in their lower state, were capable of assuming an arrogance that defied comprehension.
But thankfully all was not lost, declared the author. The poor were not to be blamed for their sorry condition. Through rigorous effort they could be saved and delivered to the path of righteous behavior and thought. The younger the age at which appropriate correction was provided, the more likely the chance of success.
Death in Cold Water Page 13