by Eskens,Allen
I drill down an inch or so, enough to see the full circumference of the shovel—a first impression for my template. I move the auger to start another hole, this one a quarter inch away from the first. When that is marked I start a third and a fourth. I keep a thin partition of ice between the starter holes so that the blade won’t catch on an edge and jam up as I drill down to the lake.
When I finish my fifth starter hole, I step into the middle of my pattern and look down to see if it’s wide enough to accommodate a man’s chest. I’m a little bigger than he is, and if I can fit through the hole, he will fit. The six-inch-wide shovel on the business end of the auger is duller than I’d expected. It forces me to push down on the tool, exerting energy that I’d hope to save. I mark three more notches, completing the oval—eight starter holes in all—big enough to slip a man through. I step back and give the project one last look before taking on the arduous task of drilling through three feet of ice with that dull-bladed auger.
Satisfied that I have the dimensions right, I go back to my first hole and begin cranking.
“I don’t think you’ll do it,” he says.
My better judgement tells me to ignore the man, but I don’t. “Do what?” I ask.
“I see what you have going there. You want me to think you’re going to cut a hole through the ice so you can drop me through. Am I right?”
I turn the auger and don’t answer.
“My guess is that this is all some ill-conceived plan to get to me to . . . I don’t know what your goal is here, but I’m sure you’ll tell me at some point, probably when you get close to finishing your little project there.”
“You and I are going to have a talk,” I say. “There’s no question about that. We can do it now or we can do it later. That’s up to you, but we will have a talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you—except that you’re a fucking psychopath. You’re not going to get to me with your little game of . . . what did they call it in those old black-and-white movies . . . the third degree? That’s right. You’re giving me the third degree here. But we both know it’s all pretend, so you may as well give up, because I’m not buying it.”
“That would be a mistake,” I say.
I keep the auger turning at a steady pace. I don’t want him to know how slowly it’s cutting through the ice. But this is his auger, taken from his cabin. He’s surely used it before. He has to know how dull the blade is and what an effort it takes to cut through the ice. He has me at a disadvantage on that score.
But on all other accounts, I have the upper hand because he doesn’t understand how much I know. If I were to lay it all out for him—cut to the chase, so to speak, it would hit him like a baseball bat to the chest. I could do that, and I briefly consider it, just to see the look of astonishment on his face. But I can’t do that. That’s not why I came here. That’s not what this is about. I will not accept remorse from a man who has no other choice. What good is a confession if the sinner has to be dragged kicking and screaming down the church aisle?
Time and pressure. Stick with the plan.
“Want to know how I know that this is all bullshit?” he says. “Do you? You fucked up. You tipped your hand. Think it through. There’s a flaw in your logic and you don’t see it.”
I lean onto the auger, using my weight to give the blade more bite. I can still see the top of the shovel above the ice shavings, which means that I’ve only drilled down about six inches. How long has it been? Ten minutes maybe? Christ. I stop drilling and scoop the ice shavings out of the hole. As I scoop, I inspect the sides of the blade hoping to see that one side is sharper than the other, looking for a slight glint where a file may have turned rusted steel into fresh metal. No such luck.
“Don’t you want to know your flaw?” the man asks.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I say, as I go back to drilling.
“If you had the balls to kill me, you would have done it by now. You had me out cold. I was completely defenseless. You could have killed me and left me out here for the wolves to clean up, but you didn’t. You see the problem? How are you going to convince me that you’re going to kill me now if you didn’t do it before?”
I turn the auger and do not answer.
“For fuck sake, quit wasting my time with this charade. You said you’re a cop. A cop isn’t going to kill a man in cold blood. You and I both know that. You’re not a killer.”
I want to tell him how wrong he is, but when I had the ax handle poised above my head, ready to crush his skull, I didn’t bring it down. I remember the struggle that froze my arms. Am I not a killer? That can’t be right because I’ve killed before. Three times. All in the line of duty. I didn’t have a choice—not with any of them. I had no time to deliberate over whether my actions were justified. I followed my training and my instinct. Action and reaction—that was it. I almost pause my drilling as the memories of those faces come flooding back to me, their lifeless eyes staring up at me.
They made me see a psychologist after each of the three killings, a nice woman with a voice that reminded me of a purring cat. She would ask me if I’d been losing sleep or if I had difficulty eating or felt anxious. I lied to her and said no. I didn’t see that it was any of her business. Yes, I’ve had a great many sleepless nights, but those nights had nothing to do with the three people I killed. Their eyes weren’t the eyes that visited my dreams; it wasn’t their voice whispering to me in the dark hollows of my bedroom as I tossed and turned at night. It was Jenni.
I shake my head to clear away those thoughts. My hole is now two feet deep. A slight pain pinches deep in my bicep as I turn the crank. Nothing to worry about yet, but I know it’s the harbinger of a much worse pain to come. I take a moment to examine the hole and rest my arm.
I glance at the man lying on his backside, watching me as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. His death will be different than the others; I know this. I will look him in the eye as I end his life. There will be no heat of battle. I can’t ignore the deliberate nature of what I plan to do. I can’t pretend that this is anything short of vengeance. I tell myself that I have the mettle to finish the job despite the second thoughts that poke at my resolve.
I force my thought back to Jenni. I think about my visit to the parking ramp where she died. They had tried to clean her blood away, but I could still see where it had collected in the tiny fissures and cracks. I bent down and ran a finger along the seam of an expansion joint, lifting a thin line of red. Jenni’s blood. I spread it on the palm of my hand, closing my fist to hold her there.
I had promised to protect her. I had failed.
I think about what this bastard took from me, and I start to get mad. I want to get mad. I want to feel the burn of my rage again, have it course through me as it did when I chased him into Canada. I find that rage and turn the auger with renewed vigor, cranking nonstop until I finish the first hole. A guttural bark escapes my throat as the auger blade breaks through to the lake. Cold water comes gushing up through the cut like an overflowing toilet and spreads across my little nest, soaking beneath the snow at the outer edges.
I put the auger in the next starter hole and turn.
“Jesus Christ,” the man says. “Would you just stop?”
My back is already starting to ache, but I keep turning the auger.
“What do you want from me? I don’t know what you want. For fuck sake man, stop drilling holes.”
On the western horizon, the thin line of blue sky is pushing the clouds to the southeast. Colder weather is on its way. When it gets here, it’ll drop the temperature below zero and wind will feel like sandpaper against my cheeks. I have a lot work yet to do.
One down, seven to go.
Chapter 14: Minneapolis—Two Days Ago
Chapter 14
Minneapolis—Two Days Ago
I brought a small recorder into the Burn Unit on my second visit. Orton had bandages wrapped around his entire head, with holes for his mouth and
eyes, but his eyes had cotton balls taped over them. The room was small, clean, and smelt of antiseptic cream. The breathing tube had been removed from his mouth, and peeling skin made his lips look badly chapped. I sat in a chair next to his bed and watched him breathe for a while, labored breaths. In—out—pause. In—out—pause. I don’t think he heard me come in, or maybe he was asleep. I turned my digital recorder on and placed it on a table beside him.
“Dennis?”
He stirred, turning his head only slightly in my direction. He was awake.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Dennis, my name is Detective Max Rupert. I need to ask you a few questions.”
He swallowed hard and ran a dry tongue gently across the inside of his lips.
“Would you like a drink of water, Dennis?”
“Yeah.”
Someone had placed a cup of water with a bendy straw on his bed stand. I held the straw to his lips, and he took a sip.
“I need to talk to you about what happened.”
“I couldn’t stop them,” he said. “I tried to stop them. I couldn’t.”
“Stop who, Dennis?”
“The men who killed Pippa. They killed her and I couldn’t do anything.”
“Okay, let’s slow down a bit here. What men are you talking about?”
“Three black guys. They tried to steal her car. I told her to let them have it. We were going to let them have the van. But then they started . . .” Orton stopped talking and put his lips together and carefully licked them again. “They started grabbing her. I wanted to help her but they held me back.”
“Were you in the car? Was this all happening in the car, Dennis?”
“Yes. I was in the driver’s seat and they pulled her into the back.”
“Wait, Dennis. Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you and Pippa before this thing with the black men happened?”
“We were home. I mean . . . earlier, we were at home. We decided to go out for a bite.”
“What time would that have been?”
“I’m not sure, maybe around six in the morning. We were going out for breakfast.”
“Just getting up, or out all night?”
“What?”
“Well, are you an early riser? Six a.m. is pretty early on a day most people sleep in.”
“We were . . . um, we had pulled an all-nighter.”
“Did you go out for New Year’s Eve?”
“Does that matter?”
“Just trying to get a full picture, Dennis. Filling in the blanks.”
“We went out for a couple drinks, sure.”
“Where?”
“I don’t . . . it was just a bar; I think it was on Marshall. I’d never been there before. I don’t remember the name. That has nothing to do with this.”
“Okay, so you and Ms. Stafford went out, had a few drinks, came home. You live together, right?”
“Right and we—”
“Did you meet anybody for drinks?”
“What?”
“When you were out at that bar, did you see anybody you knew?”
“That’s not relevant. We didn’t get jumped at the damn bar.”
“Alright, Dennis, don’t get upset. So you and Ms. Stafford went out for breakfast. What happened?”
“Okay. We’re driving along and—”
“Who was driving?”
“I was driving. I told you that already.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m driving down, I think it was Second Street, I’m not sure, and I stop at this stop sign. There’s a car in front of me and one pulls up behind me. I didn’t think much of it.”
“What restaurant were you going to?”
“What?”
“You were going out for breakfast. What restaurant? That might help us narrow down where the attack took place.”
“Um . . . I, uh . . . The Eatery.”
“I didn’t know they served breakfast.”
“They don’t. I didn’t know that. It was Pippa’s idea. She thought they were open for New Year’s Day. She wanted to check, so we went there and they were closed.”
“So then, where were you going?”
“We were just driving around. We didn’t have a plan B, so we were talking about where to go, you know? Just roaming through the streets, trying to think of who might be serving breakfast.”
“And that’s when you pulled up to that stop sign?”
“Yeah. A car in front and one in back. And these three black guys get out. I think they were gang members, because they were wearing bandanas.”
“Did you happen to see what color the bandanas were?
“Red. Yes, red.”
“And you said three of them got out?”
“Yeah, two out of the front car and one out of the back. And before I knew what was going on, they pulled guns.”
“All three had guns?”
“Yeah, I think. The guy who came to my door had a gun. I know that. He pointed it at my face and yelled at me to get out of the car. The other two came around the passenger side. They opened the doors and one got in the back seat the other shoved Pippa. They pulled her into the back.”
“The guy on your side, he had a gun, you said? Do you know what kind? Was it a revolver? Automatic?”
“I don’t know, automatic I think.”
“And he ordered you out?
“Yeah.”
“Did you get out when he ordered you to?”
“He had a gun in my face, of course I got out.”
“But, you said that they held you in the driver’s seat when they pulled Pippa into the back.”
“He . . . yeah, he grabbed my collar . . . and my arm. He grabbed me through the window so I couldn’t help Pippa. Then he pulled me out.”
“Your window was open? It was twenty below.”
“Wait . . . I . . . I rolled it down when he was walking back toward me. I thought they might be having car trouble.”
“And he pulled you out through the window?”
“He pulled me out through the door. He opened the door and yanked me out.”
“By the collar and the arm?”
“Yeah. I realized that we were in trouble so I started fighting with him. I tried to break away. I wanted to help Pippa. He was bigger than me and—”
“Where was the gun?”
“The gun?”
“He had one hand on your collar and one on your arm. Where was the gun?”
“He must have . . . I don’t know. It all happened so fast. It was dark. Maybe he had the gun in one of his hands when he grabbed me. I just remember getting yanked out of the car. Pippa was screaming. That’s when he hit me in the head.”
“He hit you?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after that. Not until the fire. I woke up in pitch black. I didn’t know where I was at first, but I could smell gas.”
My phone buzzed once in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a text from Niki. Got Holiday footage. Very interesting. You still in town?
I typed back, Yes. Want to meet up?
Rusty’s?
Give me half hour.
I switched back to my interview with Orton, trying to remember the last thing he said. Oh, yeah, he smelled gas. “Where were you when you smelled the gas?”
“I was in the van—in the front passenger side. I could smell the gas and everything was black. Then I saw a flame, like a lighter, then a bigger flame. One of the black guys was on the driver’s side. The back window was open and one of them lit something on fire and tossed it through the window. I got my door opened just as the whole van blew up.”
“You were in the front passenger side?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how I got out. The blast must have thrown me.”
“And then you called 911?”
“I was on fire . . . rolling in the snow. I couldn’t see, but I managed to dial 911.”
“When did you shut
the door?”
“What door?”
“The van door. When I arrived at the scene this morning, the front passenger door was closed.”
“I don’t know. It must have blown open and then . . . you know . . . it bounced back shut.”
“That’s probably what happened,” I said. “Now, you said that it was dark when you woke up. You said that it was pitch black and you didn’t see anything until someone lit a match?”
“That’s right.”
“So you didn’t see any headlights? Running lights? Nothing?”
“Lights?”
“I’m assuming those three guys didn’t walk back to town. It makes sense they’d have a car follow them—to give ‘em a ride back to the city.”
“I suppose.”
“And if they drove a car out there to use as a getaway car, well, if it was me, and it was twenty below, I’d leave the car running. I’m just wondering why you didn’t see any running lights in the darkness.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t worrying about running lights at the time. I didn’t give a rat’s ass whether they had a getaway car. I was just trying to survive. Why are you being a dick? They strangled my girlfriend. They tried to kill me and all you can do is focus on why I didn’t see running lights?”
“They strangled your girlfriend?”
Orton’s lips closed, squeezing together, trembling. His left hand, the one free of bandages, balled up into a fist. He’d fucked up.
When his lips relaxed, he said, “Detective, I need some rest. I’m in a great deal of pain. I need you to leave now.”
I stood. “That’s fine,” I said. “I have a few more questions, but they can wait.”
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
Rusty’s Bar had been a neighborhood fixture since before the neighborhood had electricity. It had burned down three times—only one of those times had arson been proven—and it had changed its name at least eight times over the near century and a half of its existence. What hadn’t changed was the clientele. Rusty’s never tried to be more that it was. Trends came and went: flappers, zoot suits, rebels, hippies, yuppies and now the gen-X and millennials. Through it all, Rusty’s served cold beer and poured their drinks with honest measure—except, of course during prohibition. In those years, root beer topped the menu unless you had the clout to go down to the basement where they served Canadian whiskey.