Big Hungry: A Novel

by John Clausen

  Johnny tried to scream but managed only a small gurgling sound in his throat. Struggling against the ropes on his legs and arms only gained him an even sharper slap on the head and another five-minute wait in silence. He began to sob, which only increased the discharge from his nose.

  A sharp blade rested gently against his throat.

  “I can find you any time I want,” the voice whispered. “Anywhere you try to hide, I’ll be there.”

  By now, Johnny was completely hysterical, but still mostly silent. The hand untied the bandana from his head and pulled the sock out of his mouth. “Be quiet,” the voice whispered as the pressure on the blade increased slightly.

  Johnny whimpered and swallowed to clear his throat. “What do you want from me?” he croaked.

  “Find the sheriff and tell him what you did.”

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” Johnny whined.

  The hand cuffed him across the head again, but the voice was silent.

  “I swear to God, I didn’t do nothin’.”

  The iron hand clamped down on the side of Johnny’s neck. Pressure increased steadily until the whole side of his face was flooded with pain. “You better think of something, then,” the voice whispered just as Sorenson passed out.

  When he woke up, he was back in his bed with the covers pulled up under his chin. For a moment, he thought again that it has been a nightmare. But then he moved his head and his neck cramped in pain. As soon as he got dressed he left the farm and went looking for Pooch Eye Ziegler.

  About the time Johnny Sorenson was waking up from his ordeal, Claire Norgard and Jerry Guthrie were surfacing after an equally strenuous, but considerably more enjoyable night.

  “Morning, cowboy,” Claire said, thinking that she had never seen anyone with a worse case of bedhead than the one that presented itself beside her. “You okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I expect to survive the whole day if I move slowly and don’t try to lift anything heavy. You’re quite an athlete, aren’t you? Or maybe some relative of Gumby?”

  “If I am,” Claire giggled, “I guess that would make you Pokey.”

  The phone rang, saving them from further morning-after chatter. It was June LeGrand.

  “Where the hell you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been trying to get up with you all morning.”

  “Been here all night and all morning. You got the right number?” Guthrie answered, knowing full well that he’d only turned on his phone a few minutes earlier. “What’s got your knickers in a twist? Somebody find Senator Cameron in a ditch somewhere?”

  “Nope, the deputy sheriff up in Tulleyville called me this morning looking for you. Said he has the Ackerman shooting figured out.”

  “Got a suspect? Or is he just…”

  “Got a confession, he says,” June blurted out. “Wouldn’t tell me who…just said he wanted you to get over to his office ASAP.”

  “I’m on the way.”

  While Guthrie struggled into his jeans and fed Teddy, Claire was on her phone calling Peter Morten and telling him to meet them at the deputy’s office in 20 minutes. When Guthrie came back into the bedroom, she was ready to go.

  By the time the two journalists had driven to Tulleyville and parked in front of the deputy’s office, Claire had made several more phone calls and arranged to broadcast that afternoon whatever it was they were going to find out. Guthrie, burdened as he was by the sluggish speed of print journalism, was feeling somewhat outdistanced by his companion. Nevertheless, he had spoken with June LeGrand and was confident that his piece would make the front page. He would have to make up in writing skills what he lacked in immediacy. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself playing catch-up with the electronic media.

  Inside the deputy’s office, Johnny Sorenson was occupying the cell so recently vacated by Ben Mooney. His father sat on a metal folding chair under the gun rack and Pooch Eye Ziegler squatted on his heels against the west wall. The senior Sorenson was visibly shaken by what he had just heard. His son had attempted to kill Harlen Ackerman with a 30/30 deer rifle. Furthermore, he’d shot that same rifle at Gene Hornsby and Pooch Eye. He had delivered his confession in a dull monotone and had offered no explanation. In fact, he’d said or done nothing since making his statement to Hornsby…other than occasionally rubbing his neck and humming softly to himself.

  An hour or so earlier, he and Pooch Eye had walked into the office and stood in front of Hornsby’s desk.

  “Johnny’s got somethin’ to tell you, Gene.” Pooch had said. Something in his voice made Hornsby look up from his paperwork and give the pair his complete attention.

  Pooch Eye gently nudged Sorenson the way one might awaken a sleepwalker.

  “I done it,” Johnny said. “I shot Harlen.”

  “You guys been drinkin’?” Hornsby asked, having detected the stale whiskey breath floating around them.

  “No, sir,” Pooch asserted. “Not today. A good bit last night, but nothin’ today.”

  “Okay, you shot Harlen…why’d you do it? And why’d you shoot at me?”

  Johnny said nothing. He simply walked into the single cell and sat down slowly on the cot. Hornsby closed and locked the door.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Johnny. You might as well tell me now.”

  The prisoner turned slightly away from Hornsby and stared silently at the wall.

  “I guess I better call his dad,” the deputy said.

  “I already called him, Gene,” Pooch said. “Said he’d meet us down here.”

  Hornsby had expected Carl Sorenson to come blasting through the door shouting and threatening. Instead, the rancher had come in quietly with his hat in his hand. Pooch Eye had already told him what Johnny had confessed, and Sorenson had obviously had time to absorb the news. He sat down and fixed a weary gaze on Hornsby.

  “What’s this all about, Gene? Pooch tells me my boy shot Harlen. Can that be right? Why the hell would he do something like that?”

  “I don’t know, Carl…but I better keep him here at least until we figure it out.”

  A few minutes later, Claire and Guthrie came in trailing Pete Morten and his camera equipment.

  “What’s going on, Gene?”

  “Well, looks like the Harlen Ackerman shooting might be solved. Johnny Sorenson just confessed…although we still don’t know why he did it.”

  “I guess I know,” Pooch Eye said quietly. “Johnny told me about it this morning. Came over about six o’clock, cryin’ and carryin’ on about letting his old man down. I guess the Sorensons were gonna lose a big chunk of land to the rec project. Johnny figured if Harlen was out of the picture, his pop’s place would be safe.”

  Carl Sorenson groaned softly but said nothing.

  “Okay, he says he did it,” Hornsby said, “but how did Droop’s fingerprints get on the shells?”

  “Not that hard, I guess. Johnny and him got drunk over at Nolen’s. They were shooting at a big owl and some other stuff on the way home. Droop prob’ly got his prints on the gun when he reloaded. I don’t think Johnny started out to frame him or nothing. Once you found them fingerprints, I guess he just went with it.”

  “All right, I’ll buy that, but why shoot at me and you out by that bridge?”

  “I ain’t too clear on that, Gene. “I think he was just trying to scare you or confuse things. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t tryin’ to hit us. He’s a pretty good shot and we weren’t that far away.”

  “What about Mooney’s gun?”

  “I don’t know why he done that. I’d have to guess he was tryin’ to make it look like Mooney was the shooter. Pretty damn believable too, that guy ain’t wrapped too tight and everybody know it. I expect Johnny was getting’ desperate. Not thinkin’ clear.”

  Carl Sorenson stood up and shuffled toward the cell. “Okay if I talk to him, Gene?”

  Hornsby opened the cell door. Sorenson sat down by his son and the two talked quietly for almost two hours. The deputy called the sheriff’s office
in the county seat and was put on hold for several minutes while his supervisor arranged to transport Johnny Sorenson to a county cell where he would await arraignment.

  Pete Morten set up his camera outside the deputy’s office and Claire taped the first of what would be several segments on the shooting and the scuttled rec project, in addition to a short piece on the community of Tulleyville. Guthrie called his story in to June LeGrand, who did indeed put the article on the front page.

  Of course, no one involved in the aftermath of Johnny’s confession knew that Furman Potter was observing the proceedings from his perch on top of the cottonwood tree outside the deputy’s office. He’d sat for a few minutes in Johnny’s cell and listened to the father and son exchange. He’d never been close to his own father, but it still hurt him to hear the pain in Carl’s voice. Feeling profoundly sad, Furman had left the cell and relocated to the cottonwood where he now watched Claire and Pete Morten wrapping up the segment.

  “You about ready to go, Furman?”

  Furman had been concentrating on the action below and the voice startled him momentarily. He looked to his left and saw the Cowboy Angel sitting next to him on the cottonwood limb. His legs were crossed and he was bending over to pick a bit of dirt off one of his red boots.

  “I didn’t see you there,” Furman said. “It’s very sad around here right now. Are they going to be all right?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, Furman. But I can tell you that just about everything works out in the end. No matter how sad they are right now, they’ll smile again one day. Be a while for old Johnny, though. I’m thinking he’s got some tough times ahead of him…but like I said, it almost always works out okay in the end.”

  “How ‘bout Jonas? He gonna be okay too? Never had a friend like him before. Kind of worried about him. He ain’t right in the head you know.”

  The Cowboy Angel took Furman’s hand and the two of them began to rise over the cottonwood. As the people below shrank in Furman’s view, he heard his companion say, “Don’t worry about that, Furman …everything’s easier if you’re a little nuts.”

  Epilog

  Johnny Sorenson’s trial lasted only a few days. Some folks around Tulleyville wondered why the case even sent to trial. After all, he’d confessed to the shootings. However, his attorney – a tough lady attorney flown in from Philadelphia – made a compelling case for diminished capacity. The prosecutor, an old law school buddy of Scrum’s, argued that Johnny had premeditated the attack, as evidenced by his attempt to implicate Droop Hornsby and Ben Mooney. The Philadelphia lawyer was able to deflect the damning evidence and get the charges dropped completely, mostly because Mooney had never really possessed any usable evidence when his visited Johnny. He’d just overheard Johnny and Pooch Eye talking at their camp, thought Pooch Eye’s theory – spoken only in jest – sounded likely, and decided to apply a little unconventional persuasion and see what happened. A few months later, Harlen Ackerman not only forgave Johnny for shooting him, but also offered him employment. Johnny spent the rest of his life working in various Ackerman enterprises and died a respected member of the community, although few Tulleyville residents would ever go deer hunting or shooting with him.

  Pooch Eye Ziegler continued to search for the celebrated Big Hungry River floater. He stayed friends with Johnny after the trial, offering to take him fishing, but his old friend declined, having lost his taste for the sport. He knew what it was, he said, to be “hunted down and reeled in.” Pooch thought the whole Ackerman shooting affair had been a case of over-reaction. Sure, somebody got shot, but he recovered…and why give up fishing for that?

  Eugene Hornsby, made semi-famous by Claire Norgard and Jerry Guthrie, stayed on at the sheriff’s department, but took a second job as a mechanic at Harlen Ackerman’s machinery dealership. Some Tulleyville residents thought it was low work for a nearly famous lawman, but Hornsby didn’t mind. It was honest work, he said, and it kept him in touch with the real people in his jurisdiction. He remained on the force until his retirement and was generally considered the most honest sheriff’s deputy who had ever served in the area. Boyd Cameron, by the way, was killed by a gang of juvenile muggers on a topless beach in Brazil. He perished leaving no heirs and no will, thereby forcing the Brazilian government to seize his considerable fortune. The official autopsy noted that he had a “beautiful shock of white hair.”

  When the next election came along, Pooch Eye Ziegler threw his hat in the ring to take over Boyd Cameron’s old seat in state government, and spent almost no money on advertising. He was soundly defeated by a Charlie Taylor write-in campaign launched by citizens who thought Pooch was too irresponsible for even that kind of work. Over the years, Ben Mooney became a sort of unofficial assistant to Gene Hornsby. No one knew what – if anything – the deputy paid Mooney or what the outdoorsman’s qualifications might have been. However, domestic violence, poaching, and drunken driving virtually disappeared during the pair’s long tenure as the law in the Tulleyville section of Wallace County.

  Droop Hornsby moved to California, went to bartending school in Barstow, and found employment at Tito’s Peruvian Review, a gay stripper bar on the outskirts of his adopted California hometown. No one in Tulleyville ever heard from him again, although some residents thought they’d seen him briefly on an episode of Cops filmed near Barstow.

  Claire Norgard and Jerry Guthrie enjoyed a brief affair that ended on a friendly note when they discovered that they liked being friends more than being lovers. They maintained their friendship for decades. Neither married, but Jerry ended up living with Deedee Christianson for several years.

  Gary Wong remained on as Tulleyville’s top chef, living to be 103. When he died, authorities found a small shrine in his apartment behind the restaurant. Among the religious icons, they found a faded photograph of Claire Norgard with the inscription, “Thanks for everything, Gary…you’re the best.”

  Several years after the conclusion of the Harlen Ackerman shooting case, Deputy Hornsby was called to the ramshackle home of Jonas Johnston in response to a neighbor’s concern. Jonas had not been seen for several days, the neighbor said, and she was worried that he might be ill. Sensing that the old man might have perished, Gene called Jerry Guthrie to go with him to the scene...mostly for moral support, but also because he knew Guthrie liked to write about colorful local characters. The deputy and the journalist had become friends over the years, despite the fact that Gene had learned to keep some facts and theories to himself to avoid seeing them in Jerry’s column. The two friends found Jonas dead in a broken-down recliner, a copy of Wrestle Mania magazine in his hands and a strangely peaceful look on his weathered face.

  Among Jonas’ meager possessions was a badly deteriorated “Sexy Suzy Inflatable Love Doll.” The doll was dressed in a maternity dress stuffed with cotton packing, giving it the vague appearance of a very fat, very dead woman. Bits of dried, long-dead river foliage clung to the doll’s clothing. Someone had written on the its forehead with indelible ink. “She wants you, Jerry. We’re done with her anyway.” The signature under the inscription was badly smeared but Jerry was pretty sure one of the two names was “Rick.”

  Hornsby looked at his friend and said, “What the hell you make of this?”

  “I’m gonna try real hard to forget about it, Gene. I suggest you do the same.”

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