See Also Deadline

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See Also Deadline Page 15

by Larry D. Sweazy


  “I’m well, thank you very much,” I said. “Could I speak to Darlys, please?”

  “Darlys isn’t home,” he said.

  “I guess Darlys is still at Anna’s?”

  “I think she is, yes.” The softness went out of Henrik’s voice. I wasn’t sure what I heard. Friction. Anger. Wind in the line?

  “Could you have her give me a call when she gets in?” I said.

  “Sure thing, Marjorie.” Henrik hesitated, cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, sure, of course.”

  “You don’t know anything about this business, do you?”

  “What business is that?”

  “This Jacobsen business. I’m accustomed to Darlys throwing herself into one thing or another. She’s always been like that, but we’re getting on in our life, you know, and she doesn’t have children to keep her busy, so I think she feels the need to contribute in one way or another. But she seems more obsessed than normal. One minute she’s at the Jacobsens’, then out to South Heart to the Rinkermans’. Before that she was visiting you, organizing the next bazaar, and making sure the Ladies Aid was running like a fine-tuned machine. Honestly, I’m afraid she’ll collapse. I’m never sure when she will walk in the door these days. I’m starting to worry.”

  I remembered Darlys whispering, “That man,” in a frustrated voice when she walked away from him in Anna’s front room. I almost felt like Henrik was looking for some information beyond what he was asking. Darlys had implied that Henrik was capable of being controlling, that she would pay a price for behavior that he didn’t approve of. I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t want to get Darlys in trouble.

  Darlys never talked to me about why she volunteered to so many causes. I never suspected that she was compensating for not having children. I should have recognized the behavior, since I was guilty of busying myself because I had little else to do with my time.

  “No, Henrik,” I finally said. “I don’t know any more about this ‘business’ than anyone else. I think there’s a lot happening, that’s all. We all want to help.”

  “Of course you do. All right, I’ll tell Darlys you called. Or do you want to leave her a message? I honestly don’t know when she’ll return home.”

  I hesitated. Leaving a message would give me an out. I wouldn’t have to lie to Darlys directly if I didn’t talk to her. “Yes, well, that’s a good idea. Tell her I won’t be at Anna’s tomorrow. Something’s come up that I absolutely must take care of. The funeral is set for Wednesday from what I understand. I’ll be able to help Tuesday and that day, of course.”

  “Oh, I hope nothing is the matter,” Henrik said.

  “No, not at all.” I didn’t offer anything more.

  “You do have your own set of demands. Darlys talks all the time about this editing that you do and the deadlines you have. Publishing sounds fascinating to me. I would like to know more about it.”

  “Indexing. I’m an indexer, not an editor,” I said. People confused editing and indexing skills all the time.

  “That’s right. Indexing. Sorry about that. I’ve used a few indexes in my life, especially in school. A good index is invaluable. They are beautiful, too. The columns look like perfect teeth. Everything in its place. We are the same, you and I. We put things where they belong.”

  That was the second time Henrik had said that to me. “Thank you,” I said. I appreciated being elevated to an equal standing with a professional. His deep voice was flattering. I could see how he had wooed Darlys and won her over.

  “I’m fascinated by what you do,” Henrik continued. “You’ll have to come over for dinner after all this mess calms down, and we can talk all about books. I mean, if you want to.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Darlys to make a date, and I’ll tell her that you are busy tomorrow.”

  My stomach rolled a bit at the dishonesty, but I didn’t say anything to the contrary. I couldn’t. “I’ll look forward to dinner, Doctor Oddsdatter, thank you.”

  “Okay, then. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” I said. As the line went dead, the feeling of dread in my stomach grew instead of fading away. Mother used to say, “Omission is a lie all unto itself,” and she was right. I had already lied to two people according to those rules.

  I felt a bit of anger flash toward Guy. But the anger fell away as quickly as it came. He had trusted me enough to ask for my help. I wasn’t going to let him down.

  I loved sitting at my desk, surrounded by books, stuffed in the warmest corner of the house. But I was uncomfortable with being rushed. I felt like I had to hurry through the page proofs, looking for index entries instead of digesting the text and allowing the entries to come to my mind naturally. Order took time. Pressure made a mess out of everything.

  I had entered the species section of The Central Flyway: Audubon’s Journey Revisited book. The pages before me concerned the American white pelican. The thought of a big white water bird helped to take my focus away from Anna’s loss and my impending journey, though, as I read on, I had to consider the Chase Lake Wildlife Refuge where pelicans nested over the short summer months. My trip to Grafton would take me south of the lake, as I traveled east on I-94. There would be no pelicans there in January. They didn’t show up until mid-April, visiting their annual nesting areas on two islands in the lake. Ice on the lake was probably a foot thick. The whole place was more a moonscape in winter than a potential habitat for pelicans to raise their broods.

  I read on:

  The American white pelican is one of the largest birds in North America, measuring six feet from beak to tail, with a wingspan of over nine feet. With a look of awkwardness on land, the pelican is an agile flyer, with the capability of soaring and then diving straight into the water after its prey: a bill full of fish.

  Chase Lake, North Dakota, is one of the largest nesting colonies of American white pelicans along the flyway. After being nearly decimated at the turn of the twentieth century, a repopulation effort began in 1955 with an introduction of 36,000 chicks to the lake. In 1908, local settler H. H. McCumber wrote, “When I came here in 1905 there were probably five hundred pelicans that nested on the island. . . . [A]fter the number of pelicans was reduced to about 50 birds, President Roosevelt set it aside as a bird refuge in August, 1908.” Proving that Theodore Roosevelt’s conservation efforts have reached far into the future, the American white pelican continues to flourish and reproduce.

  I sat back in my chair to consider what I had read. My mind filled with main entries, and I searched through the index cards I had already created. I quickly reached for the Rs in the shoebox and found the card I was looking for.

  Roosevelt, Theodore, 1, 27, 36

  President Roosevelt was a large figure in North Dakota’s history. He came to the state in 1884 after the death of his mother and his first wife, Alice. Elkhorn Ranch became a place of healing for him, as the wonder of the land and wildlife convinced Roosevelt that there was reason to live. He left North Dakota with a new respect for the land, remarried, and started his second family.

  I typed the page number on the card, then put it back in the shoebox. I felt a little despondent and disconnected. The spell of the book was broken by the thought of Roosevelt and his grief, so close to mine and to Anna’s, though neither of us had the option of leaving our home and going to a wild and untamed country to start over. We could not, or would not, migrate. I could only speak for myself, though, not for Anna. I had no idea what direction she might move in the days to come.

  I sat back in my chair, sighed, and thought about lighting a Salem to refocus myself. But I didn’t move. I was distracted, once again, by grief, murder, and the mayhem that followed. I thought of Nils’s face covered in frozen blood; a souvenir of my curiosity and need to be included in Guy’s search for Tina Rinkerman. I was still numbed by what I had witnessed.

  I pushed the page proofs aside and pulled out the index I’d made a
few days earlier to clear my mind. A lot of the questions remained unanswered. But I had more information than I’d had before. I added what I thought would help:

  B

  black car, who owns one?

  J

  Jacobsen, Anna (widow)

  Jacobsen, Nils (victim)

  M

  missing girl (Tina Rinkerman)

  who was the last person to see her?

  motive

  who would want to kill Nils?

  is Tina still alive?

  why did Tina leave home?

  R

  relationships

  did Nils know Tina?

  murder and disappearance related?

  Rinkerman, Adaline (mother)

  Rinkerman, Tina (missing girl)

  Rinkerman, Toren (father)

  Rinkermans (three sons, find out names)

  S

  suspects

  could Anna be a suspect? Why?

  could be random, but doesn’t make sense

  none right now

  Rinkerman men have been questioned

  T

  troubles

  is Anna pregnant?

  argued with Anna (Why?)

  did Nils have any problems?

  did the Rinkermans have any troubles?

  V

  victim, Nils Jacobsen

  W

  who saw Nils last? (I don’t know)

  I decided that I was going to take the index with me on my trip to Grafton. I knew my mind would wander as I drove that far. I got up from my desk, expecting to stumble over Shep, but he, of course, wasn’t there.

  I looked out the window over my desk, and the view was the same: white swirling snow had started to fall again, buffeting against the garage, spraying Hank’s security light with hard, unrelenting flakes. Even the light wavered and struggled against the blackness all around its edge. I could see nothing past the light. Nothing but darkness; an infinite void of nothingness where no living creature dared to stir. But I knew there was an evil person out there somewhere. I could have been looking right at him.

  CHAPTER 23

  I nearly froze to death sleeping without a hairy border collie wedged between me and the back of the davenport. Life without Shep in the house had its consequences, and I didn’t like them. I sat up stiff and didn’t feel rested at all. Sleep had come in fits and starts. I didn’t dream; I’d tossed and turned all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about Anna or the book I was indexing or the trip I was about to take. I worried about that most of all.

  As I had planned, I was up before the break of dawn. Darkness still reigned outside. The moon was in its new phase, unable, or unwilling, to cast any light onto the earth; I wasn’t sure which. Stars twinkled like little frozen drops of mercury thrown into the air and glued to a black burlap background. The air was expectantly frigid—the temperature sat at ten below outside—as the wood burned away in the Franklin. I wasn’t going to fully restock the stove; no sense in wasting wood on an empty house. According to the weather report on the radio, a visit from the sun later in the day promised to raise the comfort level to the mid-teens. A couple of storms threatened from both the south and the north, but they were out of range of my path. If there was a day to travel, then I couldn’t have asked for a better forecast.

  My intention was to be on the road to Grafton before sunup. Even on snow-covered roads and crossing from Mountain into Central time, I figured I could get to the State School a little after noon. There was more to my plan than my arrival time; I wanted to be through Dickinson before most of the town woke and headed out into their day.

  I ignored the empty bedroom as I passed by. That room was a museum to my old life. Mornings used to be full, especially after Hank’s accident. Once he’d come home from the hospital, his care had fallen mostly on my shoulders. Those days were busy. If I was lucky, I would never have that much to do or care about ever again. But I would trade places with myself if I could.

  Hank urged me on, too, and somewhere deep in my mind, I could hear him telling me to go to Grafton, to help Guy as much as I could. Somebody needs to find out what happened to Nils Jacobsen. He was a good man. But I needed more than a whisper that I had to create on my own to drive six hours from home in January. I needed to prove to myself that this trip was worthy, necessary, and helpful.

  What were you thinking, Marjorie? I said to myself, pushing Hank’s made-up voice out of my head. Of course I had to go. But that didn’t mean I was looking forward to the trip.

  I hurried outside to start the truck. True to form, the Studebaker groaned like an old man waking up, acted like it was too cold to do anything, then fired to life, chugging and protesting, before the engine started to run smooth.

  From there I scurried back and forth from the truck to the house, my mission as sure as a busy ant’s. I loaded the passenger seat of the truck with my overnight bag; a few heavy blankets, a can of beans, a gallon of water, aluminum foil, and a fresh box of matches. I had more survival gear stuffed behind the seat, which included a small garden spade, extra tire chains, and a tarp. The glove box was stocked with candy bars, a couple of forgotten packs of stale Salems, and more maps than I could count. I knew the way to Grafton, but you never knew when you were going to need a map.

  I was pretty sure that I hadn’t forgotten anything as I made my way out the door, then stopped as I realized that I was wrong. I hadn’t grabbed up the index I’d made concerning the investigations, so I went to my office for that, along with some blank paper, my red pen, and some of the page proofs for the Central Flyway book. I could work if I got stuck and had to wait for someone to find me. At least I wouldn’t be wasting time.

  I unloaded my haul, then hurried back inside the house and grabbed one last thing: Hank’s Revelation .22. If I got desperate I could hunt down a rabbit if I had to. That was assuming I got stranded for more than a day. Being stranded wasn’t in my plan.

  The county road north was vacant of any traffic as I skirted Dickinson. In any other season I would have taken the country roads over to Gladstone or Lefor and gotten on I-94 there, but the roads were icy, snow-covered, and their conditions unknown. Most folks were good about keeping their roads open, cooperating with the county, but there was only so much any of them could do.

  I was pretty sure no one had seen me leave Dickinson. I had only passed three cars between home and Dickinson. Once I was on I-94 the roads were clear and navigable, thanks to the heavy use of salt and a wind that seemed tame and uninterested in stirring anything up.

  The road looked like a gray ribbon fastened to a big white dress. All I had to do was drive for six or seven hours, depending on the road conditions. The concrete path would take me to Grafton. With some luck, I would be back home before the end of the day. A modern convenience if ever there was one.

  As I drove, my mind danced around like I suspected it would.

  I grieved for Nils Jacobsen and worried about Anna’s future.

  I obsessed over whether I really had seen Tina Rinkerman.

  I watched for coyotes running across the road, unaware that the Studebaker meant them no harm but would kill them all the same.

  I worried that Shep would think I would never return.

  Ten miles ticked off the odometer before I saw another car on the interstate. And the farther I got from home, the more I started to think that this trip might not be such a good idea after all.

  The radio kept me company. A clear blue sky and a little wind did nothing to interfere with the invisible signal that brought the world into the cab of the Studebaker. The Ag shows on KDIX had already played, and Peg Graham’s “Women’s Club on the Air” show wouldn’t air until later in the day. The announcer on the air was Earl Mann, giving the news and weather report. He droned on with no emotion at all about a Soviet nuclear underground test that had created an instant radioactive lake in some place inside Russia called Chagan, Kazakhstan. I turned the dial, trailing downward, listening for a strong
station, all the while keeping my eye on the road. I stopped when music replaced the dread and destruction of the news. The song was “Love Potion Number 9.” I’d had enough death and fear in my life recently. I didn’t need to fill my mind with images of atomic mushroom clouds and half the people on earth being incinerated.

  At that thought, I quickly scanned the sky, searching for a lumbering B-52 out of Minot or Grand Forks, patrolling the northern border, promising a swift retaliation to a Soviet attack. A cataclysmic explosion would have made all of the everyday problems I’d accumulated seem small and inconsequential. Even if those problems were loss and murder.

  CHAPTER 24

  There was little wildlife to see as I drove steadily east. I saw thin herds of antelope, a couple of soaring hawks, and one snowy owl, perched on a Burma-Shave billboard, watching the ground for any sign of movement. The owl looked like it had taken a dip in white cake frosting. Its eyes were bright yellow orbs, little suns beaming with life and intensity that I could see clearly from the road.

  I was heartened at the sight of the owl. The snowy owl was a reminder that my preconceived notion of migration needed to be broadened. My initial thoughts about migration were rooted in the movement of spring, of birds coming north to feast on the abundance of insects and prey, taking advantage of plentiful nesting opportunities. But migration happened in winter, too. I was too focused on assumptions to see the topic clearly. That thought, thanks to the owl, would have to be a strong consideration once I returned to my indexing work. I knew I would search the page proofs frantically, looking to prove to myself that I was correct about the snowy owl. My brief encounter, driving by a billboard sitter at forty-five miles an hour, would make for a better index. But if that really was going to happen, I was going to have to open myself up and learn how to look at everything a little bit differently.

 

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