Buried in Wolf Lake

by Christine Husom

  “Geez, Smoke.” I pushed against his chest.

  “I need a rest.”

  I gave his shoulder a light strike. “So take your rest and leave me to my run.”

  “This isn’t like you. You aren’t the ‘silent treatment’ type.” His hands held my arms so firmly I would have had to use defensive tactics to escape.

  I threw my head back and stuck my nose in the air. “Really?”

  “Really. I need to explain some things to you.” His eyes, the color of the sky overhead, held mine.

  I was the first one to blink. “We’ll talk at my house. Now, can I run?”

  Smoke dropped his hands and I took off like a bat out of hell, leaving him in the dust. I ran another mile before I turned to head home. Smoke wasn’t far behind me. A surprise.

  A new Cadillac sedan cruised by. There was almost no through traffic on our rural road, and I wondered if it was someone looking at the farm for sale a little ways down from me. I waved and the man inside gave a slight wave back.

  Smoke and I downed some water to rehydrate.

  “You want coffee?” I asked as I flipped the coffee maker switch on.

  “I drank about a pot already this morning. Yeah, I suppose one more cup won’t kill me. I quit wondering a long time ago what the inside of my stomach looks like.” Smoke slid onto a barstool at my kitchen counter.

  I stood on the opposite side. “You wanted to talk.”

  “Corky, what happened last night was—”

  “A mistake?” I finished when he didn’t.

  Smoke shrugged. “Maybe. I was going to say ‘inevitable.’”

  I had to process that for a while.

  “We’ve been through a lot together in our years with Winnebago County. We have mutual respect, genuine caring for one another.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Get to the inevitable part.” I leaned closer.

  “Because of what I just mentioned, and the fact that you are funny and beautiful and sexy as hell—when I was in a somewhat compromised position, like I was last night . . . I let myself get carried away—”

  “—and now you regret it. Is this a ‘Dear Jane’ instant message?” I turned away and busied myself pouring cups of coffee.

  Smoke moseyed to my side of the counter and picked up my hand. “No. I can’t say I regret it, but it did serve to remind me of a few things.”

  “Such as?” His warm tone charmed me to look at him.

  He squeezed my hand slightly. “Corky, I gave up on the idea of marrying sometime ago.”

  “And?”

  “You’re very important to me, and I’m not going to use you.”

  Lose me so you don’t use me.

  “Anything else?”

  “There is. I hope you’ll find someone to share your life with—get married, have kids.” He took the coffee I had poured for him. “You know, Nicholas Bradshaw is not a bad guy.”

  “You said he was too perfect.” My tone softened against my will.

  “I did some checking and changed my mind.”

  “You ran a check on Nick?” I wasn’t surprised.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Well yes, but—”

  “It’s only smart. Corky, we have an excellent working relationship, and we’re even better friends. I don’t want to screw things up by complicating it all. Can you understand that?” He set his cup down and rested his hand on my shoulder.

  I shrugged then nodded.

  His finger hooked under my chin. “Will you answer me, truthfully, about something?”

  “What is it?” I frowned slightly.

  “How serious are you about Bradshaw?”

  I glanced down for a moment, then back at Smoke. “I think I could fall in love with him.”

  Smoke gently pinched my chin. “There you go. Do you forgive me for last night?”

  I smiled with complete sincerity. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  And I will treasure the memory of your kisses until the day I die, whether I marry Nick or not.

  Smoke gave my nose a little tap and picked up his coffee cup again.

  25: Langley

  Langley couldn’t sleep. He should have located Corinne Aleckson the previous night instead of cruising for the next Eve. He tried a few search engines then settled on “The Online Sleuth.” He skimmed over information he didn’t need or want. All he needed was an address. Fifteen minutes of research produced a bonus—an overhead view of her house.

  There was no inclement weather in the forecast. It was a good day for a drive to the country to find the concubine’s—the Eve-cop’s—place. He also felt compelled to drive by the burial sites of his first two concubines, even if Eve II wasn’t there anymore. Maybe it wasn’t worth the trip to Wolf Lake, after all. He recalled how energized he had felt when he’d buried her. He’d hold onto that.

  His parents were on a typical weekend away, so Langley would borrow one of their vehicles for his journey. When he was finished, he would return to the hobby farm to spend time with Sheik and go for a long, power-renewing ride.

  A part of Langley was still in denial Eve II had been found. But he had kept the best part. He opened the freezer door of his side-by-side refrigerator. Eve I’s head was on the top shelf, and Eve II’s was on the second. No one would find them there—ever. And there was plenty of room for more.

  Langley stopped at his parents’ farm in Hamel just long enough to greet Sheik, change vehicles, and stop by the private lake where Eve I was buried. He closed his eyes to savor his memory of the “plop” she had made in the water when he’d buried her.

  It was forty miles from Minneapolis to the Eve-cop’s house. Langley was too preoccupied to notice much about the small towns, or the fields of crops waiting to be harvested, or people darting in and out of stores doing weekend errands on the drive between Hamel and Oak Lea.

  Brandt Avenue was not what Langley considered an avenue at all. It was a gravel road in the country, just like the one his grandparents had lived on. Their address had been Rural Route Six then suddenly it was Abbott Avenue Northwest when enhanced 911 changed the numbering system.

  Langley turned onto Brandt, driving slower than usual to keep the dust to a minimum. He drove by Eve-cop’s house. Way too nice for a concubine. He continued on to check out the neighborhood. By the time he reached the next crossroad, he’d discovered there were only two other houses on that stretch of road. Almost as isolated as his grandparents’ farm had been when he was young.

  He pulled over and sat for a full ten minutes, waiting to see how many vehicles drove down that road on a Saturday morning. Not a single one, from either direction. He waited another few minutes. Still no traffic.

  Langley turned his car around for a last look at the house before heading to Wolf Lake. He spotted the Eve-cop running down the road toward him. His heart nearly stopped. He was scoping out her house and hadn’t even hoped to see her. An older guy was a little ways behind her. It wasn’t the man she had been with on Hennepin Avenue the night before. Another boyfriend? Her father? He noticed an SUV sitting in her driveway when he passed. It might belong to her, it might belong to him.

  He recognized the guy after all. He was the Winnebago County detective the media had interviewed the day after Langley got the message from his mother about the discovery in Wolf Lake.

  If Langley could have vanished into thin air, he would have. Instead, he pulled his Twins baseball cap lower so the bill rested on his sunglasses. He kept driving, right past them.

  She waved at him. He had mere seconds to react and decided the only way for him to appear unaffected was to wave back. He lifted his pointer and middle fingers off the steering wheel in a closed-finger peace sign. It was the way his grandfather waved when he met neighbors riding in his truck or on his tractor. The detective glanced his way, but seemed distracted.

  And out of breath.

  Langley’s hands relaxed their tight grip on the wheel. He had learned a lot on the journey to Brandt Avenue. Eve-cop
went for morning runs, didn’t have neighbors close by, and had virtually no traffic on her road. How did the detective fit in? Was he in some kind of training with her, or what?

  He wouldn’t worry about the detective. The Eve-cop’s isolated road was a much better set up than Hennepin Avenue in downtown Minneapolis.

  26

  I fretted all day Saturday and most of Sunday. I felt slightly better, for a while at least, having brunch with Sara on Sunday. Friday night, I’d had a wonderful date with Nick, only to end up in Smoke’s arms, where we ventured into unchartered waters and nearly drowned. After two days of brooding, I finally recognized I was in mourning—grieving for a personal relationship Smoke wouldn’t allow. True, I did have a blossoming relationship with Nick. And with Smoke’s approval.

  Jury selection was set to begin Monday morning for the Alvie Eisner trial, and that gnawed at my insides whenever my head wasn’t occupied with Smoke, or Nick, or the man who had brutalized Molly Getz.

  In addition to the run with Smoke tagging along Saturday morning, I had gone for longer jaunts both Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. The release I experienced running helped for a while, and then the doldrums would return to pull me down again. I knew who I needed to talk to, the person who knew me best. As I dialed the number, I prayed she would be home.

  “Grandma?” It came out sounding weak, tentative.

  “My Heart. What’s the matter?” Her sympathetic tone choked me up a little.

  I hesitated, then said, “I’m a mess.”

  “In what way, sweetheart?”

  As I peered out my back window at the trees by Bebee Lake, I told her things over the phone I would be too embarrassed to say in person—about ending up at Smoke’s house on Friday, our near-miss and our conversation the next day.

  It took Grandma a moment to form her words. “I have known Elton Dawes since your father ran around with him when they were kids. And I’ve known you all your life, of course. It was easy to see something had changed between the two of you when you were together at your mother’s party. After I thought about it for a while, I realized what it was.”

  “What was it?” I stopped wandering around my living room and plopped on the couch.

  “It was you, My Heart, it was you.”

  Not the answer I expected or understood. “Me?”

  “Yes. Elton has always seemed to keep a pretty close eye on you, and it’s been obvious these last years that you think a lot of each other.”

  “We do—we have complete trust and respect for one another.”

  “Yes, you do. Corinne, remember, a couple of months ago you were excited because your mother was having Elton over for dinner. Now he’s using his lovemaking skills on you. That’s a pretty fast turnaround. Tell me what has changed.” Astuteness was one of Grandma’s natural talents.

  I jumped up and started to wander through my house again.

  “That’s the other embarrassing part.” I worked to squeeze the words out of my mouth. “I saw him almost naked—he was only wearing boxer shorts—and it hit me how attracted I was to him. I probably have been for a long time.”

  I caught my reflection in the entryway mirror and didn’t immediately recognize my own face covered with a dark-pink blush.

  Grandma cleared her throat. “And that’s what has changed, My Heart—the way you look at him. Elton has most likely been denying his attraction to you for many years. Then when he saw that attraction mirrored in your eyes, he couldn’t resist the temptation to do what he did.”

  “He wasn’t alone in that.” The feel and scent of Smoke overtook me for a second. “Grandma, what do I do now?”

  I could see and hear Grandma’s smile in her voice. “Elton is a wise man. Take his advice. See where your relationship with Nick leads to.”

  “You said Nick was ‘too good to be true,’” I countered.

  “So, if he’s true, that’s a good thing, right?” My very clever Grandma and her way with words.

  “I love you very much, Grandma.”

  “I love you more, My Heart.”

  I didn’t think that was possible.

  Special Agent Kent Erley was out of the office for a week of vacation. When he returned, he contacted Sheriff Twardy and Sergeant Olansky in response to the two-word “Judges nineteen,” message I had received. He arranged a conference call for eight o’clock Tuesday morning with Olansky and his officers in Minneapolis, and Sheriff Twardy, Smoke, and me.

  “Is everyone on board?” Erley asked.

  The sergeant and sheriff responded in the affirmative.

  Erley explained, “The UNSUB leaving this message tells us he has found a new way to gain control of the situation. You were not meant to find the victim, but now that you have, he needs the ball back in his court. He has regained control by alerting the sheriff’s department of the reason for his actions. He has taken the disturbing story from the Book of Judges and altered it to make sense in his own warped way of thinking and reasoning.”

  I looked from the sheriff to Smoke.

  “And how is that?” Olansky’s voice came over the speaker.

  “He sees himself as a combination of the man who sacrificed his concubine to save himself and the men who abused her. The Levite’s concubine left him, and he went to bring her back. The concubine had a hold on him. Our UNSUB has deep-seated issues with abandonment—either emotional or physical. Probably both. He hates the control women have had over him and how weak and ineffectual it has made him feel. He needs to sacrifice women he thinks of as concubines to preserve what he can of himself.”

  Smoke shifted closer to the phone to speak. “So why the message?”

  “Unlike the Levite, the UNSUB did not mean for his victim’s body parts to be sent out to serve as a public message. But that has changed. His message is a warning. He has committed this crime at least once and won’t stop. He can’t. He sent the message to Sergeant Aleckson for one of two reasons: either he knows who she is, or he identified her as the first female on the list of deputies.”

  The sheriff coughed to clear his throat. “It’s Sheriff Twardy here, and I have a question for Sergeant Olansky. Sergeant, are you doing any kind of stakeouts?” he asked.

  “I got undercover agents on the streets—mostly narcotics officers, but a couple working vice. They’re keeping their antennas up for four-door tan sedans, and Expeditions of all colors involved in any suspicious activities.”

  Special Agent Erley spoke up. “The UNSUB is bold, but since he knows we know Molly Getz worked Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, he may look for his next victim somewhere else—another street, St. Paul. Prostitutes are easy targets, but, as I said last time, other women who fit his profile are also at risk.”

  When our conference call ended, none of us moved for some time. The briefings by Special Agent Erley were educational and very unsettling. We had learned a fair amount about the UNSUB’s motivations, but we needed a lot more information to catch him. What did he look like, where did he work? Was it possible he looked and acted “normal”?

  Twardy and Smoke and I silently studied our notes, then each other, for quite a while. The hush in the room was deafening.

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Twardy finally managed. “Concubines, sacrifice, power, messages. As long as I live, I will not understand the twisted things the human psyche is capable of coming up with.”

  I thought of the Alexander Pope essay Smoke had quoted the day we found Molly’s body. Our savage criminal had embraced the “monster of frightful mien.”

  Smoke stuck his reading glasses and memo pad into his breast pocket. “I just hope Minneapolis can nab him if he attempts another strike.”

  “According to Special Agent Erley, it’s not a question of if, it’s a question of when,” I corrected.

  Jury selection for the Alvie Eisner trial took two days and went far better than either side had anticipated. Seven men and five women, from a variety of ages and situations of life, were chosen to hear testimo
nies and determine if Eisner was guilty or not guilty of the charges against her. The county attorney’s office phoned to tell me testimony was starting the next day. I was a key witness for the prosecution.

  The event I had dreaded for weeks began the same cool September morning I noticed reds, golds, oranges, and yellows infiltrating the green leaves of the trees.

  A psychiatrist and a psychologist had independently determined that Alvie Eisner was competent to stand trial. The trial was open to the public, but no cameras or recorders were allowed, as per Minnesota law. Security was the tightest I had seen at the courthouse. Officers were posted at metal detectors outside the courtroom. They frisked individuals when they thought it was necessary. Inside the dark-paneled room, where the walls never seemed to reach the ceiling, uniformed and plain-clothed deputies were on the alert for potential vigilante actions.

  The courtroom was packed, and scores of people leaned against the back and side walls. Reporters were easy to spot among the spectators. I noticed a number of family members of the murdered victims and planned to check on them later, when we had a chance to talk.

  “All rise. Court is now in session, the Honorable Wallace P. Feiner presiding,” the husky bailiff announced.

  The judge entered with another bailiff and took his seat on the bench. The stern look on his aging face deepened his wrinkles, giving the appearance of a scowling expression. Judge Feiner was kind, caring, and fair, but he threw the book at anyone who stepped outside the rules of the court, or showed any degree of disrespect.

  Eisner and her attorney stood to hear the charges brought against her: three counts of murder in the first degree, one count of manslaughter in the first degree, one count of assault in the first degree, two counts of assault in the second degree, three counts of burglary in the first degree, one count of burglary in the third degree, and five counts of felony theft.