by John Clausen
“I heard that,” Droop yelled from his cell, “and I don’t wear shoes…I wear boots, so fuck you.”
Hornsby jerked his thumb toward the cell. “See what I mean?” he said. “Does that sound like somebody who could pull off something like shooting Harlen Ackerman and then try to do in me and Pooch Eye?”
“Well, no, sheriff,” Claire said, “But take a look at this.”
She tossed a sheet of papers on Gene’s desk.
“What is this?” the deputy asked. “Looks like property records.”
“That’s exactly what it is, Gene,” Guthrie said. “You’ll notice that it’s mostly from the Sorenson outfit…and a lot of it’s going to be flooded by the rec project. Think it might be worth looking into?”
“Maybe so. You got anything else?”
“Well,” Claire said, “nothing as good as that, but there are a whole list of people who are going to lose property when and if that dam goes in.”
“But aren’t they getting paid? Fair market price and all that?”
“Sure they are,” Claire said, “but who’s to say what’s fair in the mind of a guy who’s lived on that land his whole life. What’s that worth? Hey, there’s even a cemetery down there. Including a family plot for the Sorensons.”
“Old Lud himself is planted there,” Guthrie said, “I was down there for Old Settler’s Day. Founder of the family, you know. Maybe Carl isn’t too happy about disturbing Grandpa’s final resting place. Could be that Carl is the biggest River Rat of all.”
“That’s pretty hard to believe,” Hornsby answered. “If we go by what you wrote in that article, those boys don’t seem like Sorenson’s kind of crowd. He’d be a pit bull in a chicken coop with them.”
“Maybe so,” Guthrie said, “but what if he was just there to stir them up, get them to do something stupid that would benefit him? Maybe we ought to look into his business a little closer. Could be he was in with the senator or with Ackerman or God knows who. I just got the feeling that there’s a Sorenson hiding in the woodpile here someplace.”
“I guess I could take a ride out there and see what I can find out.’
“Just don’t warn him,” Claire said. “We don’t want to lose him like we lost the senator.”
Hornsby ignored that rather pointed comment and fished around in his desk drawer for his keys.
Nobody was in the yard when Hornsby drove in the Sorenson’s driveway and parked in front of the house. He could see a tractor in the fallow field behind the house. It was pulling a 16-foot cultivator and it looked like the field was about done, with just the short rounds and the corners to finish out. The field was situated between two thick rows of trees, something the farmers called “shelter belts.” The purpose of the tree rows was to hold the snow in the winter so that the field would hang onto the moisture when the snows melted. It was a common practice in an area where wind and water eroded a lot of topsoil.
The Sorenson shelter belts all contained some wild plum trees that Carl had planted years before. Hornsby had worked for the Sorensons while in high school, and the deputy remembered those plum trees fondly. When he’d worked that particular field, he would stop the tractor under one of the larger trees and fill his hat with the dark purple fruit.
Carl Sorenson came out of his machine shed while Hornsby was still thinking about his old days on the place.
“Gene,” the old farmer said as he approached the vehicle, “are you out here looking for Bonnie and Clyde?”
“Nah, just looking around talking to some folks that knew Harlen Ackerman.”
“What you mean, ‘knew,’” Sorenson asked. “Did he die?”
“Nope, In fact, it looks like he’ll live. Up and around today, Doc Brown says. Probably come home in a couple days. Real touch and go for a while though.”
“Glad to hear that, Gene. Old Harlen and me didn’t get along all that well, but I hate to see a guy get shot down that way.”
“You and Harlen had some differences, did you?”
“Yep, that damned rec project of his probably gonna wipe out half my outfit.”
“You get paid, though, don’t you?”
“Sure…pretty decent price, too. But it isn’t the same…and I can’t say I like havin’ it jammed down my throat like that.”
“So you had words?”
“Couple times. I got pretty hot about it, too. Probably said a couple things I shouldn’t have. Harlen can be an aggravating son of a bitch sometimes.”
“You two still on the outs?”
“Don’t think so. Tell you the truth, I don’t think Harlen gave it much thought at all. He had all the ducks in a row…lot of big money invested, couple pet politicians. Nothing I could threaten would make much difference to him. That lake’s gonna get built if he wants it. And that’s a fact. I guess I know why you’re out here though. I’d probably be thinking the same thing. But I didn’t shoot the old bastard. Not the way I do things. You want to look around the place for evidence or whatever…be my guest. My guns and ammo are under the stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Go ahead and have a look. Eugenie will show you where they are. I’d show you myself, but I gotta go out and tell Johnny where to take that cultivator next.”
Hornsby felt a little foolish looking through Sorenson’s gun collection. The man had been so open and cooperative that he felt like he was betraying a friend by even considering that Sorenson could be the shooter. Nevertheless, he went through the motions and collected samples of ammunition that matched the caliber of the weapon that had been used on Harlen Ackerman.
Chapter 37
It was time, Pooch Eye Ziegler decided, to take matters into his own hands. He’d reported a dead body floating on the Big Hungry, gone right to the police with it. And what did he get? Well, mostly nothing but a lot of harassment in Nolen’s Bar and very little respect from the sheriff’s office. Once Charlie Taylor and his kids had confirmed the existence of the dead body, Pooch Eye figured that he would be vindicated and the story of the floating woman would gain the serious consideration it deserved, maybe even a drag of Paff’s Pond or the river downstream from it. However, the sheriff seemed to be preoccupied with the recent shootings and the floater had been relegated to the back burner once again. It wasn’t that Gene Hornsby thought he was lying, Pooch Eye reasoned; it was just that the deputy was overwhelmed with the recent spasm of law breaking that had broken out in Warren County. Also, no one that fit the floater’s description had been reported missing in the whole central part of the state; it was easy for the deputy to put off the hunt for a woman who was only allegedly dead. In any case, whoever it was would stay deceased for as long as it took to get around to investigating. It was not so easy to ignore the presence of a leading citizen languishing in the hospital, very real and very near to becoming a corpse himself.
Pooch Eye, as anyone familiar with him would affirm, was not a fellow to sit around and ponder the subtle nuances of any given situation. He knew that the corpse was real. And he knew that nobody was going to take drastic steps to locate it. Hence, the job was his.
His first step was to borrow a canoe from Johnny Sorenson and load it up with a case of Miller Lite, a life preserver, and a pair of 6-12x30 Taylor binoculars. He also stuffed an old war surplus .38 Smith & Wesson pistol into his jacket pocket and tossed his fishing pole into the canoe…figuring that as long as he was going to be on the water he might as well see if the walleyes were biting. Mostly though, he would be hunting for the dead woman’s body, which he figured must have snagged on a stout branch or gotten waterlogged enough to sink. He intended to find it, stuff it into the extra-large lawn and leaf bag he’d brought along, and take it back to town and claim his place in Tulleyville history.
The ever-adventurous Johnny Sorenson volunteered to go along and switch off paddling and scanning the river for the body. Pooch Eye figured that Johnny was more interested in the case of cold beer than he was in finding the corpse, but he accepted the offer anyway and by mid-afternoon the
pair had paddled several miles down the river from Paff’s Pond. They still had about half the beer left and had managed to pull out three acceptable walleyes. Unfortunately, they had seen nothing remotely resembling the floater.
Pooch Eye lifted his straw hat and ran his hand over his sweaty scalp. “Time for a break. Pull up there on the bank. We’ll cook up these walleyes. Maybe have a couple more beers.”
Johnny Sorenson grunted and started paddling toward a sloping section of shoreline. Pooch Eye spent a lot of time outdoors and was probably second only to Ben Mooney when it came to survival lore. He could cook almost anything on a stick and frequently spent a weekend or more camping near the river eating fish and small game. While he cleaned the walleyes, Johnny started building a small fire. Sorenson was no tenderfoot either. He and Pooch Eye hunted and fished together almost as often as they got drunk together.
After polishing off the walleyes and three more beers apiece, the adventurers settled down by the fire to digest and ruminate. Pooch Eye was in an expansive, generous mood. Johnny was perhaps more pensive…as if something were bothering him.
“Hey, Pooch. What’s up with Harley Ackerman? He die yet or what?”
“Heard he was gonna make it. Tough old bastard.”
“Wonder who done it.”
“Think old Droop got enough brains to do something like that?”
“Not a chance. Droop’d fuck up a one-man parade.”
“Prob’ly right. Somebody done it, though. No two ways about that. You know what? I think I got it figured out. I’m bettin’ you done it.”
Johnny choked and spit out a mouthful of beer.
“The fuck you talkin’ about, Pooch? Don’t even joke about something like that. Jesus, what the fuck’s the matter with you?”
“Think about it, man. Who else could it be? We both know Droop couldn’t do it. Those guys in the River Rats couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if you wrote the directions on the heel…plus they’re a bunch of pussies. I hear Ben Mooney’s outa jail, so he probably didn’t do it. And I know I didn’t do it…so who does that leave? Just you…you’re the only one left who could do it. Hell, I’m surprised Eugene ain’t picked you up yet.”
“You a little uncomfortable, Pooch? I mean it must be a lot of pressure to be as packed full of bullshit as you are.”
Pooch Eye drained the last of his beer and stood up. “Well, if you ain’t gonna confess, let’s get down the river and find that bitch. Got a few more hours of daylight.”
The two men got into the canoe and shoved off down the river completely unaware that Ben Mooney had heard every word they’d spoken, After they were out of sight, Ben moved silently into the campsite. He picked up the beer cans they’d left and made sure the small fire was completely extinguished. Looking down the river where the two paddlers had gone, he shook his head in disgust before crushing the cans and dropping them into a small canvas sack. “Piss out of a boot,” he muttered.
Chapter 38
Jerry Guthrie settled into the passenger seat of Claire Norgard’s rental car and rubbed his right hand through his hair.
“That,” he told her, “was one of the more tense situations I’ve ever sat through. Thought old Scrum was going to have a seizure.”
“It’s early,” Claire replied as she pointed the car down Harlen Ackerman’s long driveway. “Could still happen.”
The pair had just witnessed Ackerman’s first official act as a changed man. He’d called them to his house, along with Odell Scrum, to announce his decision to abandon further development of the Big Hungry Recreation Project. Work was to stop immediately, he told his guests.
“Does this have anything to do with the disappearance of Boyd Cameron?” Claire asked him.
“It has to do with doing the right thing,” was Harlen’s terse reply. “I’ve changed my mind about the project. Lots of other things need doing around here. More important things.”
“What sort of things, Mr. Ackerman,” Claire asked. “Can you tell us something specific?”
“Not now, but you and Guthrie will be the first to know when I’m ready. Now if you will excuse us, Odell and I have some things to go over.”
Ackerman showed the two reporters to the door while Scrum sat dazed in a chair by the stone fireplace. A glazing of perspiration coated his upper lip and he had crushed the brim of his Stetson during Ackerman’s brief announcement. This new development in his relationship with Harlen was going to cost him a lot of money, he thought, money that he could not afford to lose. Next to Harlen Ackerman, Scrum was the person who would have benefited most from completion of the project. He’d made several risky moves to position himself at the crest of the financial wave the project represented. Not only that, he’d made a lot of deals, accepted monetary “incentives” from interested contractors and vendors, and generally put himself in a very good position to cash in once the valley was flooded and the recreation project underway. Now he was in a very bad situation, owing money he couldn’t pay, and in trouble with a lot of people who might physically express their disappointment in him. He’d also mortgaged his home and other property to get funding to purchase land that would now be practically worthless…all thanks to the penance of a man who he had always assumed didn’t have a conscience at all.
As the reporters’ car headed down the driveway, Harlen came back into the living room and took a long look at Scrum.
“You’re lookin’ a little green around the gills, Odell. This mean you don’t entirely agree with my decision?”
Scrum made an “aaack” noise in his throat and realized that his mouth had dried out. He took a sip of the drink sitting on the coffee table. “I’m guessing you have something up your sleeve,” he said, “but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. If you don’t, this could be a disaster…for me anyway.”
“How bad is it, Odell? I know about the bribes and some of the other stuff you’ve been up to, but I don’t have a dollar figure. Give me a number that would make you whole.”
Scrum closed his eyes briefly and considered how honest he should be with his client. This may be an opportunity to come out with some black ink, he thought quickly. On the other hand, Harlen often knew more than Scrum thought he did, and the attorney knew that Ackerman hated to be scammed. He probably knew to the penny what Scrum owed and how deep he was in with the wrong people.
By the time Guthrie and Claire had made it half of the way back to Tulleyville, Harlen Ackerman and Odell Scrum had come to an agreement that would probably keep the attorney from having his knees broken. Harlen knew it was going to cost him some serious money, but he figured that he owed his old accomplice a life raft. After all, most of the trouble in which Scrum found himself was the direct result of doing Ackerman’s bidding. Certainly, Scrum wasn’t going to come out of the ordeal with untold wealth, but he would survive and continue to be the main counselor for the Ackerman empire. Over the next 60 minutes, Harlen outlined his plans and told Scrum what the attorney’s contribution would be…if he wanted to be a part of the new direction. “We’re going to use my money to do some good, Odell. I gotta tell you, I’m pretty damned excited. Something I should have done a long time ago.
The newly formed philanthropist walked Scrum to the door. The attorney seemed to have aged a couple decades in the last hour. “We’re on a whole new track now, Odell,” Harlen said. “All we got to remember is my old man’s Smell Test.”
Scrum stumbled on the threshold as he left and wondered if he was going to throw up.
Chapter 39
When the hard, rough hand clamped down on Johnny Sorenson’s mouth about 3am, he thought he might be dreaming. The fingers of the hand pinched his nose shut and he realized the hand was for real. Struggling to free himself, Johnny struck at the hand and tried to punch where he thought his attacker’s face might be. It was no use, though; the hand felt like iron, and his flailing did nothing but deplete his oxygen. In a few seconds, he passed out.
When he regained cons
ciousness, he found himself tied to a chair in his room at the Sorenson house. An old sock filled his mouth while a bandana tied across his face kept the gag from slipping. He was also blindfolded.
With his pulse pounding in his ears and a steady stream of snot running out of his nose, Johnny tried to make sense out of what had happened. He tried to wriggle out of his bonds and received a sharp slap across the back of his head. No one spoke for five minutes. Johnny was in a state of complete panic by time he heard a muffled whisper in his ear.
“I know you did it,” his captor said. He thought that the voice – made even more frightening by its calmness – might belong to Ben Mooney, the man at whose mercy he would least want to be. His terror spiked at the thought and his bladder emptied itself.