by Robin Lamont
“Like I told you, I wasn’t aware of that,” Verna stated.
“I’d really like to talk to a few people at the plant about conditions there, but so far, I haven’t had much luck. In fact, I’m getting resistance almost everywhere I go. You told me that you worked on the cut floor, so you must have seen quite a bit, and you mentioned some things happening to the animals that were pretty bad.”
Verna replied vaguely, “Did I?”
Jude was taken aback. When they first met, Verna was, if not enthusiastic, at least willing to talk about D&M. Now, her equivocation seemed intended to end all conversation. “That’s …that’s the impression I got,” said Jude flustered. “And your husband obviously felt it was important to show people what’s going on at the plant. He contacted us because he was fed up with trying to change the situation from within and knew we could get his footage to the media. At the least of it, he risked his job – maybe more.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Verna flashed.
“Well, to be honest, I’m having a tough time reconciling his death right on the heels of contacting our organization and offering us his video.”
Verna regarded her warily before turning her back and going into the kitchen. She picked up a sheaf of papers from the mess on the kitchen table and thrust it at Jude. “I don’t know what you believe,” she said. “For myself, I’d rather believe my husband overdosed accidentally. It would hurt less than thinking he made a conscious choice to leave us. But all the evidence says that he committed suicide.”
Jude scanned the contents, for the most part, copies of police reports. The deputy who found Frank wrote that the car had been parked in a remote area and was locked. An exhaustive search of the interior uncovered a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam, which acquaintances who knew Frank confirmed was his chosen brand of liquor. The bottle contained traces of crushed oxycodone pills. On it were Frank’s and only Frank’s fingerprints; same with the empty container of pain killers. No other automobile tracks or footprints were found outside the car, although it had been raining that night and the possibility that they had been washed away could not be ruled out. Customers at the Lazy Cat bar told police that Frank had been there earlier in the evening, but no one could recall the exact time he had left. The most damning, however, was Sheriff Ward’s report about what was revealed on Frank’s computer: the order to PharmaRX as well as research the victim had apparently done to determine the number of pills he’d have to take to kill himself. Finally, Jude came to a letter from Frank’s life insurance company stating that he had taken out the policy less than two years before the date of his death. It wasn’t a lot of money for life insurance – ten thousand dollars. But the policy included a two-year suicide clause, and based upon the police and coroner’s reports, the company had determined it was not required to pay out.
“So you see,” Verna was saying, “I have to accept this.”
“You could appeal,” said Jude without much conviction.
Verna only wrapped her arms around herself, acknowledging the pain and fruitlessness of such an effort.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” said Jude. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
Verna answered, “I think the best thing you can do is leave us alone. I’m sorry that you haven’t gotten what you wanted. But as I told you, I don’t know anything about any video. Perhaps you should just accept things, as I must.”
***
The lowering sky looked ominous and seemed to reflect Jude’s uneasiness about her visit with Verna. She didn’t seem like a woman who would so easily resign herself to the insurance company’s quick denial or accept things, as she’d put it. Did she not share her husband’s fighting spirit? But as Jude thought about it and tried to put herself in the widow’s position, she imagined that a kind of surrender might be Verna’s only way of dealing with the grief. Maybe she felt she was surrendering to God’s will. For herself, Jude had no intention of accepting or surrendering to the brutality she’d heard about and now witnessed at D&M. Nor was there anything to prevent her from questioning Frank’s suicide. It seemed all too convenient for Marshfield. So after seeing the police reports in Verna’s possession, she set off to re-create Frank’s last hours. Her first stop was the place where his body had been found.
The reports described a dirt track just off Pigeon Road. Jude found it on her phone’s navigation app and after a detour to the motel to get Finn, she drove to the location. About a hundred yards in was the town’s old country store, long since abandoned. Jude parked and threw on a jacket. There wasn’t much to glean from the location itself, really just a shack with boarded-up windows. From the remains of an above-ground oil tank not far away and a concrete strip out front, it looked as though they had pumped gas here at one time. Now the parking area was overgrown with weeds, a ribbon of yellow police tape twisted on the ground the only evidence that someone had died there.
Why had he chosen this spot? Jude shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and studied the derelict building, its rickety covered porch, splintered door, and the rusty soda pop machine too corroded to steal. Was it because everything here was already lifeless, not worth saving? She didn’t think so. After years of trying to stand up to management, Frank had taken matters into his own hands. It made no sense that he would commit suicide before seeing his efforts play out. A loose piece of plywood nailed to the doorframe of the old store rattled in the wind and made her jump.
The smell of wood smoke drew her attention to the roof of a house tucked away at the end of Pigeon Road. She left the car where it was, whistled to Finn, and walked quickly toward the house. It was fronted by a carefully tended hedge and a bright red mailbox. Beyond them, the property opened to a clearing that burst with color and life. In the center sat a fenced vegetable garden, boasting the last of the season’s sunflowers and waves of kale and red chard. Nestled alongside, a hut stored rows of gardening tools and pickling jars, and nearby was a cozy red barn with its doors open. A couple of hens scratched in the dirt by the opening, but when they caught sight of Finn, scrambled inside. Drawn to the scent of sweet hay, Jude followed them.
“Hello?” she called out. No one answered.
The only sounds were the muted clop of hooves on the wooden floor and chomping teeth. Two fat sheep in a converted horse stall glanced up briefly before returning to their methodical chewing. From the back came soft grunts, and Jude followed them to a boarded pen, where a large pot-bellied pig lay on her side suckling six baby pigs, each of whom was small enough to fit in a shoebox.
As Jude crouched down to get a better look, two of the spotted piglets tripped over each other to get to her. Curious and friendly, they pushed their tender, pink snouts through the rail openings. Entranced, Jude held her hand close but didn’t try to touch them, not wanting to make their mother anxious. But the sow only lifted her head briefly.
Finn padded over and sniffed the piglets, who seemed delighted to meet this strange new creature. Their yips drew their siblings over and soon they were all trying to jump on Finn. He gave Jude a baleful look that asked, “What do I do now?” and she laughed. With their short, uncoordinated legs, the babies bounced around the wood chip bedding, falling over one another, and occasionally hopping over to smoosh their noses into Jude’s hand. Mama sow looked on patiently, perhaps glad to have a break from the kids; one could almost see a smile on her face. Someone had put a soccer ball in the pen, which the piglets rolled and tackled, and before long, Jude found herself cross-legged on the ground, lost in their joy of play.
As her shoulders and the muscles in her forehead relaxed, she tried to experience the world through the youngsters’ eyes … the fascination with a clump of straw or pleasure in finding a bit of food. As often happened, Jude was struck with the mystery of animals. They inhabited a world no human would fully understand – a bond with the earth, the rain, the smells carried on the breeze,
and critically, no matter prey, friend or foe, an intrinsic recognition of the value of other animals. That was something humans did not possess. Ever since she’d been a child, Jude yearned to live in that animal universe, even for a moment, released from the constraints of her past and the doubts she carried about whether she could really make a difference.
“Aren’t they cute?” asked a voice behind her.
Jude quickly turned her head to see a sturdy woman with white wisps of hair sticking out from under a gardening hat. Dressed comfortably in baggy pants tucked into knee-high muck boots, she looked familiar.
Blushing at her obvious intrusion, Jude jumped to her feet, causing the piglets to scamper away. “I’m sorry to barge in like this,” she said. “I didn’t see anybody, and I called out, but–”
“Not to worry, dear,” said the woman kindly. “I know you. We met at Verna Marino’s house. I’m Oma Burney.”
Now Jude remembered where she had seen her. “Of course, after Frank’s funeral.”
Reminded of it, distress clouded Oma’s lined face. “Have you seen Verna recently?” she asked.
“Just this morning.”
“I was supposed to see her at Bible study, but I couldn’t make it. I pray for her. Frank was devoted to her and Sophie.”
The sense of unease that Jude felt when she left Verna intensified; she tried to grab onto what it was that nagged at her, but was quickly distracted by the gang of baby pigs who were once again vying for attention at her feet.
“How old are they?”
“Almost four weeks now. Would you like to hold one? I’ve gotten them used to being handled.”
“May I?”
Oma reached down and picked up one of the spotted piglets and turned him over to a delighted Jude, saying, “That’s Truman. I name them after authors I’ve just finished. That there is Toni, Dashiell, Jonathan … though I didn’t like Franzen’s last book too much.”
“Hello, Truman,” laughed Jude. She cuddled the eight-pound youngster against her shoulder. His skin was like a soft-bristled brush and tickled her as he wiggled in her arms and rubbed his snout against her neck. It seemed unfathomable that in hog farms across the country, babies just like these were wrenched from their mothers, tails, teeth and testicles clipped, then crowded into indoor pens or crates where they would never set foot on grass or feel the sun. Jude put him back extra gently into the pen as the mama lumbered to her feet and came over to snort a greeting.
“Watch this,” said the older woman. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bag of apple pieces. “Sit, Emily,” she commanded. The pig lowered her rear end to the ground and received her treat. “Down.” Emily lay down on her side. By this time, Finn had come circling around, waiting for his treat and Oma obliged with a slice of apple that he took from her hand.
Oma scratched her pig under the chin. “Okay, go outside.” She pointed and Emily did as she was told, her piglets scampering after her.
“Oh my word,” exclaimed Jude. “I knew pigs were smart, but that’s amazing.”
“She knows more than that,” replied Oma. “But you certainly didn’t come to see my pigs.”
“If I’d known about them, I would have,” Jude assured her. “But I actually came to see where Frank died, and then I saw your house. I wondered if anyone had seen him that night.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. I’m usually in bed by nine-thirty.” She gazed at a place beyond Jude’s head for a moment, then added, “It’s very disturbing that he chose that spot right down the street. I couldn’t tell you why.”
“He might not have chosen it,” suggested Jude.
“What do you mean?”
Seeing the alarm on Oma’s face, Jude hurriedly reconsidered her answer and said, “Oh, I don’t know, perhaps the choice wasn’t made consciously.” But what she really wanted to say was that perhaps someone had chosen it for him.
Chapter 13
It was hard to drag herself away from the warmth in Oma’s barn, but Jude wanted to get the photos of the downer hog to Gordon before he left for the day. Out on Pigeon Road, the wind had picked up, bringing with it the first drops of a cold rain. As she got closer to her car, she noticed something odd. A few steps later, she saw the letters on the side – something spray painted. Jude began to run.
The writing was sprayed in a messy scrawl that was still tacky to the touch. YOUR TURN SOW! But the other message was even more sickening. Fresh blood had been thrown over the front of the car. It was still dripping into the well of the windshield and down the fenders, pooling on the ground. Jude gagged from the smell. In a daze, she circled the car. Whoever had done this was gone, but she hadn’t been at Oma Burney’s place for that long, nor had she told anyone where she was going. Evidently, someone was tracking her movements. Anger began to take the place of shock. It took a moment before she realized it had started to rain in earnest, so she dashed to the abandoned shack to take cover and call the police. While she waited for them to show up, she contacted the office.
“What are you going to do?” asked CJ. “You want me to page Gordon?”
Jude sighed, ”No, just let him know when you see him. I’m waiting for the cops now.”
“You think you should come back home? It could get dangerous for you.”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve been threatened and it sure won’t be the last, but the spray paint royally pisses me off. I don’t know how to get it off and meanwhile, that writing is going to draw attention to me everywhere I go.”
“What about the blood. Is it human, you think?”
“Probably not, but I’m sure the cops will get it tested.”
“That’s gross. What do you make of the writing?”
“You mean, my turn, as in turn to get stunned and shackled?”
“Yah, and maybe get your throat slit.”
“I don’t know, CJ. Most of the time this kind of thing is all bluff and bluster. If somebody wants to get to me, they can – I’m not hiding. This is meant to scare me away.”
“Maybe it should.”
Jude saw the nose of a deputy squad car rounding the corner. “I have to go,” she said.
“One quick thing,” interjected CJ. “A little while ago, you got a call from a girl named … Caroline? She wants you to come to dinner at her house tonight. Why’d she call here?”
“I gave her my business card. Did she leave a number?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, could you text it to me and I’ll call her back.”
A young, black deputy emerged from his car and warily circled Jude’s wagon. “You know who did this?” he asked.
“No, not really.”
He got around to the spray painted side and squinted at it. “What does that mean, Your Turn Son?”
“I think it says Sow.”
“Sow, as in female pig?” He went back to the squad car and retrieved a kit from the trunk. From it he took a small vial and scraped some of the blood into it. “This just happened, right?”
Jude gave him an approximate time line: when she left her car and how long she’d been away. He asked a few more questions and she answered truthfully.
“You’re an animal activist?” he confirmed. “Guess someone around here is not too happy about that.”
“Guess not.”
The rain was getting heavier, sending Jude and the deputy to the store’s leaky front porch. He took out a notebook to write up a report, but Jude couldn’t offer much more than she already told him. Soon, sheets of water were pelting from the sky. Finn took cover as well, spraying them both as he shook his coat. They watched the blood turn pink and run off the car, mixing with the dirt, then forming rivulets that took the rust-brown water into the weeds. The warning scrawled on the side of the car remained.
Pocketing his notebook, the deputy said, “Good news i
s … you’re getting a free car wash. Bad news … probably have to get your car repainted. I just had mine done, and with the primer it cost nearly eight hundred bucks.”
***
At the motel, Jude called Caroline and accepted the dinner invitation for her and Finn. Her familiarity with threats notwithstanding, the message on Pigeon Road had been received loud and clear. It was creepy and more than a little unsettling, and she figured it would do her good to get out of the motel where her anxiety would only fester.
Jude showered and changed into a pair of black jeans and a gray scoop-neck sweater that yielded a glimpse of the hollows above her collarbone. She had some time before she had to be at Caroline’s and decided to pay a visit to the Lazy Cat. It was the last place anyone had seen Frank. And if it was a drinking hole for D&M workers, she might find someone willing to talk.
She walked by a few curious stares before slipping onto one of the Lazy Cat barstools. The five o’clock news played softly on the overhead TV, but the bartender was the only one watching. In his early thirties and boasting a thick mustache, he pushed off the counter and came over to see what she wanted.
“You have anything on tap besides Bud or Coors?” she asked.
“Not on tap, but I’ve got a bottled pale ale from a local brewery that might just suit you.”
“I’ll try it,” said Jude.
He brought back the beer and poured it into a tall glass, letting just a bit of foam drip down the side. She took a sip. “Nice. Not too light with a little citrus pop.”
That earned her a smile. He appreciated anyone who recognized a good beer, and an attractive girl made it even better. “I like ’em heavier on the malt myself, but that’s a good one. Most of the folks around here wouldn’t know a microbrew from piss in a can.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Nick, I’m part-owner here.”
“Hi, I’m Jude. Wondered if you might be able to help me.”