I took a deep breath, noticed warm air hitting my face for the first time. The music on the radio played on. I was going to be all right, but honestly I wanted to cry. My loss of Hank seemed so easy, if that were possible. I had spent as much time with Hank as I could, and when he died, his passing was peaceful. Nils was brutally murdered, and Joey was left without a father.
I didn’t know how or why Darlys came to be sterilized, but being mentally insufficient was a broad description. Had her parents stood by that? Who decided? Or had they insisted on the procedure after she gave birth to Joey, in his condition, without being married to Nils? Again, I couldn’t know that. But Guy could find out.
I set the procedure completion report down and picked up the last piece of paper in Joey’s report, a visitation record. Like Tina’s there were a lot of lines with various writing styles. The visitor’s name was the same over and over again: Darlys. She had come to see Joey at least every other month from 1953 on. My guess was that when she’d gotten her driver’s license or had come of age she had started making the trip. I was comforted to know that Darlys and Joey had spent some regular time together. I felt better knowing they did have a relationship; they did have each other in their lives. And like any good indexer should when something on one page connects to another, I quickly went back to Anke Welton’s letter in Tina’s report and cross-referenced the information I’d discovered in Joey’s visitation record.
Tina became extremely agitated when we told her that Joey would be leaving for short periods of time, on a trial basis, to live outside of the school.
I had to assume that Joey was going to go live with Darlys. But she hadn’t said anything to me about a big change coming in her life. In all of her visits to my house for the Ladies Aid, Darlys did nothing to imply that she was getting ready to welcome a boy like Joey into her life, into her house, into her world. Maybe she had a plan. Darlys always had a plan. Maybe Joey was going to be one of her good works projects. Everyone would have believed that and never questioned her for one second. Everyone would have admired her. Everyone but Nils.
I sighed at the thought. I was getting close. I could feel the stitches pulling my thoughts together tighter. I needed to look at my personal index again. I needed to see if I had missed something, or if that something—or someone—was there all along, staring me in the face.
Darlys’s was the only name on the report for year after year. Nils’s name didn’t appear once. Nor did Stefan Gustaffson’s. The last time she had visited Joey was right before Christmas in 1964. She’d visited him on December 22, the day of his fourteenth birthday.
I looked closely at the end of the report and saw another name. One name, noted a single time on the last line of the report. A name that made no sense to me at first, then concerned me that he was alone, at the State School on his own, but maybe I could rationalize his presence. Maybe.
The visit was dated the day before Nils was murdered.
Maybe I was wrong about Darlys. Maybe she wasn’t a suspect. Maybe she had set something in motion that had gotten out of hand, gone in a direction that she could have never dreamed. Sometimes good intentions weren’t enough. Life took over. Bad things happened.
I stared at the name and I had to wonder: Had Henrik known about Joey all along, or did he only find out about him recently?
CHAPTER 33
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, rousing quickly from a shallow sleep. I had dozed off, which I’d tried to avoid, but the day had started early and I was beyond tired. Darkness and warmth had overtaken my senses. Lesser mistakes had killed people.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The snow fell away from the driver’s side window. I reached over and grabbed the .22.
“Anybody in there?” someone shouted.
Fear had frozen in my throat, then thawed quickly when I saw the image of a man come into view. He had his right hand cupped over his brow, focusing his vision into the cab of the truck. “Are you all right, lady?” he said. “I can get you out of here.”
“Yes,” I said as loud as I could. “Yes, I’m fine.”
I opened the door, allowing a cold blast of air to rush inside. I still clung to the rifle, holding on for dear life. I believed the man could help me, but I wasn’t going to trust him right off. Too much had happened.
“Boy, you sure got yourself in a heck of a mess, aye?” The man had a kind face, covered in a graying beard, peppered white from the snow. “I can winch you out of here with da rig, but I’m gonna need some luck to get ya out of here. Can you walk up to the truck and stay warm till I get things hooked up?” His deep North Dakota accent was a comfort to my ears and heart.
“Yes,” I said.
The man peered inside the truck and his gentle face drew closer to mine. He looked me up and down, then at the .22. “Looks like you thought ahead. Got everything you need, aye.”
“You never know what’s going to happen out on these roads.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” The man pulled back and looked up at the sky. “We better get you out of here. Storm’s headin’ east. Fargo’s gettin’ a brutal blast from da north, but west of here is dwindlin’ down.”
“That’s good to hear. I need to get home.” I started to gather up the reports, everything I wanted to take with me. I wasn’t leaving those papers in the truck on their own, not even for a second.
“Name’s Harald Crane, by the way. Where might home be?”
“Dickinson,” I said, as I angled my body out of the truck.
“Aye, I came through there. Roads are clear about a hundred miles east of Bismarck.”
I stood up with my purse in one hand and the reports in the other. I looked back inside at the rifle, and the man recognized my hesitation.
“No need for that rifle,” he said, “unless you see some jackrabbits. I ain’t gonna hurt ya, lady, I’m here to help.”
Harald Crane had twinkling eyes even in the dark. I trusted him even though I didn’t think I should. “My name’s Marjorie. Marjorie Trumaine. My husband told me if I got stuck to stay put. Someone would come find me. All I could do was set those flares and wait. I really appreciate you stopping on my account.”
“Your husband’s a wise man.”
“Yes, he was. He really was.”
The rig was a big Kenworth with a long semi-trailer hooked to the tractor. Harald was hauling motor blocks to Detroit. The oversized truck wore a winch on the front of its long pointed nose. The hardy man connected a heavy cable to the rear of the Studebaker with ease. Then he ambled back to the rig and climbed in without a groan or complaint. Harald Crane was at least thirty years older than me and spry as a young goat. He told me he’d been driving a truck ever since he came back from fighting in the Pacific Theater in World War II, and had seen more of this country than he’d imagined possible.
“Gonna have to ask you to go back to your truck, Marjorie. I can yank you out, but you’re gonna have to give the engine some gas.”
“I’ve done this before.”
“I imagine you have. You ready now, aye?”
“Yes.” I walked back to the Studebaker with the reports and my purse in hand. The white carpet of snow crunched underneath my feet. The wind slapped at the back of my head, but I ignored the cold. I knew I had won my battle. The weather wasn’t going to beat me this time.
Harald Crane and I managed to pull the Studebaker up the embankment with some concerted effort. Our years of experience driving in the snow paid off in spades. We said our mutual goodbyes and went our separate ways. But not before I told him to give me a call the next time he came through Dickinson. I promised to buy him a cup of coffee for his trouble.
Harald Crane was right about the condition of the roads. They were still icy and snow covered as I headed south, but once I finally made the turn onto I-94 the falling snow started to dwindle and the plows were able to keep up. I stopped for gas, then found a phone booth at the corner of the lot. I dialed the operator
and made a long-distance call to the Stark County Sheriff’s Department.
“Stark County Sheriff’s Department. Dispatch desk. How may I direct your call?” George Lardner said. He was still working.
“George, this is Marjorie. Marjorie Trumaine.”
“Good to hear from you, Mrs. Trumaine. Sheriff’s been worried about you. He’s had me callin’ all over the state tryin’ to find out where you were.”
“Tell him I’m fine. I got stuck outside of Cooperstown. Someone ran me off the road.”
“On purpose?”
“I don’t know, George. Maybe. Maybe not. The weather was bad. If I was run off the road on purpose that person is long gone. I’m lucky that there’s no major damage to my truck.”
“Good thing that storm turned east of you.”
“I got lucky. Look, George, can I speak to the sheriff?”
“He’s not here right now. Be back later is what he said. The sheriff’s been followin’ one lead after the other.”
“I planned on being back by now. Do you know if they’ve found Tina? Or solved the murder? I know you’ve been instructed not to tell anyone, George, but I really need to know.”
The line went silent except for some static.
“No,” George finally said. “There hasn’t been a crack in either case. Sheriff said he feels like he’s chasin’ his tail, but that’s between you and me.”
“All right, George, you have to do me a favor. Tell Guy to go check on Darlys Oddsdatter and make sure she’s all right. Tell him to ask her about Joey and if there are any problems because of that. Tell him to ask her who knows about the boy. Ask her about Henrik. I’m worried about her, George. Tell him to be careful.”
“Who’s Joey?” George said.
“That really doesn’t matter, George. Darlys will know what this is about. You tell the sheriff exactly what I told you, and I’ll head straight to the police station as soon as I get back to Dickinson. Tell the sheriff I have some information that he needs. This is really important, George.”
“If you say so, Mrs. Trumaine.”
“Do as I ask, George. I’m worried about Darlys.” Henrik’s name was on Joey’s visitation report. If Henrik had known about Joey before then, wouldn’t he have gone to Grafton with Darlys sooner? I thought so. The timing and the lone signature made my stomach churn. Why was he there only once? So he could see what Darlys had brought into this world?
“Okay,” George said. “You be careful on the way back, Mrs. Trumaine. If I don’t see you in a couple of hours, I ’spect the sheriff’ll have the National Guard out lookin’ for you.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, George.” The line beeped, and I knew the operator was coming back on the line to ask for more money in ten seconds. “Goodbye,” I said, and hung up. I didn’t wait for him to saying anything. I didn’t have time. I had to get back to Dickinson as soon as I could.
CHAPTER 34
I tried not to panic every time a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. The last thing I wanted to happen was to end up in a ditch again—or to feel like I was being tracked down and hunted. I couldn’t take that chance. I had to stay vigilant and aware. I had the window cracked so cold air would hit my face and a Salem in between my fingers to give me something to do to keep myself awake.
Night had completely fallen hours ago. An impenetrable black sky surrounded me as a salt shaker of snow shook down in front of my headlights. The precipitation was light, a distraction my eyes were accustomed to. I could see the road and tire tracks clearly in front of me. Once I turned on I-94 I’d felt a sense of relief. The road would take me straight home.
I looked in the rearview only to see darkness behind me. Ahead, there was a distant pair of taillights, offering me a hint of pale red embers to follow.
I glanced over at my pile of papers and reports, feeling a tinge of pressure. Deadline pressure. I knew I’d lost a day indexing the Central Flyway book by driving to Grafton, but the day had turned out to be much longer than I had anticipated. Once I got home and got settled, I was going to have to focus entirely on the index and leave the Ladies Aid duties to the other women. After Nils’s funeral, of course. I wasn’t going to ignore Anna in her time of need. I sighed out loud, torn between the life I had built as an indexer and the life I was living after Hank’s death.
I looked over at the papers again. My personal index sat on top of the pile. Driving didn’t allow me to re-read its contents, but as I drove straight toward Dickinson I thought of something that I hadn’t considered. Indexes weren’t linear documents. On the surface, they looked like they had a start and finish, from A to Z, but that was only a matter of form. A reader with a question accessed the index at the point that they needed to find the information. No one would read an index from beginning to end if they were trying to find something that concerned pelicans. They would start with P. Another reader might look in the Ws for waterbirds first. No one used an index the same way. As an indexer, I had to answer all of the questions a reader might look up. And that was my own revelation now. I was looking at Nils’s murder as though all of the events were linear. A person’s life, like an index, did not follow a straight line. We made decisions based on events or emotions that had occurred in the past. People carried references to their history with them everywhere they went, acted and reacted to them every second of the day. Bad experiences ruled people’s daily lives in ways none of us could ever know.
Now that I had more information about Nils’s life, I had a fuller picture of who he really was. Maybe now I could ask the right question: What had set the killer off? What had made him or her angry enough to commit murder?
I was sure that the murder was an act of passion of some kind. Betrayal. Hatred. Rage. Nils had one big secret as far as I could tell. I think, for a man like him, that was enough. I was sure Guy hadn’t turned up any business dealings gone bad. This was a murder about passion, about emotions that got out of hand. I would stake everything on that assumption.
I thought I knew what had set the killer off. A boy none of us had known existed was at the heart of all of this. All I had to do was make my way to the Sheriff’s Department and see if Guy agreed.
The snow-covered, green Welcome to Dickinson sign was a sight for sore eyes. Midnight had come and gone. The veil of darkness had followed me home and touched all of the storefronts along Villard Street. Snow spit out of the sky with reluctance, and the wind had tamed to a breeze. Other than the streetlights, there was no sign of life, no activity at all.
The lower section of the courthouse was all lit up. The parking lot was scattered with cars, most of them covered with a couple of inches of fresh snow. I found a spot up front, got out of the Studebaker, and plugged in the block heater. Then I headed back to the cab to get the reports to take to Guy. I nearly slipped on the ice as I stepped up into the truck. I had been sitting for so long that my legs felt rubbery and weak. I ached all over and my eyes burned like I had read a thousand pages instead of driving five hundred miles. My forearms were sore from fighting the manual steering all day, and I felt like I needed a long, hot bath and a good night’s sleep. But all of that would have to wait.
I was surprised to see George Lardner sitting at the dispatcher’s desk as I hurried inside. “What are you doing here, George?” I said, as I set the manila envelopes and a few other papers down on the counter.
“I should ask you the same thing, Mrs. Trumaine, but I know better. Sheriff’s on pins and needles waitin’ for you to arrive.” George looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Dark circles accented his already bulbous, bloodshot eyes, and his wiry hair was more a mess than usual, in need of a comb.
“He’s here, then?” I said.
“In his office. He said for you to go on back.”
“No change?”
“Nope, not since I talked to you last.”
“I was hoping for something else,” I said.
“We all are.” The phone rang, and George look
ed away from me, then picked up the receiver. “Stark County Sheriff’s Department. Dispatch desk. How may I direct your call?”
I didn’t move, even though I should have.
“Oh, hey there, Theda . . .” he said after a second. George noticed that I was still standing there and waved me back toward Guy’s office. I heard him say, “Nope, I’m workin’ a double shift. Sheriff’s got everybody out lookin’ or catchin’ some sleep . . .”
I left George, pushed through the nearest door, and headed down a long, well-lit hallway. Guy’s office was at the very end of the hall. He must have heard me coming. I was halfway down the hall when he appeared in the doorway. I smiled at the sight of him.
“Boy, am I glad to see you, Marjorie,” Guy said, as he ushered me into his office. “I was startin’ to think sending you to Grafton was a big mistake.”
I offered him the envelopes. “You’ll need these,” I said. “Did you find Darlys?”
“Oh, heck no. After George talked to you, I sent Duke on over to the Oddsdatters’.” Guy sat down behind his desk. The top of the desk was a rat’s nest of books, maps, and papers. He looked haggard and frazzled, too. Even more so than George. This case was really weighing on him. “No one was home, so I sent him over to the office. Everything was locked up tighter than a drum.”
“That concerns me.” I stayed standing.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s a thing to worry about, Marjorie. I called Doris Keating, his receptionist, you know, and she told me that Doctor Oddsdatter called her and told her to take a few days off. He and the missus were going out of town for a few days.”
Even though I was warm and comfortable in the office, a cold chill ran down my spine. “I think there is something to worry about, Guy. Darlys wouldn’t leave town; not now, not with everything going on. She was bouncing back and forth between Anna’s house and the Rinkermans’ like a tennis ball.”
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