Watkins - 01 - Blood Country

by Mary Logue

  “I have been trying to run away from my life. That’s why I moved down here. I thought it was only in the city that life was truly evil. But it’s followed me.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  She smiled and said, “You’ve been doing it. Helping out with Meg. Making me feel like I can trust someone again.”

  He finished his drink and asked, “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  Claire looked at him, and it was as if her eyes opened wider in the dim light they were sitting in. She stared at him, examining his fece for something, and Rich wanted to reach across the table and touch her, tell her she could tell him anything. Then she started, “It is such a long story—” The sound of her own voice scared her, and she shut her mouth. Then she said, “Some other night. I can’t go into it right now.”

  “I understand,” Rich said, not understanding at all. He stood up. He didn’t think he should stay much longer. It was late for him, and Claire was ever so slightly drunk and completely lovely. ‘Well, you know, if things get too bad—”

  She looked up at him. “Yes?”

  “I am available.” He turned and let himself out the front door.

  AFTER CHECKING ON Meg, Claire poured herself one more shot. She had let Rich leave. What else could she do? At this moment in time, she was a suck hole. Anyone who came close to her was in danger of their life. There was no one that she could turn to anymore for help. She shut off the light in the kitchen and walked into the living room to sit in a rocking chair in the dark.

  It scared her how small and alone she could feel. She had to remind herself to take deep breaths, because she caught herself holding her breath. Waiting. She felt frozen with knowledge of how horrible the world could be. Just when she thought that her life could get no worse, she would turn another corner and see just how much worse it could get.

  She needed to find out what Bruce knew about Warren. If he used him as an informant, he would surely remember him, might even be in touch with him. This could be the breakthrough they were looking for. Conceivably, Warren had even used Bruce to get to Claire. Who knows what Bruce might have let slip, not knowing that Warren had it in for Claire? What was scary to Claire was that she didn’t even remember the guy. Maybe she would if she saw him. She had arrested so many scumbags, after a while they all blurred together.

  She needed to quit thinking about this, or she would never sleep tonight. She wanted to have another drink, but three was already over her limit. She would have to bring the crossword puzzle book to bed and puzzle away until she couldn’t see straight.

  The house seemed so quiet and safe around her, but she knew how penetrable it was. Anyone could get into this house if they wanted to. She would call and get someone to come out this week and put in an alarm system. She had resisted before, feeling strongly that she didn’t want to live with so much fear. But now she felt like she needed to know that she would hear someone before they got to her in her bed.

  She would also sleep with her gun. She always locked it away when she came home so that Meg would never have access to it. Too many stories of children playing with guns and killing themselves or others.

  Suddenly, a rasping noise came from the back porch. She froze in her rocking chair. Was it the pheasant chick? Did pheasants make some strange noise that Rich hadn’t warned them about? The noise stopped and then started up again. But this time she could tell it was no animal noise. It sounded metallic.

  Claire stood, holding on to both arms of the rocking chair so it wouldn’t rock back and make any noise. Then she crept over to where she kept her gun locked and pulled it out of the drawer. Quietly, she took off the release and crept to the back door.

  Her eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, so she could see the shape of the back porch. It was empty, and she knew the door to it was latched. She had told Rich to do that. Meg would have insisted that he see to it Nothing moved in the back. She stood staring through the window in the back door, and then she saw something. It was next to the door. A large man was sawing through the screen next to the door.

  Claire waited. He didn’t know she was there, so she had an edge on him. She was armed and ready to shoot. She would let him get into the porch. She wanted to see him before she did anything.

  A hand reached in through the hole in the screen and unlatched the door. Then the door slowly swung out, and in walked a large man. He walked toward the pheasant’s crate. Claire made out who it was and slammed open the back door, switched on the light, and said, “Freeze, you idiot Get your hands up. What the hell are you doing on my back porch?”

  Fred Anderson swung up his arms as if he were doing a jumping jack. His mouth dropped open, and his eyes bugged out of his head. When he saw the gun in her hand, the front of his pants darkened. “Oh Lord,” he moaned. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Well, yes, you did. You cut my screen and walked into my porch. What’re you up to? Were you going to steal my pheasant?”

  “Sort of.”

  Claire heard Meg call from upstairs. “Mom?”

  “It’s all right, honey. Somebody just stopped by. I’ll be right up.” Then she swung back around to Fred. “You’ve frightened my little girl. You better start talking, or I’m taking you in.”

  “Taking me in?”

  “You bet, breaking and entering. That’s a felony offense.” Claire lowered the gun and motioned that he could drop his arms. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to see your pheasant.”

  “Why?”

  “I like to hold them.”

  Claire felt exhausted. She had cornered an old man in her back porch who wanted to hold her daughter’s pet pheasant. It felt like a low point of her career. “Then what do you do with them?”

  Fred looked confused, then he seemed to come through a tunnel, and the light shone on his face. “I must hold them too tight. They die.”

  Worse and worse. He killed pheasants. “Not a good idea. Have you been over to Rich’s house, holding pheasants?”

  “Yes. Are you going to arrest me?” He seemed excited about the idea.

  “I’m thinking about it, Fred.” Claire looked him over. He definitely needed a psychiatric evaluation. She would get on the phone and have someone pick him up. She backed into her house and picked up the cordless phone. Without taking her eyes off Fred, she dialed the sheriff’s department. “This is Claire Watkins. Send a squad down to Fort St. Antoine, my house. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got someone who needs to go in for the night, at least.”

  “I could pay for the pheasants,” Fred suggested.

  “That might be a start.” Claire let him stand there for a few moments while she was thinking. She had often found that a little thinking time made a suspect more compliant. Fred, in her mind, was still very much a suspect in the death of his brother. And since he seemed to be telling the truth, she might as well ask him a quick question. “Tell me, did you see Landers the night he died?”

  Fred licked his lips, looked down at the pheasant, then back at Claire. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe. What kind of bullshit is that?”

  He cringed at her tone and squinted his eyes like he was going to cry. “I’m not sure.”

  “We need to talk about that night, Fred. You need to tell me what happened to Landers. You better start remembering, or I could make it tough on you about breaking in here tonight. You’re going to spend the night in jail. That will give you time to think it over. I’ll be down to see you tomorrow.”

  His eyes grew big, and his hands flew up from his sides. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Yes, you have, Fred. Breaking into someone’s back porch is against the law.”

  “No one ever told me that.”

  “You haven’t been talking to the right people, then, Fred.” Claire figured she might as well dump it all on him.

  She didn’t want to ask him any more right now. She needed to get it on tape. She didn’t want him to tell her some
thing and then have to try to get it out of him again. Get him into jail tonight, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about him. “Well, we need to talk about Landers soon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t tell Darla,” Claire warned him; she wasn’t sure why.

  “I don’t tell Darla everything.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “I try.”

  Claire nodded. “I guess we all try.” She motioned him to sit down. They sat waiting for the police to come.

  28

  Claire stared at the jigsaw-puzzle piece of paper she had taped back together again. She read the number of the lot and block to the man over the phone. She said yes, she’d hold the line while he went and checked. While she waited, she stared at the faucet dripping in the sink. It probably needed a new washer. Maybe she could pick up a washer in Durand, when she went back to work. The drops of water fell regularly, every two seconds.

  Minutes later, the man from Durand County was back on the line. “That piece of property is actually owned by Landers Anderson. He holds the deed on it.”

  Claire could hear the man rustling pieces of paper on the other end of the phone line. “Since when?”

  “Since his uncle died in 1964.”

  “But Fred and Darla Anderson pay the taxes?”

  “I don’t know about that, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.” Claire hung up the phone and stared down again at the piece of paper she had taped together.

  So this was the missing piece. Darla and Fred didn’t own their house and property. They couldn’t be part of the development without Landers quitclaiming the deed over to them. He wouldn’t do it. Fred probably went over to talk to him about it; they had words; and Landers died. Now they owned everything—both their land and the house they lived in and Landers’ property. But if she could prove they killed him, they would own nothing. After what had happened with Fred last night, she realized he was a loose cannon.

  She would talk to Fred as soon as she finished up what she had to do with this Warren guy. That crazy old man on her back porch. She had called to check on Fred this morning and learned that he had been taken away for psychiatric evaluation, as she had requested. She knew, even if he were released today, he wouldn’t leave town. He had nowhere to go that would make any sense to his life. She would have to have another conversation with Fred—this time with a tape recorder going. It would take about a minute to break Fred in two. He didn’t have the backbone of a snake. She wondered, as she had before, what Fred and Darla’s son was like.

  “WHAT’S MOM GOING to do while I’m gone?” Meg asked.

  Bridget patted Meg’s skinny legs. They were lying stretched out next to each other by a swimming pool in the Best Western motel in Rochester, Minnesota. Meg was wearing a tight blue bathing suit with stars, left over from last year. Bridget wore a two-piece that she had just bought last year, but she felt like her stomach was starting to stick out too much already and felt self-conscious. The wound on her leg had healed nicely, but the one on her arm still looked a bit raw.

  Chuck had gone to get them drinks; they had both ordered Shirley Temples. Bridget had always loved them when she was a kid, and decided that she could take advantage of her pregnancy to order them again. “Oh, she just thought you needed a break. We all needed a break. She had a good idea, don’t you think? This is going to be a lot of fun, staying at a motel.”

  Meg twisted her head around for a moment, wrinkling her nose as if an odd odor had risen up from the depths of the pool. “You don’t need to be careful around me, Aunt Bridget. I know when Mom’s up to something.”

  Bridget stared down at Meg’s carefully coiffed little head. This was what scared her. Meg was more adult than Bridget felt she herself would ever be. What if her child turned out to be that way? “Well, since you know so much, what do you think she’s going to do while you’re gone?”

  “Well, she showed me a picture that might have been that guy. The same one she showed you. I told her it could be. It wasn’t a good picture. So I think she’s going to get that guy. Arrest him. Throw the book at him. Lock him away forever and ever. Throw away the key. Then we’ll all live happily ever after.” Meg said it all very matter-of-factly. Then she added in a more worried tone, “I just hope King Tut is all right. I hope we left him enough food.”

  Bridget suddenly felt a sense of relief that Meg knew it all: how Claire had called up early Sunday morning and asked Bridget if she had any vacation time coming, how she then persuaded Chuck to take time off too and whisk them both away to a town where no one would even think to look for them. Meg obviously knew that Claire wanted them safe and out of the way so she could take care of business.

  Bridget felt a slight chill run through her. Meg knew it all except the last thing Claire had said to Bridget. Claire had asked Bridget to take care of Meg if anything happened to her during the next few days. Bridget had promised she would, but prayed that she would never have to keep that promise.

  She ruffled Meg’s hair just so she wouldn’t continue to be too perfect, then said, “I’m sure you did.”

  CLAIRE SWALLOWED A gulp of coffee. Bruce would be here in a bit. She had the coffee ready—nice and strong, the way he liked it—and the table set for two. She knew he had wanted her to stay out of the way in finding Red, but she couldn’t do that. He had to understand.

  Claire went to the window and looked out across the fields to the bluffs. A perfect day; already it was nearly sixty degrees. She could see hawks soaring off the bluffs. She wished that she could spend the whole day in her newly growing garden, clearing away the old plants from last year, giving the sprouts pushing up more room to grow. The ground would be warmed by this sun, and it would feel so good after the long, hard winter they had had.

  Claire wondered what Rich was doing. She hadn’t talked to him since he baby-sat Meg. She would need to do something special to thank him for that And she should tell him that she might have caught his pheasant poacher. What was the suitable punishment for that old guy? Maybe Rich could make him shovel pheasant manure for a few days.

  Bruce drove up the driveway as she was standing at the window. He was early. Claire watched him step out of his car. He was so tall, he unfolded as he stood. He looked the same, big guy moving toward the house with an easy roll. Claire took two deep breaths standing there in the sunlight and then started to put out plates for them. They had work to do.

  “Hello,” he hollered from the door.

  “Come on in,” she yelled back.

  “Stopped at your favorite place, Big-Time Bagels.” He looked happy and awake. His hair combed straight up from his forehead, he reminded her of a young football player, ready for his big game. As he handed her the bag, he smiled at her, and his eyes glinted with pleasure. “Two cinnamon bagels for you with plain cream cheese. That’s your favorite, right?”

  “You’re a pal.” She smiled back at him.

  “I’d like to be more than that,” he cracked back, not too serious.

  “Any trouble getting off work today?”

  “Hey, don’t ruin my alibi. This is work.” He laughed, a big, generous guffaw. “Don’t you know, I’m reconnoitering with the Pepin County Police Department, deputy sheriff.”

  “So you are.” She poured him a big mug of coffee, held it out to him, and then asked as he took it, “How many cups have you had so far this morning?”

  “A 7-Eleven special. Grabbed it when I got gas. Might have got the two liquids mixed up. The taste was a cross between Styrofoam and car fumes. You know, it had that nice little oil slick on it that let you know it had been a brewing a long time.”

  “Yuck.”

  Bruce took a sip of her coffee. “So I guess I can truthfully say that this is my first real cup of the day.”

  Claire poured herself a cup and sat down to fix up a bagel. “This looks great.”

  “How’s Meg doing?” Bruce asked, sitting down across from her.

  Bruce caught C
laire’s eyes as she answered, and she forced herself to look him in the eye and give him a slow smile. “You know, I’m surprised, but I think she’s fine. She didn’t get much of a look at the guy. She really couldn’t describe him to me. I think she took off running right away. So nothing bad really happened to her. It’s Bridget I’m a little more worried about.”

  Claire ate a bagel with relish. This was one of the things she missed about living in the city, access to good ready-made food.

  “What did she have to say about the guy?”

  Claire pointed at her mouth and finished chewing. “She’s the same as Meg. Couldn’t give me much information. Actually I’m afraid with her it’s more a case of real trauma. She really doesn’t remember much that happened. The one thing she told me, though, was that he said I had arrested him at one time.” Claire wanted to set this up right. See what Bruce had to say. “So I went and pulled up some old files of mine. Just to see if any of them would be likely suspects.”