The Weatherman

by Steve Thayer

  He pocketed the ring. “Re-refundable,” he tried to joke.

  Andrea wiped the drizzle from her face and gazed across the water. “You are in my heart, I can tell you that now. Maybe we can talk some more after the river goes down. I’m so sorry, Rick. This is all my fault.”

  She left it at that and he watched her go, watched her wade through the water beneath the yellow floodlights and up the hill to the news van with the big 7 pasted to the door. He watched them drive away. The taillights disappeared in the rain, just the blinking orange lights of detour signs scattered beneath the bluffs.

  The Marine again pulled the velvet case from his fatigue jacket and removed the ring. Every day since Vietnam had been a struggle for survival. His creed was to live one more day and make it a good one. Now he wanted to die. Rick Beanblossom pulled his hand back and flung the diamond engagement ring into the angry waters of the St. Croix River. And the largest flood in Minnesota history began losing its punch.

  The flood is the river’s way of cleansing itself. Every two decades or so the river regurgitates and throws back ashore everything man has dumped into it over the years. In Stillwater, no sooner had the flood waters receded to a safe level than the sandbags came down and the cleanup began. Volunteer workers along the banks of the St. Croix River discovered tons of garbage among the stinking mud and goo.They found motor parts, sunken boats, and splintered canoes. They found the rusted body of a Volkswagen Beetle. They came upon a diamond ring. And twenty miles downriver, on a rocky shore just above Prescott, Wisconsin, they found the almost totally decomposed body of Harlan Wakefield.

  The Cross

  Rick Beanblossom steered his new Corvette up the cloverleaf and headed north on Interstate 694. His bronze shaving kit was on the seat beside him. Bright arc lights stretched through eastern suburbs that were overdevelopment nightmares—little boxes made out of ticky-tacky with names like Woodbury and Oakdale and Maplewood. Traffic was light but potholes were many. Winter had taken its toll on the roads. He turned up the heater a notch, searching right up to the end for the perfect temperature.

  To the masked newsman it was no longer a question of why; it was a question of why not. He looked down the road and all he saw was more of the same. Faceless grief. Another murder, another kidnapping, another crooked politician. A life alone chasing the miseries and the venalities of others. It was the emptiest of feelings. All bitterness was gone, as was anger, and revenge—the human emotions worth living for. Now he was left truly a shell. Hollow inside. Everybody who talked to him sounded like a distant echo. He heard the words but couldn’t make out the meaning. A cowardly feeling hung over him. Nothing seemed of interest. Not even news. His heart was reading empty.

  As he drove the freeway he tried to concentrate on the story that had occupied his mind and his time for so many months. Dixon Bell was the Edina rapist, had to be, but he was not the serial killer. But did Dixon Bell really confess to the Edina rapes? “I never hurt any of them women. And I sure as hell didn’t kill anyone.” Dixon Bell was the Edina rapist and unexpectedly ran into Officer Sumter. Killed her.

  Beanblossom theory number two. Andy Mack was the serial killer, killing to set up Dixon Bell. He was the one who before each murder threatened the man who took his job, the threats Bell told him about. “I’m gonna ice you, Weatherman.” The same damn threat was found on Andy’s computer after he died. A form of confession? He knew Minnesota’s weather. In the end he was a bitter old drunk.

  Theory number three. Jack Napoleon was the serial killer. The murders had begun shortly after he arrived in the Twin Cities. He was from Chicago, had a feel for midwestern weather. He majored in physics, knew meteorology. He knew the weather center operation. He thought women were the ultimate sin. He may have thought Dixon Bell was the devil on earth.

  And theory number four: none of them was the serial killer. The killer was still out there. Or the murders were unrelated. Copycat crimes. The killers were running free. Except that the killings had stopped. And what of that fingerprint? No matter how Rick added and subtracted, it kept coming back to the Weatherman. Dixon Bell was the Edina rapist and the serial killer. Dixon Bell did everything but kidnap the Wakefield boy. Hell, maybe he did that too.

  The autopsy results on Harlan Wakefield were inconclusive due to the decomposition of the body. Medical examiner’s best guess—the boy genius had died of a gunshot wound to the throat area. In his prime Rick would have been down at the morgue pumping Freddie for every last detail, examining the body himself. As it was, he just made one last phone call to a police source.

  “Were there any tire tracks found at the kidnap scene?”

  “Just the bicycles, no sign of a car was ever found.”

  “Who questioned his twin, Keenan? He never talked to the press?” “The sheriff took a statement. The FBI interviewed him the next day. His parents took over the show after that. Wouldn’t let anybody near him. He was put under the care of a child psychologist.”

  His source got Rick the transcripts of the two interviews. But Rick found nothing. The same source refused to part with the dirt he had on the governor. Not without the missing letters. “Give it up, Masked Man. You’ve spent your whole life fighting lost causes.”

  As he sped down the freeway that looped the east metro his blue cotton face kept dropping down over the steering wheel as he tried to shake all the demons out of his head. News, alcohol, drugs, J.C. Peters and his I Witness News team fornicating right before his eyes—none of them worked for him anymore. Highs were a thing of the past. That morning another manuscript had come back in the mail. Another rejection slip. Rick Beanblossom would never be the novelist he dreamed of being, would never solve the Wakefield kidnapping or clear the Weatherman, would never get the girl. He was past forty now. His face was the scum on the rim of a whirlpool bath. His youth was spent. On what he had picked as the last night of his life he accepted all of this. He stepped on the gas.

  It was unexpectedly cold. There hadn’t been an accurate forecast broadcast in Minnesota since Dixon Bell went off to jail. Rick turned up the heater another notch. Headlights sped by in the opposite direction. Red taillights disappeared in his rearview mirror. A firefight where nobody gets hit. Up ahead was a billboard, its blinding lights shining down on him. Ron Shea and Andrea Labore stood ten feet tall, their Chiclet teeth smiling over commuters, their names boldly printed beneath a giant 7. THE NEW SKY HIGH NEWS. The Marine shook his head. If only Splat Man were for hire.

  What a fool he had been. What a big, fucking fool! To believe that a woman of her beauty and charm would marry a hideous beast like him, as if there were some magic rose that could break the evil curse and return to him his princely looks. Every woman fantasizes about sex with a stranger in a mask. Perhaps that’s all he was to Andrea Labore. The anonymous fuck. Some sick fantasy come to fruition. When all was dead and done, the Weatherman would have the last laugh.

  As Rick passed beneath the bright lights of the billboard, he reached over and flipped open the bronze shaving kit and checked his stash one more time.

  Just stop it.

  After all those years he could still hear the angel from Corpus Christi trying to pull him through. “Whenever your hurt and frustration start to get the best of you, you just gotta say, ‘Just stop it.’”

  Rick Beanblossom left the Channel 7 billboard behind him and caught Highway 36 east out of the Cities, through the woods of Lake Elmo, where Bob Buckridge and Kitt Karson had crashed and died. East towards Stillwater. Towards the river that cut through the valley where his life had begun.

  On the night Rick Beanblossom drove past her face on the interstate, Andrea Labore was having the fight of her life in the governor’s office in St. Paul. She stood in front of the bulletproof window, rubbing her arms before the green-tinted glass. Crimson and gold curtains hung to the sides. “It’s freezing in here. I thought winter was over with.”

  “Why are women always complaining?” The Viking governor plopped be hind
his desk between the American flag and the navy blue state flag of Minnesota. He buried his head in his hands in frustration. “They know!”

  The holler startled her. “They know what?”

  “You were followed or something.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Per Ellefson leaned back in his chair and shook his head in resignation. A burden shared. “Smith Jameson and his right-wing gang in the party . . . they know about the abortion. They’ve got a copy of that check I wrote you, and they’ve got records from the clinic. I told you to go out of state.”

  Andrea walked from the window and took a seat in an antique chair, as uncomfortable as a rock. “How long have you known this?”

  “From the start.” He choked on his guilt. “Why do you think I signed their precious death penalty bill? They promised me you’d be kept out of it.”

  “What if the Democrats find out about it?”

  The governor tossed off a cold laugh. “Democrats are wimps. They’re the least of my worries. This is a party fight.”

  Andrea wasn’t listening. The fatal possibilities were running through her mind. Her career? His career? “And if Dixon Bell is found guilty and sentenced to death?” she asked.

  Per Ellefson stared at the electronic weather station on his desk. The temperature was nearing the freezing mark. “That’s not going to happen. Every criminal lawyer I’ve spoken with tells me the same thing . . . They may have enough for a conviction, but there’s two parts to that trial. They don’t have enough for a death sentence. Not with a Minnesota jury they don’t.”

  Andrea laughed bitterly. “I think you’re living in a dream world. The sun set on that state years ago.”

  The governor got up from his chair and walked around the desk to Andrea’s side. The abortion revelation had blown the steam out of their fight. “Even if they vote the chair, it’s a couple of years down the road with the appeals. We’re in this together, Andrea. My re-election chances are good, and you’re sitting in the anchor chair.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  He stroked her hair. “That we stick together. I want to start seeing you again.”

  She bolted from the chair, back to the safety of the window and the flags. “No, absolutely not.”

  “Are you dating someone? There are rumors.”

  “No, I’m not dating someone.” Andrea looked out at the Capitol mall, dark and deserted. Barren sidewalks rolled over lifeless grass thick with thatch. Winter weather. Only the snow was missing.

  The governor came up behind her and took hold of her shoulders. “I may be turning into the very politician I came here to replace, but this politician is still in love with you. And you’re in love with me. Tell me you’re not.”

  Andrea Labore remained silent.

  He smiled a cocky smile at her lack of response. “You’re like a lot of women—the worse we get, the more you love us." The governor grabbed the embroidered gold trim of the state flag and wrapped it around them both. “Let’s do it in the flag. I’ll be the Star of the North.”

  Andrea struggled free of the flag, free of his arms. She walked over to a big brown sofa, equally uncomfortable. She rested on it, her face buried in her hands.

  He was coming her way. “I just want to hold you,” he said, taking a seat beside her. Playing with her hair. Rubbing her leg. Kissing her cheek and neck.

  Per Ellefson was good, and Andrea hated herself for enjoying it. But she’d come too far to slip back into the arms of the biggest mistake of her life. Another man was on her mind. She put a hand over his mouth. “Please stop it.”

  Per Ellefson kissed her hand and slipped into his most seductive voice, his smooth I-get-what-I-want voice. He stroked her hair so hard it was almost an embrace. He placed his other hand over her breast. “I’ve always wanted to do it to you in your wedding dress. Will you call me on the day you get married?”

  The governor kissed her ear. “Remember the Christmas Eve we did it in the mansion? Santa Claus was never so good to me.”

  Andrea stood to leave, but he forced her back to the sofa and laid his strong Nordic body across her slender figure. “You’ve been getting it somewhere, haven’t you? Who is he?”

  “Are you going to rape me now?” she mockingly asked him.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You fuckin’ women are all the same.” He threw her to the floor and stormed back to his desk, his seat of power.

  She got to her knees, realizing at last what a cheap relationship it had been. “How many of us fuckin’ women have you had since you married?”

  The governor laughed, a mean laugh. “Marriage makes women look so plain.” His back was to her as he got up and moved to the wall. “I know what turns you on.” He opened an oaken armoire. Inside was a television set. He turned it on, found CNN. “Go ahead, masturbate. I’ll watch during the commercials.”

  Andrea got off of the floor. She brushed the wrinkles from her clothes, her back to him and the television set. “You’re sick,” she told him, walking out of the governor’s office for the last time. “I can’t believe the people of Minnesota would elect you to anything.”

  “There was a day they wouldn’t have,” Per Ellefson yelled after her. “But like you said, the sun has set on that state.”

  On what he took to be the last night of his life Rick Beanblossom drove Highway 95 north out of Stillwater. He followed the pines that followed the river, over the sheer cliffs and into the woods. At Arcola Trail he cut off the highway and drove down the blacktop until it came to an end. An old logging road parted the hills. The sky was black and filled with stars, but there appeared to be lightning in the north. Years had passed since he’d been down this dirt road. A few executive homes had been wedged into the hillsides, but the sylvan terrain remained largely unspoiled. A trio of deer leaped through the light beams. He kept an eye out for Chief Fallen Rock. Then the road dropped under the railroad tracks. Rick pulled over, parking the dusty Corvette among the trees.

  Up the footpath and onto the tracks. Shale rock crunched under his feet. Empty beer cans lined the rails. The night was desolate and spooky. The temperature continued to fall. Pines and firs waited impatiently for the aspen, the birch, and the elms to spring their leaves. Every now and then a strange sound broke through the stillness creating an eerie feeling in his bones, that feeling that follows everybody in a walk through the dark woods, the feeling he was being watched. Rick buttoned his Marine fatigue jacket up to his neck and continued walking the deserted railroad tracks. Then, upon seeing what he came for, those eerie feelings vanished. It was still there. The old Soo Line Bridge stretched across the valley.

  In its day the trains barreled out of the Minnesota pines, roared across the half-mile of single track two hundred feet above the St. Croix River, and then disappeared into the rolling hills of Wisconsin. That’s what the Soo Line had built the bridge for, but over the years the five-span steel marvel got used for so much more. It was photographed and painted. It was ogled by boaters below and tramped across by adventurers above. All of the threatening signs in two states couldn’t keep people off of the bridge. No cliff no ridge in the valley possessed its mystique, or its view.

  The high-school kid with the low draft number had a going-away party on this rickety bridge. The trains were running then. The boys would stand between the rails atop the center span, beer in hand, and wait for the blinding light of the locomotive to pop out of the woods and bear down on them. Then they were off and running, trying to beat the train across the wide expanse, the engineer cursing them from his cab as they jumped to safety one railroad tie ahead of death. What fools! What fun! He made love to a girl that night on the forest floor. Then back up to the bridge he came to be with his buddies, their butts on the wooden planks, their arms draped precariously across the pipe railing, their feet dangling over the water. Just the guys. Drinking and talking into the night; talking of college and war, of girls, cars, and football. Drunkenly discussing the existence
of God.

  Kids still had parties here, but the trains didn’t run anymore. Rick Beanblos - som stepped out onto the abandoned bridge and followed the rusted rails to the center span. He was as high as a man could get in the St. Croix Valley. No railing bordered the north side of the tracks. The railing along the narrow walkway on the south side was dangerously loose. It was not a bridge for the faint of heart. On a Wisconsin hilltop above him the blinking white lights of a transmitting antenna picked up news, weather, and sports from the cities and relayed them to the farmland beyond. Beneath him the silhouette of an owl soared over the pernicious river and rested on a treetop. But for a stiff breeze down from the north, it was a silent night. Clear and cold. As quiet as quiet gets in the out-of-doors.

  It wasn’t until he reached the heart of the bridge between the cliffs and turned his attention northward that Rick realized that it wasn’t lightning he had seen in the sky on his drive up. It was the aurora borealis. The northern lights. A sight rarely witnessed in the cities. A forest fire in the sky. Flaming auroras arced the northern sky from horizon to zenith, luminous streamers of greens and blues and whites dancing over the polar ice caps. A rainbow ballet. Silent artillery. A prismatic firefight. Every now and then a dramatic burst of crimson or pink would send shivers up his spine. Brilliant beyond belief. The Weatherman had explained this awesome phenomenon one night on the news, something about solar flares on the sun and the magnetic poles of the earth. But faced with such spectacular fireworks, who needed an explanation?