NARCOCORRIDO
posted by Someone with a camera at 1:30 AM
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Epilogue
30 November
Ms. Nesta Small
Reef Port Station
Negril, Jamaica
Via Air Mail
Dear Ms. Small:
I hope you will not mind me writing without identifying myself. I’m afraid such introductions would only complicate a matter that is really quite simple.
Your mother was lucky enough to have given birth to a wonderful daughter, and you in turn, were born to a loving family. I cannot say I knew your family in its entirety, but I know enough to understand the love that clearly surrounded your home. Since it is something you have always had in your life, you will not know the feeling of true aching loneliness, but I hope you will trust that it has no place in the human spirit and that no amount of money or fame can compensate for the emptiness that surrounds those of us who have experienced such a loss.
Your mother was a wise woman. She chose to envelope you in things that made you richer and not to burden you with information designed only to diminish your worth in this world. To that end, there is the little matter of the identity of your father, whom you never knew. Your mother was wise to let his name fade from her memory, since he is of no consequence to you. Johnny, the man you know as papa, is the one your mother chose for you and I hope you will be content in the knowledge that he has done well by you. He is, for all intents and purposes, your dad.
I knew your biologic father well. He was not a bad man, just a confused man born into a loveless family. I wish I had seen that sooner. He carried the scars of such an upbringing into his adult life and never quite managed to discard them. Although he did not know it, you were the only thing he ever produced that mattered in this world and so it would be a tragedy to let his one gift drift off without the opportunity to flourish. So he has a gift for you:
A trust account has been established in your name, into which $50,000.00 annually, for the next 20 years, will be deposited. This money is to do with as you will. The account, however, comes with a trust advisor and I hope you will seek his advice. The attachments to this letter will provide you with all the information you need.
A second account has been established for your education. Naturally, it will be up to you to apply to and be accepted to the schools that you wish to attend, but the education trust will provide for 100% of your educational needs while you are in school. I encourage you to take full advantage of your potential.
It is my hope that our paths will cross (again) someday. In the meantime, I will sleep well knowing that you are cared for and loved.
-- a friend
Ms. Nesta Small
Reef Port Station
Negril, Jamaica
Via Air Mail
Dear Ms. Small:
I hope you will not mind me writing without identifying myself. I’m afraid such introductions would only complicate a matter that is really quite simple.
Your mother was lucky enough to have given birth to a wonderful daughter, and you in turn, were born to a loving family. I cannot say I knew your family in its entirety, but I know enough to understand the love that clearly surrounded your home. Since it is something you have always had in your life, you will not know the feeling of true aching loneliness, but I hope you will trust that it has no place in the human spirit and that no amount of money or fame can compensate for the emptiness that surrounds those of us who have experienced such a loss.
Your mother was a wise woman. She chose to envelope you in things that made you richer and not to burden you with information designed only to diminish your worth in this world. To that end, there is the little matter of the identity of your father, whom you never knew. Your mother was wise to let his name fade from her memory, since he is of no consequence to you. Johnny, the man you know as papa, is the one your mother chose for you and I hope you will be content in the knowledge that he has done well by you. He is, for all intents and purposes, your dad.
I knew your biologic father well. He was not a bad man, just a confused man born into a loveless family. I wish I had seen that sooner. He carried the scars of such an upbringing into his adult life and never quite managed to discard them. Although he did not know it, you were the only thing he ever produced that mattered in this world and so it would be a tragedy to let his one gift drift off without the opportunity to flourish. So he has a gift for you:
A trust account has been established in your name, into which $50,000.00 annually, for the next 20 years, will be deposited. This money is to do with as you will. The account, however, comes with a trust advisor and I hope you will seek his advice. The attachments to this letter will provide you with all the information you need.
A second account has been established for your education. Naturally, it will be up to you to apply to and be accepted to the schools that you wish to attend, but the education trust will provide for 100% of your educational needs while you are in school. I encourage you to take full advantage of your potential.
It is my hope that our paths will cross (again) someday. In the meantime, I will sleep well knowing that you are cared for and loved.
-- a friend
posted by Someone with a camera at 1:29 AM
Celebration on Mackinac, Part 3
Celebration on Mackinac, Part 3
Henry’s discoveries about Miiga and his conversation with Stedley seemed miles away at this point. To be sure, he hadn’t had time to catch up with Stedley or to see if he had changed his mind about talking to Miiga. Like most everyone else on the island, he had been focused on the boat races. He had not even been able to spend time with his wife, who came over for a few hours the evening before and stopped by the station to say hello. She was a practical wife, however, being a cop’s wife, and when it was evident that no romantic break was forthcoming, she left in good cheer and Henry lost track of her.
The boys had been right about the amount of activity on the island. It was all he could do to keep up with dispatch, who seemed to be sending him out every 15 minutes or so, at least during the evening hours, which stretched from about 3pm to 5am. The men took turns catching some quick z’s in the early morning hours, on the bunks in the back, but for the most part, it was non-stop.
As was also predicted, the bulk of the activity was related to public drunkenness, calls about out-of-control parties, and kid-style vandalism. There were also increased calls from the regulars, like Mrs. Havers, about suspicious activity nearby. Most of them turned out to be young people necking or other inoccuous things, but still, the sheer level of activity kept everyone on their toes.
There had been a bit of excitement for the island the night before. They had made a fairly large arrest. One of the men that Henry had long suspected of dealing drugs on the island was observed making a suspicious transaction. It gave the boys a “reasonable suspicion” cause to stop him. When he ran, well, that raised it to “probable cause” and they gave chase. Searching his pockets, they found several packets of what Henry identified in all probability to be meth or some form of rock cocaine.
Henry recognized the man as Jujee, Miiga’s friend. He felt bad in some ways about the arrest on the one hand, but he had little tolerance for such behavior on the other. He knew, or at least assumed, that the drug trade was part of the Jamaican survival on the island. He suspected it was largely what kept them coming back to the place; the extra money it gave him. But in his mind – and certainly in the mind of his wife – he’d rather the place shut down than be a haven for drug trafficking.
Jujee had been moved from the Mackinac jail last evening to Mackinaw City, where the facilities were better equipped to handle actual criminals. Jujee’s fate, Henry knew from his days on the Detroit PD, would likely be a plea bargain that would result in jail time, deportation, and registration with U.S. Customs as persona non grata. Clearly he was muling for someone. If the prosecutors and interview staff was savvy enough, which they probably were not, they might et something. If Jujee was a skilled and long-term criminal, he would do his time and get paid on the backside for his loyalty.
They had executed an emergency search warrant for the dome, where Jujee stayed. The judge had limited the warrant to Jujee’s room, the common area, and the shed out back, so they couldn’t search the entire place. Henry had been asked to come along, not only because he had made the initial arrest, but because his experience with searching for drug was vastly superior to those of his fellow officers. He had wanted to go, in any case. Not only was it the most real police work he had done since he’d been on the island, but he had heard Miiga talk about the dome so frequently he’d been dying to get a glimpse of this happy place.
The warrant came through at 9am the next morning and the officers headed out. It didn’t take Henry long to find Jujee’s stash. Evidently, Jujee did not expect to be caught, which suggested that he had been engaging in the activity free of scrutiny for some years. Henry had known about the shed from his talks with Miiga, and so had included it with specificity on the request for the warrant. He left the officers to search Jujee’s room and headed out to the shed, gloved and with plastic zip lock bags to cart away contraband anything that was suspicious.
He smiled to himself when saw the ring of rat poison sprinkled in a circle around the shed. It was just like Miiga had described it. He turned the latch on the unlocked shed, stepped inside, and flipped on the light. There were shelves from floor to ceiling, stocked with all manner of food products. Cans of Ackee, the fruit he had eaten when Miiga brought him the fish, were piled high. He opened giant plastic containers that revealed plastic bags full of dried beans, he assumed pidgeon peas. He read the labels, running his fingers over the tops and sides to make sure the cans were truly sealed: corned mutton, sardines in oil, sardines in tomato, cream thick, jack fruit, hearts of palm, sapota in syrup, chick peas, pine juice. Most of the things he did not recognize. He realized he had just scratched the surface of their culture on his afternoon meetings with Miiga. He hoped they would resume when the weekend was over. He had so much to learn.
Far back in the corner he noticed some open cans. The first one shook with a dry substance. When he open the top, the smell of bitter almonds hit him. Arsenic no doubt. And no doubt that was the rat poison that had been scattered about the perimeter of the building. They really had brought rat poison all the way from Jamaica.
He replaced the can. Next to it he noticed a small dishtowel. It wasn’t the sort of dish towel one should find in a dirty shed. It was ironed and hand embroidered with tiny pink flowers and the words “bless this house.” From the looks of it, he suspected it was pure linen and from its condition, it hadn’t been there long. Most likely one of the women had come to replenish the poison and had dropped it accidentally, or laid it down and forgotten it. He stuffed it into his pocket to return to the kitchen.
He went through each of the open cans with no discoveries. They were filled with chick pea flour, turbinado sugar, and dried scotch bonnet peppers. Several shoeboxes at the other end of the shed, however, yielded pay dirt. The boxes were stuffed with tiny envelopes, clearly made ready for street sale, filled with rock or meth. Henry was out of practice, but he suspected meth. He yelled for his fellow officers to help him and they logged the property. Jujee was either going to have to work a deal or be content to pump iron in a cell for some years.
After wrapping up that particular scene, including taking fingerprints from the door and walls, the entire crew headed back to the station. It was 12:30. Henry was settling in to help write up his share of reports, when the dispatcher turned to them.
“Boys, looks like we might have to get out the ambulance. I’m on with Dr. Fenster. Out to the Grund place; you know, the old Bontemps place. Looks like our boy Dick. Who wants it?”
“Henry, let you and I go,” said the captain, letting out a sigh. Joe, go out and get the prowler. It’ll make the neighbors feel better. Henry, let’s you and me head out now.”
They hopped on their bikes and rode with deliberate speed to the house.
“Bound to happen sooner or later,” said the captain. “Probably a heart attack.” That was all the captain said.
When they arrived. They were greeted by Dr. Fenster, who was sitting on the porch writing notes on a pad. He looked up at them as they passed through the door.
“Well, it’s unclear exactly what it was, but I would guess it happened sometime during the night, and if I were a bettin’ man, I’d say it was a heart attack. Could also be cirrhosis.” The doctor lowered his voice. “It’s no secret that the man was a heavy drinker and, well, he also had hepatitis. The cook and the housekeeper said he was complaining of stomach problems. That can be typical, too. Anyway, cirrhosis or heart attack; those are my guesses.”
“Any sign you can see of foul play?” asked the captain.
“Well, that’s your job, I’d guess, but if you’re asking if anything is suspicious, the answer is no. He’s got a lot of the classic symptoms of cirrhosis, just looking at him: stomach ulcers, bruises on his legs, and his fingernails are curved and white. Pretty classic, I’d say. Like I say, heart attack or cirrhosis was bound to get the old boy sooner or later.”
“Anybody here when you estimate time of death?”
“Well, the cook was here. She stays here. The housekeeper was sent home around 1. She might have been in the house at the time, but she didn’t stay the night. His wife – you know Margaret – she was at her parents’ place. From what I gather, he had been complaining of stomach cramps all night. Long about 11 or so, the cook helped him up to his room to look for some Pepto Bismal. Says she left him up there. He’s in his pajamas now, as you will see, so he must’ve decided to go to bed at some point.” The doctor put his note paper in his bag and stood up.
“I would have thought the old boy would stumble down and get some help, but from what I’m told, the party was pretty racous. Maybe he did and no one heard him. Anyway, the covers are neat and all. Looks like he just went to bed.”
“I’d like a copy of your notes when you’re done, Doc,” said the captain. “And, autopsy notes, too.”
“Sure. Sure. Margaret would prefer no autopsy, she says. ‘Course, if you find something, we’ll do one, but I’m satisfied that it was a liver problem. John, you know how Dick could put ‘em away.”
“OK, well, we’ll give you a call, then. Thanks,” said the captain. He turned to Henry with a sigh, “Well, touch base with the ladies. Why don’t I go inspect the body, see what I see and all. You start talking to the folks back there in the kitchen. We find something, let’s talk about next steps. We don’t find anything, let’s make this quiet. Islander talk . . . they talk a lot. We don’t need to spend taxpayer money on a guy who pickled his liver.”
Henry made his way back to the kitchen. His mind was racing. Marlene and Miiga were sitting with Margaret at the kitchen table. Each had a cup of tea. Their faces were expectant when he walked in the room. He could not help thinking that this was all a little too coincidental, but there it was, coincidence. The only person he had told about his discovery had known about it for years and done nothing, so there was no reason to suspect that Henry’s information had triggered anything in Stedley. Similarly, Marlene hadn’t known any more than she knew years ago. The only person to suspect, at least in theory, was himself.
How fortuitous that he would go just now, just when Henry was thinking of ways -- legal ways -- to make him pay. He would have liked to see Dick Grund rot away in a jail cell somewhere, or if not, perhaps be stripped of his fortune. Something to make him hurt. He had once again cheated the system. Fuck.
“Good afternoon, Ladies. Sorry to be seeing you again on such unhappy circumstances. This must all be a bit of a shock to you,” he turned to Margaret. “Mrs. Grund, I’m so sorry. I promise we won’t be long. Just a few routine questions, you know, and then if we have other questions, well, we can talk later. Are you OK?”
“I’m OK, thank you for asking, officer,” she gave him a weak smile. He could read neither sadness nor anger on her face. She simply looked tired. Henry wondered if she had been up partying the night before. She certainly looked that way. He thought that he might check her alibi quietly later, but somehow he doubted she was involved.
“Marlene, right?” he asked. She nodded. “You were here all night and didn’t hear anything?”
“Nope. Last time I remember seeing Mr. Grund was when we went up to his bathroom and got some more Pepto. He was complaining of cramps and the kitchen bottle was empty. I found him the Pepto and I think that’s the last I saw of him.”
“And you didn’t think anything was wrong when Mr. Grund didn’t come down for breakfast?”
Margaret gave a snort.
“Mr. Grund often didn’t come down for breakfast. But I did worry when I didn’t see him for lunch. Thought he might be sick,” said Marlene, still stoic.
“Right, right. Well, the doctor says it looks like he may have had a heart attack or died from liver complications.” He turned to Margaret. “Do you think the family might want to have some definitive answers? We could certainly order an autopsy.”
“I . . . I guess I’m still in shock, Officer. I can’t really say what I want right now. I don’t care. Whatever you think is best,” she said. Not the response he was expecting. He guessed he wouldn’t check up on her after all.
“Well, we’ll wait for the doctor’s report and get back to you. For the time being, we’ll remove the body, and – I know this is hard – but we’d like to ask that you, you know, just for a day or two, not move back into or clean the bedroom.”
“Of course,” she said, again managing a weak smile at him. “Just call me when you’re done. I’m going to stay with my brothers at the other house. Marlene and Nesta can get you what you want.”
“Nesta?”
“That’s me,” said Miiga. “My Christian name.”
“Oh, well, learn something new every day,” he said brightly. “Uh, anyway, I guess I’m through here unless you have any questions of me,” said Henry. His entourage was silent. “Thank you ladies, he said, and turned back toward the dining room. On his way out, he caught glimpse of the hand towels hanging on the cabinets; hand embroidered with tiny pink flowers and the words “bless this house” on them.
It caught him for a moment. He remembered the matching one was still in his pocket from earlier that day. It didn’t make sense. He started to ask about them; take one, perhaps, and compare it to what he already had, but thought better of it. He bowed his head once, extended his condolences again, and headed out to the porch.
“Find anything?” asked the captain.
“Nope. You?”
“Nope. Looks like what the doc said. Let’s wrap this up. Get this old boy buried and out of their lives.”
The ambulance had arrived, as had officer Timpkins in the prowler. They left him to supervise the body removal and left him with instructions that the body could be released to the family immediately.
The short ride back to the station to write up the report was done in silence. Henry fingered the towel in his pocket and tried to make sense of it. He knew Miiga had come to the dome, but why would she take one of the Grund towels? She knew Marlene and Stedley had been longstanding friends, but what business would she have coming to the Dome? It was out of place.
“Cap, I forgot something at the house back there. Be right back,” said Henry, and turned around. He removed the towel from his pocket and walked in. Timpkins was still in the house with the orderlies. The women were where he had left them.
“Excuse me, ladies. I’m not sure how it happened, but I seem to have accidentally walked off with one of your towels. This does belong to you, right?” He addressed is question to Mrs. Grund, who smiled.
”I’ll take that, thank you,” Marlene said, and snatched it out of his hands with a furrowed brow.
“Marlene made those when I was a littlel girl,” said Margaret, looking fondly at her cook. “She always carries one hanging over the side of her apron. When I was little, I used to love to dry my hands only on the one hanging from her apron,” said Margaret.
“Lots of cooks do that. Habit,” Marlene said sharply. Henry noticed she wasn’t wearing one. “Guess I must have dropped in the front room or something.”
“Yes, that must have been it. Well, ladies, I’m off.”
Henry rode back to the station in silence. He took his time and enjoyed the beauty of the place that he was beginning to call home. The cap was right. There was something very delicate about the island, something that needn’t be upset if at all possible. The right balance. He filled out his report, leaving out the hand towel, which was of no consequence, really, and hoped that he would see Miiga next week at the library.
When he had a free moment, he walked over to the one computer connected to the Internet. Just for fun, he looked up signs of arsenic poisoning:
• Inflammation of the liver
• Hepatitis
• Stomach cramps
• Cirrhosis
Henry did not amend his report.
Click here for final notes.
Henry’s discoveries about Miiga and his conversation with Stedley seemed miles away at this point. To be sure, he hadn’t had time to catch up with Stedley or to see if he had changed his mind about talking to Miiga. Like most everyone else on the island, he had been focused on the boat races. He had not even been able to spend time with his wife, who came over for a few hours the evening before and stopped by the station to say hello. She was a practical wife, however, being a cop’s wife, and when it was evident that no romantic break was forthcoming, she left in good cheer and Henry lost track of her.
The boys had been right about the amount of activity on the island. It was all he could do to keep up with dispatch, who seemed to be sending him out every 15 minutes or so, at least during the evening hours, which stretched from about 3pm to 5am. The men took turns catching some quick z’s in the early morning hours, on the bunks in the back, but for the most part, it was non-stop.
As was also predicted, the bulk of the activity was related to public drunkenness, calls about out-of-control parties, and kid-style vandalism. There were also increased calls from the regulars, like Mrs. Havers, about suspicious activity nearby. Most of them turned out to be young people necking or other inoccuous things, but still, the sheer level of activity kept everyone on their toes.
There had been a bit of excitement for the island the night before. They had made a fairly large arrest. One of the men that Henry had long suspected of dealing drugs on the island was observed making a suspicious transaction. It gave the boys a “reasonable suspicion” cause to stop him. When he ran, well, that raised it to “probable cause” and they gave chase. Searching his pockets, they found several packets of what Henry identified in all probability to be meth or some form of rock cocaine.
Henry recognized the man as Jujee, Miiga’s friend. He felt bad in some ways about the arrest on the one hand, but he had little tolerance for such behavior on the other. He knew, or at least assumed, that the drug trade was part of the Jamaican survival on the island. He suspected it was largely what kept them coming back to the place; the extra money it gave him. But in his mind – and certainly in the mind of his wife – he’d rather the place shut down than be a haven for drug trafficking.
Jujee had been moved from the Mackinac jail last evening to Mackinaw City, where the facilities were better equipped to handle actual criminals. Jujee’s fate, Henry knew from his days on the Detroit PD, would likely be a plea bargain that would result in jail time, deportation, and registration with U.S. Customs as persona non grata. Clearly he was muling for someone. If the prosecutors and interview staff was savvy enough, which they probably were not, they might et something. If Jujee was a skilled and long-term criminal, he would do his time and get paid on the backside for his loyalty.
They had executed an emergency search warrant for the dome, where Jujee stayed. The judge had limited the warrant to Jujee’s room, the common area, and the shed out back, so they couldn’t search the entire place. Henry had been asked to come along, not only because he had made the initial arrest, but because his experience with searching for drug was vastly superior to those of his fellow officers. He had wanted to go, in any case. Not only was it the most real police work he had done since he’d been on the island, but he had heard Miiga talk about the dome so frequently he’d been dying to get a glimpse of this happy place.
The warrant came through at 9am the next morning and the officers headed out. It didn’t take Henry long to find Jujee’s stash. Evidently, Jujee did not expect to be caught, which suggested that he had been engaging in the activity free of scrutiny for some years. Henry had known about the shed from his talks with Miiga, and so had included it with specificity on the request for the warrant. He left the officers to search Jujee’s room and headed out to the shed, gloved and with plastic zip lock bags to cart away contraband anything that was suspicious.
He smiled to himself when saw the ring of rat poison sprinkled in a circle around the shed. It was just like Miiga had described it. He turned the latch on the unlocked shed, stepped inside, and flipped on the light. There were shelves from floor to ceiling, stocked with all manner of food products. Cans of Ackee, the fruit he had eaten when Miiga brought him the fish, were piled high. He opened giant plastic containers that revealed plastic bags full of dried beans, he assumed pidgeon peas. He read the labels, running his fingers over the tops and sides to make sure the cans were truly sealed: corned mutton, sardines in oil, sardines in tomato, cream thick, jack fruit, hearts of palm, sapota in syrup, chick peas, pine juice. Most of the things he did not recognize. He realized he had just scratched the surface of their culture on his afternoon meetings with Miiga. He hoped they would resume when the weekend was over. He had so much to learn.
Far back in the corner he noticed some open cans. The first one shook with a dry substance. When he open the top, the smell of bitter almonds hit him. Arsenic no doubt. And no doubt that was the rat poison that had been scattered about the perimeter of the building. They really had brought rat poison all the way from Jamaica.
He replaced the can. Next to it he noticed a small dishtowel. It wasn’t the sort of dish towel one should find in a dirty shed. It was ironed and hand embroidered with tiny pink flowers and the words “bless this house.” From the looks of it, he suspected it was pure linen and from its condition, it hadn’t been there long. Most likely one of the women had come to replenish the poison and had dropped it accidentally, or laid it down and forgotten it. He stuffed it into his pocket to return to the kitchen.
He went through each of the open cans with no discoveries. They were filled with chick pea flour, turbinado sugar, and dried scotch bonnet peppers. Several shoeboxes at the other end of the shed, however, yielded pay dirt. The boxes were stuffed with tiny envelopes, clearly made ready for street sale, filled with rock or meth. Henry was out of practice, but he suspected meth. He yelled for his fellow officers to help him and they logged the property. Jujee was either going to have to work a deal or be content to pump iron in a cell for some years.
After wrapping up that particular scene, including taking fingerprints from the door and walls, the entire crew headed back to the station. It was 12:30. Henry was settling in to help write up his share of reports, when the dispatcher turned to them.
“Boys, looks like we might have to get out the ambulance. I’m on with Dr. Fenster. Out to the Grund place; you know, the old Bontemps place. Looks like our boy Dick. Who wants it?”
“Henry, let you and I go,” said the captain, letting out a sigh. Joe, go out and get the prowler. It’ll make the neighbors feel better. Henry, let’s you and me head out now.”
They hopped on their bikes and rode with deliberate speed to the house.
“Bound to happen sooner or later,” said the captain. “Probably a heart attack.” That was all the captain said.
When they arrived. They were greeted by Dr. Fenster, who was sitting on the porch writing notes on a pad. He looked up at them as they passed through the door.
“Well, it’s unclear exactly what it was, but I would guess it happened sometime during the night, and if I were a bettin’ man, I’d say it was a heart attack. Could also be cirrhosis.” The doctor lowered his voice. “It’s no secret that the man was a heavy drinker and, well, he also had hepatitis. The cook and the housekeeper said he was complaining of stomach problems. That can be typical, too. Anyway, cirrhosis or heart attack; those are my guesses.”
“Any sign you can see of foul play?” asked the captain.
“Well, that’s your job, I’d guess, but if you’re asking if anything is suspicious, the answer is no. He’s got a lot of the classic symptoms of cirrhosis, just looking at him: stomach ulcers, bruises on his legs, and his fingernails are curved and white. Pretty classic, I’d say. Like I say, heart attack or cirrhosis was bound to get the old boy sooner or later.”
“Anybody here when you estimate time of death?”
“Well, the cook was here. She stays here. The housekeeper was sent home around 1. She might have been in the house at the time, but she didn’t stay the night. His wife – you know Margaret – she was at her parents’ place. From what I gather, he had been complaining of stomach cramps all night. Long about 11 or so, the cook helped him up to his room to look for some Pepto Bismal. Says she left him up there. He’s in his pajamas now, as you will see, so he must’ve decided to go to bed at some point.” The doctor put his note paper in his bag and stood up.
“I would have thought the old boy would stumble down and get some help, but from what I’m told, the party was pretty racous. Maybe he did and no one heard him. Anyway, the covers are neat and all. Looks like he just went to bed.”
“I’d like a copy of your notes when you’re done, Doc,” said the captain. “And, autopsy notes, too.”
“Sure. Sure. Margaret would prefer no autopsy, she says. ‘Course, if you find something, we’ll do one, but I’m satisfied that it was a liver problem. John, you know how Dick could put ‘em away.”
“OK, well, we’ll give you a call, then. Thanks,” said the captain. He turned to Henry with a sigh, “Well, touch base with the ladies. Why don’t I go inspect the body, see what I see and all. You start talking to the folks back there in the kitchen. We find something, let’s talk about next steps. We don’t find anything, let’s make this quiet. Islander talk . . . they talk a lot. We don’t need to spend taxpayer money on a guy who pickled his liver.”
Henry made his way back to the kitchen. His mind was racing. Marlene and Miiga were sitting with Margaret at the kitchen table. Each had a cup of tea. Their faces were expectant when he walked in the room. He could not help thinking that this was all a little too coincidental, but there it was, coincidence. The only person he had told about his discovery had known about it for years and done nothing, so there was no reason to suspect that Henry’s information had triggered anything in Stedley. Similarly, Marlene hadn’t known any more than she knew years ago. The only person to suspect, at least in theory, was himself.
How fortuitous that he would go just now, just when Henry was thinking of ways -- legal ways -- to make him pay. He would have liked to see Dick Grund rot away in a jail cell somewhere, or if not, perhaps be stripped of his fortune. Something to make him hurt. He had once again cheated the system. Fuck.
“Good afternoon, Ladies. Sorry to be seeing you again on such unhappy circumstances. This must all be a bit of a shock to you,” he turned to Margaret. “Mrs. Grund, I’m so sorry. I promise we won’t be long. Just a few routine questions, you know, and then if we have other questions, well, we can talk later. Are you OK?”
“I’m OK, thank you for asking, officer,” she gave him a weak smile. He could read neither sadness nor anger on her face. She simply looked tired. Henry wondered if she had been up partying the night before. She certainly looked that way. He thought that he might check her alibi quietly later, but somehow he doubted she was involved.
“Marlene, right?” he asked. She nodded. “You were here all night and didn’t hear anything?”
“Nope. Last time I remember seeing Mr. Grund was when we went up to his bathroom and got some more Pepto. He was complaining of cramps and the kitchen bottle was empty. I found him the Pepto and I think that’s the last I saw of him.”
“And you didn’t think anything was wrong when Mr. Grund didn’t come down for breakfast?”
Margaret gave a snort.
“Mr. Grund often didn’t come down for breakfast. But I did worry when I didn’t see him for lunch. Thought he might be sick,” said Marlene, still stoic.
“Right, right. Well, the doctor says it looks like he may have had a heart attack or died from liver complications.” He turned to Margaret. “Do you think the family might want to have some definitive answers? We could certainly order an autopsy.”
“I . . . I guess I’m still in shock, Officer. I can’t really say what I want right now. I don’t care. Whatever you think is best,” she said. Not the response he was expecting. He guessed he wouldn’t check up on her after all.
“Well, we’ll wait for the doctor’s report and get back to you. For the time being, we’ll remove the body, and – I know this is hard – but we’d like to ask that you, you know, just for a day or two, not move back into or clean the bedroom.”
“Of course,” she said, again managing a weak smile at him. “Just call me when you’re done. I’m going to stay with my brothers at the other house. Marlene and Nesta can get you what you want.”
“Nesta?”
“That’s me,” said Miiga. “My Christian name.”
“Oh, well, learn something new every day,” he said brightly. “Uh, anyway, I guess I’m through here unless you have any questions of me,” said Henry. His entourage was silent. “Thank you ladies, he said, and turned back toward the dining room. On his way out, he caught glimpse of the hand towels hanging on the cabinets; hand embroidered with tiny pink flowers and the words “bless this house” on them.
It caught him for a moment. He remembered the matching one was still in his pocket from earlier that day. It didn’t make sense. He started to ask about them; take one, perhaps, and compare it to what he already had, but thought better of it. He bowed his head once, extended his condolences again, and headed out to the porch.
“Find anything?” asked the captain.
“Nope. You?”
“Nope. Looks like what the doc said. Let’s wrap this up. Get this old boy buried and out of their lives.”
The ambulance had arrived, as had officer Timpkins in the prowler. They left him to supervise the body removal and left him with instructions that the body could be released to the family immediately.
The short ride back to the station to write up the report was done in silence. Henry fingered the towel in his pocket and tried to make sense of it. He knew Miiga had come to the dome, but why would she take one of the Grund towels? She knew Marlene and Stedley had been longstanding friends, but what business would she have coming to the Dome? It was out of place.
“Cap, I forgot something at the house back there. Be right back,” said Henry, and turned around. He removed the towel from his pocket and walked in. Timpkins was still in the house with the orderlies. The women were where he had left them.
“Excuse me, ladies. I’m not sure how it happened, but I seem to have accidentally walked off with one of your towels. This does belong to you, right?” He addressed is question to Mrs. Grund, who smiled.
”I’ll take that, thank you,” Marlene said, and snatched it out of his hands with a furrowed brow.
“Marlene made those when I was a littlel girl,” said Margaret, looking fondly at her cook. “She always carries one hanging over the side of her apron. When I was little, I used to love to dry my hands only on the one hanging from her apron,” said Margaret.
“Lots of cooks do that. Habit,” Marlene said sharply. Henry noticed she wasn’t wearing one. “Guess I must have dropped in the front room or something.”
“Yes, that must have been it. Well, ladies, I’m off.”
Henry rode back to the station in silence. He took his time and enjoyed the beauty of the place that he was beginning to call home. The cap was right. There was something very delicate about the island, something that needn’t be upset if at all possible. The right balance. He filled out his report, leaving out the hand towel, which was of no consequence, really, and hoped that he would see Miiga next week at the library.
When he had a free moment, he walked over to the one computer connected to the Internet. Just for fun, he looked up signs of arsenic poisoning:
• Inflammation of the liver
• Hepatitis
• Stomach cramps
• Cirrhosis
Henry did not amend his report.
Click here for final notes.
posted by Someone with a camera at 1:00 AM
Celebration on Mackinac, Part 2
Celebration on Mackinac, part 2
It was rare for his wife to call him at work. She was the old fashioned type and believed that work was work and one didn’t need to be bothered by little home annoyances. Even when his youngest had broken her arm 9 years ago, he hadn’t discovered it until he got home that evening. Julie hadn’t wanted to burden him, she said, and anyway, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just be in the way.
So it was both fortuitous and unusual that while he was at the Subway, collecting from the Singhs the receipts out of the safe, that he should get a phone call. When they told him it was his wife, he couldn’t imagine it, and assumed it was probably Sasha’s secretary looking for him.
“Hello?” he said, a little gingerly.
“Bill, I think you better come home right now.” His wife’s voice was terse and he immediately jumped to the worst.
“Oh, god, honey, is everything OK? Is anyone hurt? Where are the girls? Are the girls OK?” He couldn’t understand it. He had done everything right for Sasha. He could barely breathe as he spoke with her. His face must have foretold his feelings because the Singhs had looks of concern on their faces. Mr. Singh walked back into the office to retrieve Bill’s summer jacket.
“Well, yes, the girls are fine, Bill. In fact, one of your lovely daughters is sitting here with me right this minute. She’d like to tell you something. I think you should come home,” said his wife again. This time, he heard more anger than fear in her voice. It relaxed him, but only enough to get off the phone and grab his coat.
“We hope everything is OK, Mr. Garhart,” the Singhs called after him. He waved and ducked into his car, speeding off toward his home. What could possibly be wrong? Why did he have to go home? Why would his wife be so angry? Pregnant? Was his little girl pregnant? Who cared, that was nothing. Hopefully, she was pregnant. Or maybe she had gotten engaged or married without telling them. That would be OK, just fine, he thought. As long as she was alive and well enough to make her mother angry, what could be wrong? Whatever it was, they could live through it.
He brightened up on his way, loosening his tie just a little to let more air in. What could be the matter? As long as his babies were safe. He pulled into the driveway, behind his daughter’s old Toyota Corolla. She had worked 3 summers straight to buy that heap. He had been so proud of her. His original plan was buy her a new car for graduation from college, but that dream would not materialize, at least not the way things were going.
He headed into the house and found his youngest and Julie in the living room. Before he even had a chance to say hello, his wife started in.
“I don’t know what to do with this one. I don’t know what to do. Why don’t you tell your father why you’re here instead of in school like you should be. Go on. Tell him,” she said, pacing back and forth on the living room floor.
Bill moved past his wife and gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Hi pumpkin, how are you?” he asked, putting his briefcase down and sitting on the chair next to the sofa.
“Hi daddy,” she said. Her arms were folded across her chest and she seemed more interested in a fight with her mother than in talking to him.
“It’s not that big of a deal, Mom. You are making it sound like I’m the criminal. I didn’t do anything!”
“What were you doing there in the first place? What kind of people do you hang out with that would get you in this much trouble? We don’t have a second mortgage on the house so you can be suspended,” said his wife.
“Suspended? Honey, you got suspended?” So this was what the excitement was all about. Shoot, thought Bill. She’s not even pregnant. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asked, just to be sure.
“No, daddy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You don’t get suspended for getting pregnant.”
“Well, since you’ve obviously become an overnight expert, why don’t you tell your father what you do get suspended for,” said Julie.
“First of all, Daddy, Mo-ther, it’s not that big of a deal and I’m going to work it out.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” said Julie. “Just tell him.”
“Well, there was this party on campus. One of the fraternities. It was just another party, you know, just blowing off steam before finals. Anyway, the school has this zero tolerance program going on after some kid died of alcohol poisoning, and . . .”
“Were you drinking?” asked Bill.
“No, daddy. I mean, I had like a beer or something, but I was not drunk or stoned or anything. Anyway, can I please finish my story?”
“Finish. Finish,” said his wife.
“So, anyway, turns out one of the guys who was at the party was dealing and there was this abandominium down the street and . . .”
“Abandominium? What is that?” asked Bill, his tenseness growing.
“It’s a place, like an abandoned apartment or house, you know, where people hang out and do drugs.”
“How do you know about that. Do you go there?” he was almost afraid to ask.
“Everyone knows about them, and no, I do not go there. Can I please just get through this. Jeez, you guys are making a big deal out of this. If you’d just let me finish.”
“So finish,” said her mother again. Bill was growing increasingly uneasy.
“OK, so anyway, there was this abandominium that the cops busted up and this girl, she goes to our school, she fingered this guy who was dealing, who happened to be at the party. Anyway, all of us who were hanging out with him were picked up, too. It was no big deal. He’s not even a student there or anything. Just a guy.”
“And that’s the whole story,” said Julie, flatly, to her daughter.
“What? Like there’s supposed to be something dramatic?”
“That’s not what the phone call I got said was the whole story.”
Bill’s daughter let out a big sigh and finished the whole story. “Well, I know you guys are going to make a big deal out of this. And it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t doing any hard drugs. I wasn’t with this guy. He sells really hard stuff and I’m not into that.”
“But you knew him?” asked Bill.
“I mean, yeah, I knew him. We’re sort of friends and all, but I’m just saying I don’t do meth, dad, or coke or xanax or ‘x’ any stuff some of the other kids do. All they found on me was a little pot and they went like totally ballistic. . . . it was so lame. Like I’m some sort of bad guy or something. Anyway, I got suspended. And can I just add, not expelled? Suspended.”
Bill inched his way toward his daughter. “You . . . you smoke pot?”
“Daddy, it’s not a big deal.”
“You say you know this dealer and he’s not a student. Who is he and why do you hang out with him? What’s his name? What’s he doing around the school if he’s not a student?”
“I mean, I don’t know him know him, but like, I see him around at parties and like at the student union and stuff. He’s just a guy, daddy. I mean, I don’t even know his last name. Everyone calls him Bobby C. But can I just point out that I was not expelled, please? It’s just 3 days.”
He had promised himself. He had promised Sasha. He was a straight shooting guy who never flinched, never snapped. He felt his head tighten, as if it were going to explode. He felt the heat leave and then reenter his body. He felt the fear dissipate until there was only anger left. He snapped. Bill let out a scream that seemed to release all the anger, frustration and fear that had gotten to him in the past months. There. In his living room. To the shock of his family.
Bill ran into the kitchen, opening drawers at a frantic pace, looking for something sharp. Anything. He ran out the back door and into his tool shed to find his bowie knife.
Mackinac was 4 hours south. He had never been but he figured it was somewhere down highway ____________. He would find a way to get there. No one would stop him. He didn’t care anymore what happened to him. Going to jail was better than supplying his own daughter with drugs. He would kill Sasha, too, but that would have to wait until he came back, since he didn’t know where he lived and it would take some time. But he could get to Dick now. And he would. He started driving.
Two hours into the trip, his anger had not died down. He was more driven than ever. He had not even stopped to find directions. There was no little voice inside him as he drove toward Dick that held him back this time. He did not hear or feel Jesus with him. He was not certain at this moment that God even existed. All he knew was that he had to protect his children. He would kill Sasha somehow. That would take some thinking. Prison was not good enough for him. But Dick he would see this very night.
At one point, Bill heard Woody Guthrie’s Ludlow Massacre, come through the radio; it fueled him to go the distance.
We were so afraid you would kill our children,
We dug us a cave that was seven foot deep,
Carried our young ones and pregnant women
Down inside the cave to sleep.
That very night your soldiers waited,
Until all us miners were asleep,
You snuck around our little tent town,
Soaked our tents with your kerosene.
You struck a match and in the blaze that started,
You pulled the triggers of your gatling guns,
I made a run for the children but the fire wall stopped me.
Thirteen children died from your guns.
Bill followed the signs to Mackinaw City and arrived at about 9 in the evening. None of the thoughts that were loose and running through his mind were particularly logical at the moment; he was completely fueled by emotion. At some level, he was cognizant enough of his state to understand that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but he was moving forward, nonetheless.
It hadn’t occurred to him until just this moment that there might not be any ferries shuttling people over to the island at this time. His heart raced as he drove down toward the docks. Though he had never set foot in the city, the place was small and he was able to find the docks.
This time of night, there was little activity at the ferries and he couldn’t tell whether there were any boats yet left to go over to the island. It was still light out, and there were workers milling about. Bill followed the signs that said “free overnight parking,” and pulled into a space not far away. He ran toward the white building that surely must be a ticket office.
“Are there any more trains this evening?” he asked, breathless and desperate?
“Last one leaves in 20 minutes. 9:30 on the dot,” came the answer from the ticket seller behind the glass. “$16.00 please.”
“And when is the last ferry off the island?”
“11, so unless you’re making a quick trip, you’ll have to stay the night. You do know there are no hotel rooms available on the island, right? The Race to Mackinac just ended and it’s a madhouse there,” she said.
“I’ll take my chances.”
The boat ride was quick. Four hours and 27 minutes into his journey, Bill’s resolve was not weakened. He stepped off the island and started asking where Dick Grund’s place was. Dick? Who? No one knew. For such a big man, Bill thought, he was certainly not a celebrity on Mackinac. His mind went naturally to the one place he considered a good source for directions: the police station. He decided better of that option and continued to make his way up toward the center of the island, undaunted. Surely, someone in one of the big mansions he’d seen would be able to tell him.
He stopped at the Grand Hotel. He had never seen anything like it before in his life. So this is how the other half lives, thought Bill, amazed at the beautiful wide expanse of veranda that flanks the front. He wondered how much a room went for. This thing about not being able to get off the island has put a slight crimp in his plans. Bill made his way up the grandiose staircase and into the front lobby, where he found a concierge.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Dick Grund,” he said, smiling at the woman behind the antique partner’s desk.
“Is he a guest in the hotel?” she asked.
“No, he’s a . . . a local, I guess you could say.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I know him, but our general manager might. Can you just wait here?” She got up to leave. Bill waited.
Bill looked around at the famous hotel in all its glory. The nicest place he and Julie had ever stayed was a Windham hotel in Chicago once. He imagined bringing his wife here and how she would love just one night in a place like this. They could sit on the veranda together and sip exotic drinks, watching the sun set over the lake, and . . .
“So, heading up to ol’ Dick’s party, are you?” the voice came out of nowhere and scared Bill for a moment.
“Yes, the party. Yes, he invited me.”
“Well, he’ll be glad you could make it, if you find him. I hear his parties are legendary and big. If you get lucky, you see him. What do you do for Dick? Or are you just old friends?” the Manager asked him. Bill could see that he was eyeing his clothes, which were not really party clothes. He had forgotten to remove his tie, even. He supposed he looked a little silly.
“I’m his accountant,” said Bill, suddenly self-conscious about his tie and shirt combination (clearly working class, he thought). He hoped the “accountant” thing would cover for the outfit. “I would have come earlier, but I was working on another matter,” he said.
“Of course, of course. Yes, well, you should loosen your tie and get ready to have a good time. But I’m sure you know that,” he said with a wink. “Anyway, the party’s probably just getting started, so you didn’t miss much. And the place, it’s not hard to find. I’m sure you’ll hear music when you get close, but let me draw you a little map.”
Map in hand, Bill walked away from the antique desk and back toward the grand expanse of steps. Though his mind was on a single focused act, he couldn’t help but look at his surroundings. He didn’t smell the mildew that permeated the old hotel. He didn’t see the worn and faded cushions on the lobby chairs. Bill saw only the grandeur. Through his eyes it was a playground for people not like him. It was a place for the wealthy ne’er-do-well playboy and the old money gentry. He wished again in that moment that his wife could share the place with him.
As he made his way out of the hotel, he noticed the black men in their monkey suits, racing past him toward the dining room, and the black women in their maids’ outfits no doubt doing maid things, and the black men in their box hats helping people out of the horse drawn carriages. It struck him as strange, and a little plantation-like. He wondered if that’s the way wealthy people liked it – like the old days, before things like political correctness got in the way. Before pension funds got too big. A place where you didn’t have to be held accountable for what you did. Well, Dick Grund was going to be held accountable. He would walk right up and in front of everyone, tell that man what he had done to an entire community, to him, to his daughter.
As the manager had predicted, he could hear the sounds of music and partying before he arrived at the place. He had not been expecting a party when he started his journey, but it wasn’t going to deter him now. He wondered if Dick would be at the front door, greeting each guest, as he and his wife did when they had a party. He would have to do it then, right then, because a man as important as that, well, he might have bouncers and they would be told to look for him. He toyed with ripping off his tie so he would blend in more, but it wouldn’t matter; he could never blend in with these people anyway.
Bill approached the big Victorian style home with the sense of awe that most rich people never have; the sense of awe – some might say – in which the house was meant to be viewed. He had only seen such things in books and on his family trips to places in Keewenaw county, but then they were always converted to museums. Certainly no one lived in such places and if they did, it was their primary home. Such largess, well, it was simply obscene.
There was no one standing at the top of the stairs that he could see. There were no brawny men, like he had seen standing at the front of the Main Street bars, waiting to discard undesirables. There was only Frank Sinatra, and the buzz of people talking and laughing. He stood in front for a moment, wondering how he should do this thing. It occurred to him now that he had never killed a man, not even when he served in Viet Nam. He didn’t know the first thing about killing a man, but he had killed plenty of ducks and a few deer. Go for the neck, he thought. The neck is better than the heart.
Several people walked past him and over toward the side gate. One couple smiled at him.
“You trying to get in? Dick usually leaves the side gate open. C’mon, the drinks are flowing,” the woman said with a smile. Bill followed her in.
Inside the back yard there were throngs of people. He hung to the side, straining his neck to see above and around the revelers, in hopes of getting a good look at Dick and making his move. People were drunk and loud. For the most part, standing there – even out of place – he was ignored. It occurred to him only now that he might be able to get away with this without being caught or noticed; that it might be better to wait until the wee hours of the morning and come back. He considered this plan. He couldn’t get off the island anyway – no boats would be leaving for the mainland until tomorrow morning. Now he needed a place to hide and wait. He had to plan it just right. Not too late so no one was around except maybe his wife. Not too soon so too many people were around. Just right.
He eyed the backyard and its low hanging wisteria lining the back. It looked as if it was a safe and secluded place to lay in wait, if he could ease himself behind it. He had hunted all his life. If he could find a place to crouch, he could be very still for a very long time, listening, listening, waiting. He pushed silently through the noisy boisterous crowd, still looking about as he did so to see if he could spot Dick. He couldn’t.
Bill ducked behind the wisteria. Evidently, he was not the only one looking for a secluded spot. A giggling couple passed him on the way out. He would have to find a place as far back as possible, unsuitable for necking. As he scooted past the couple, he spotted a cluster of rosemary bushes lining a back gate. He wished he had worn long sleeves at that moment, since rosemary could be prickly, but he crawled behind it and crouched low. No one would come back this far. He waited.
From his vantage point he could see nothing, but he heard the sounds of an ever growing party around him. He heard footsteps very near him and occasionally they would be accompanied by soft conversation. He was completely obscured as he listened to the conversations intended for no third party’s ears. No one knew he was there, and if he did move, surely he would be thought just an animal. He felt safe in the cocoon of the rosemary. Though the branches had scratched him when he first crawled into the space, he hardly felt them now. In fact, this was considerably more tolerable than hunting. He had a purpose now. He was doing something righteous now. He could wait.
He had made one bad decision going to Bobby C. that fateful day. And that decision was made without rational thinking. In retrospect, he realized that he had not been thoughtful about it at all. Here, now, he had time to think about this decision. He had time to consider the consequences. He couldn’t escape his debt to Sasha and he didn’t believe that Sasha would ever honor his agreement to let him go once he got paid, so it didn’t matter now. This decision was made with a conscious understanding of what might befall him should he be caught. And it didn’t matter. Sasha couldn’t touch him now. He didn’t care.
The party continued to rage on. It got louder. He heard footsteps again, this time he could tell by the voices that it was two men together. He laid low as they talked. The conversations were not particularly interesting, but it helped him pass the time. He imagined who the men were, what they looked like, from their words.
“I’ve got what I promised, Jujee, and it’s yours for pick-up as soon as you bring me what you promised.”
“You ain’t gotta worry, Mr. Walker, I be back in 20 wid everyt’ing. Cook and curry. No problem.”
“Let’s make it an hour. I need to go make arrangements. You meet me right back here in one hour exactly.”
“Yah. Right here, Mr. Walker.”
Bill heard one of the men leave. The other seemed to stay behind. He could hear him rustling through the bushes and Bill worried that he was getting too close. The bushes moved, and Bill could see a pair of legs just on the other side of the rosemary. This man was looking for something. Had Bill miscalculated? Could he be seen? He held his breath. Oh god… oh god… please don’t let him find me.
Suddenly, the man pulled the bushes back just in front of Bill and let fly a small canvas bag, about the size of a large woman’s purse. The stiff rosemary caught and partially suspended the bag from hitting the ground. The man gave another push and the bag fell just to Bill’s left. He thought sure he had been seen, but the man seemed satisfied that what he came to do had been completed and Bill heard him walk back out toward the party.
Bill’s heart was still racing from the adrenaline of the foregoing moments. He looked at the bag in the fading light. It was a boating bag with a zippered top. He knew the man would be back for the bag, and judging from the conversation, it would be within the hour. When he came to retrieve it, Bill would be discovered, no doubt, since the man would have to climb back, as Bill did, to get it. He needed to move, perhaps to the other side of the yard, where he might find – he hoped he would find – another place to seclude himself.
Quietly, he reached over to the zipper and drew it toward him. Inside was cash. Lots of it in 6 little bundles. It wasn’t neatly secured with little bands that said how much was in each bundle, like he was used to seeing on television. Each bundles was encased in a rubber band. He gently lifted a wad of the cash and looked at the bills. They were $100s. The only time he had seem a one hundred dollar bill was when he went to the bank to get two for his oldest daughter’s wedding. He had never seen so much money. He counted silently: $10,000.00 in each bundle. $60,000.00.
He had come to do damage to Dick Grund. He could finish what he started. Or he could walk away right now. He could steal this cash, or some of it, and walk away right now. Right Now. He could plant $30,000 on Sasha’s desk, far more that he owed him, and walk away from that, too. Sasha didn’t need him any more. He kept him around because Bill still owed him. But that first day in the coffee shop hadn’t he said that he would be free the moment Bill was relieved of his debt? This would do it.
It was stealing, he knew. And the poor man who left the money there would be frantic. He knew that too. If he was an honest man, well, Bill would feel just terrible. But what honest man does business in the bushes with cash? No, this was money from ill-gotten gains, he was sure of that. Besides, the people at this party could well afford to lose $60,000. Hell, Dick Grund had spent over twice that much just on a stupid boat race.
There was no time to give this further thought. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you,” he whispered. Then he removed all six bundles from the bag, shoving two in his pockets, four in his socks. He crawled out of the bushes and eased back into the crowd, his hand shoved deep into his pockets to explain the bulge. When he got back into the main part of town, he would buy a bag of some sort, something innocuous. There was the little matter of staying on the island all night, but judging from the festivities going on about the island, it would not be odd to be seen walking the streets in the wee hours of the morning.
Bill eased out of the party and back onto the street. It was 11 o’clock, and well past the witching hour for the ferries. He had 8 hours to go before he could leave, but it didn’t damper his spirits. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for not forgetting me. I’ll keep my promise to you. I’ll keep it right now,” he said.
Once he got far enough away from the house to have some privacy, he removed the money from his socks and shoved it in the back of his underwear, so he could walk a little less gingerly. And he quickly found a t-shirt shop in which to buy a duffle bag for his booty. He also bought a t-shirt and a sweatshirt for his wife. It was $122.48 well spent. The sales clerk didn’t flinch when he handed her two $100 bills.
Bill spent the first few hours wondering the commercial streets of the tiny island. As he was at Dick Grund’s party, he was largely ignored. Finally, he walked to the end of the main street and peered in the windows of the public library, locked and dark for the evening. He wandered around to the back and spotted two Adirondack chairs facing Lake Huron. He settled into one and spent the rest of the very early morning staring out at the water, listening to its wavesong, watching and waiting for the sun to rise. At 8am, he caught the ferry back to his car and filled his tank for the ride back home.
There would be some money left after paying Sasha, but he would still have to find a job soon, which meant he would probably have to leave Portage; maybe move to Detroit or Ann Arbor. There was still his daughter to contend with, he knew that. Nothing that had happened had changed the situation at her school. Nothing he did would change the fact that she knew Bobby C. But he somehow felt freer to deal with it now, more conscious, more alive. The sickness in his stomach was gone. And there was that little promise he’d made to Jesus. He thought he better get started on that now. Bill walked over to a payphone and called his wife.
“Julie? It’s me.”
“Bill! God, Bill, are you OK? Where are you? We were worried sick about you.”
“Julie, Julie . . . I’m OK. I’m, well, I needed to take a long drive and think about things, that’s all. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“We’re fine, Bill. We just . . . when you let out that yell and ran out, it was like you were . . . like we didn’t know you. We were just worried sick,” she said. He could hear that she was starting to cry.
“Julie, no, don’t cry. I’m OK. And we’ll all be OK. I’m coming home and I should be back in a few hours. Don’t worry. I’ll call you from the road. We need to talk and I’m afraid I have to tell you some things you don’t want to hear, but the good news is that I know we’ll get through it.”
“Talk? Do you want to tell me you’ve been seeing someone? Because . . .”
“No, honey, nothing like that. I love you. We just need to . . . it’s time I told you what’s been happening. It’s time we worked together as a team. Can you wait until I get home? Everything’s fine. I just have some things to talk about, that’s all.”
He hung up the phone and climbed into his car for the journey back. He would tell her everything and it would be fine. He thought back to the words of the Woody Guthrie song that had fueled his anger on the trip down, and mouthed the words as the tears ran down his face.
The state soldiers jumped us in a wire fence corners,
They did not know we had these guns,
And the Red-neck Miners mowed down these troopers,
You should have seen those poor boys run.
Click Here for next chapter.
It was rare for his wife to call him at work. She was the old fashioned type and believed that work was work and one didn’t need to be bothered by little home annoyances. Even when his youngest had broken her arm 9 years ago, he hadn’t discovered it until he got home that evening. Julie hadn’t wanted to burden him, she said, and anyway, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just be in the way.
So it was both fortuitous and unusual that while he was at the Subway, collecting from the Singhs the receipts out of the safe, that he should get a phone call. When they told him it was his wife, he couldn’t imagine it, and assumed it was probably Sasha’s secretary looking for him.
“Hello?” he said, a little gingerly.
“Bill, I think you better come home right now.” His wife’s voice was terse and he immediately jumped to the worst.
“Oh, god, honey, is everything OK? Is anyone hurt? Where are the girls? Are the girls OK?” He couldn’t understand it. He had done everything right for Sasha. He could barely breathe as he spoke with her. His face must have foretold his feelings because the Singhs had looks of concern on their faces. Mr. Singh walked back into the office to retrieve Bill’s summer jacket.
“Well, yes, the girls are fine, Bill. In fact, one of your lovely daughters is sitting here with me right this minute. She’d like to tell you something. I think you should come home,” said his wife again. This time, he heard more anger than fear in her voice. It relaxed him, but only enough to get off the phone and grab his coat.
“We hope everything is OK, Mr. Garhart,” the Singhs called after him. He waved and ducked into his car, speeding off toward his home. What could possibly be wrong? Why did he have to go home? Why would his wife be so angry? Pregnant? Was his little girl pregnant? Who cared, that was nothing. Hopefully, she was pregnant. Or maybe she had gotten engaged or married without telling them. That would be OK, just fine, he thought. As long as she was alive and well enough to make her mother angry, what could be wrong? Whatever it was, they could live through it.
He brightened up on his way, loosening his tie just a little to let more air in. What could be the matter? As long as his babies were safe. He pulled into the driveway, behind his daughter’s old Toyota Corolla. She had worked 3 summers straight to buy that heap. He had been so proud of her. His original plan was buy her a new car for graduation from college, but that dream would not materialize, at least not the way things were going.
He headed into the house and found his youngest and Julie in the living room. Before he even had a chance to say hello, his wife started in.
“I don’t know what to do with this one. I don’t know what to do. Why don’t you tell your father why you’re here instead of in school like you should be. Go on. Tell him,” she said, pacing back and forth on the living room floor.
Bill moved past his wife and gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Hi pumpkin, how are you?” he asked, putting his briefcase down and sitting on the chair next to the sofa.
“Hi daddy,” she said. Her arms were folded across her chest and she seemed more interested in a fight with her mother than in talking to him.
“It’s not that big of a deal, Mom. You are making it sound like I’m the criminal. I didn’t do anything!”
“What were you doing there in the first place? What kind of people do you hang out with that would get you in this much trouble? We don’t have a second mortgage on the house so you can be suspended,” said his wife.
“Suspended? Honey, you got suspended?” So this was what the excitement was all about. Shoot, thought Bill. She’s not even pregnant. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asked, just to be sure.
“No, daddy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You don’t get suspended for getting pregnant.”
“Well, since you’ve obviously become an overnight expert, why don’t you tell your father what you do get suspended for,” said Julie.
“First of all, Daddy, Mo-ther, it’s not that big of a deal and I’m going to work it out.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” said Julie. “Just tell him.”
“Well, there was this party on campus. One of the fraternities. It was just another party, you know, just blowing off steam before finals. Anyway, the school has this zero tolerance program going on after some kid died of alcohol poisoning, and . . .”
“Were you drinking?” asked Bill.
“No, daddy. I mean, I had like a beer or something, but I was not drunk or stoned or anything. Anyway, can I please finish my story?”
“Finish. Finish,” said his wife.
“So, anyway, turns out one of the guys who was at the party was dealing and there was this abandominium down the street and . . .”
“Abandominium? What is that?” asked Bill, his tenseness growing.
“It’s a place, like an abandoned apartment or house, you know, where people hang out and do drugs.”
“How do you know about that. Do you go there?” he was almost afraid to ask.
“Everyone knows about them, and no, I do not go there. Can I please just get through this. Jeez, you guys are making a big deal out of this. If you’d just let me finish.”
“So finish,” said her mother again. Bill was growing increasingly uneasy.
“OK, so anyway, there was this abandominium that the cops busted up and this girl, she goes to our school, she fingered this guy who was dealing, who happened to be at the party. Anyway, all of us who were hanging out with him were picked up, too. It was no big deal. He’s not even a student there or anything. Just a guy.”
“And that’s the whole story,” said Julie, flatly, to her daughter.
“What? Like there’s supposed to be something dramatic?”
“That’s not what the phone call I got said was the whole story.”
Bill’s daughter let out a big sigh and finished the whole story. “Well, I know you guys are going to make a big deal out of this. And it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t doing any hard drugs. I wasn’t with this guy. He sells really hard stuff and I’m not into that.”
“But you knew him?” asked Bill.
“I mean, yeah, I knew him. We’re sort of friends and all, but I’m just saying I don’t do meth, dad, or coke or xanax or ‘x’ any stuff some of the other kids do. All they found on me was a little pot and they went like totally ballistic. . . . it was so lame. Like I’m some sort of bad guy or something. Anyway, I got suspended. And can I just add, not expelled? Suspended.”
Bill inched his way toward his daughter. “You . . . you smoke pot?”
“Daddy, it’s not a big deal.”
“You say you know this dealer and he’s not a student. Who is he and why do you hang out with him? What’s his name? What’s he doing around the school if he’s not a student?”
“I mean, I don’t know him know him, but like, I see him around at parties and like at the student union and stuff. He’s just a guy, daddy. I mean, I don’t even know his last name. Everyone calls him Bobby C. But can I just point out that I was not expelled, please? It’s just 3 days.”
He had promised himself. He had promised Sasha. He was a straight shooting guy who never flinched, never snapped. He felt his head tighten, as if it were going to explode. He felt the heat leave and then reenter his body. He felt the fear dissipate until there was only anger left. He snapped. Bill let out a scream that seemed to release all the anger, frustration and fear that had gotten to him in the past months. There. In his living room. To the shock of his family.
Bill ran into the kitchen, opening drawers at a frantic pace, looking for something sharp. Anything. He ran out the back door and into his tool shed to find his bowie knife.
Mackinac was 4 hours south. He had never been but he figured it was somewhere down highway ____________. He would find a way to get there. No one would stop him. He didn’t care anymore what happened to him. Going to jail was better than supplying his own daughter with drugs. He would kill Sasha, too, but that would have to wait until he came back, since he didn’t know where he lived and it would take some time. But he could get to Dick now. And he would. He started driving.
Two hours into the trip, his anger had not died down. He was more driven than ever. He had not even stopped to find directions. There was no little voice inside him as he drove toward Dick that held him back this time. He did not hear or feel Jesus with him. He was not certain at this moment that God even existed. All he knew was that he had to protect his children. He would kill Sasha somehow. That would take some thinking. Prison was not good enough for him. But Dick he would see this very night.
At one point, Bill heard Woody Guthrie’s Ludlow Massacre, come through the radio; it fueled him to go the distance.
We dug us a cave that was seven foot deep,
Carried our young ones and pregnant women
Down inside the cave to sleep.
That very night your soldiers waited,
Until all us miners were asleep,
You snuck around our little tent town,
Soaked our tents with your kerosene.
You struck a match and in the blaze that started,
You pulled the triggers of your gatling guns,
I made a run for the children but the fire wall stopped me.
Thirteen children died from your guns.
Bill followed the signs to Mackinaw City and arrived at about 9 in the evening. None of the thoughts that were loose and running through his mind were particularly logical at the moment; he was completely fueled by emotion. At some level, he was cognizant enough of his state to understand that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but he was moving forward, nonetheless.
It hadn’t occurred to him until just this moment that there might not be any ferries shuttling people over to the island at this time. His heart raced as he drove down toward the docks. Though he had never set foot in the city, the place was small and he was able to find the docks.
This time of night, there was little activity at the ferries and he couldn’t tell whether there were any boats yet left to go over to the island. It was still light out, and there were workers milling about. Bill followed the signs that said “free overnight parking,” and pulled into a space not far away. He ran toward the white building that surely must be a ticket office.
“Are there any more trains this evening?” he asked, breathless and desperate?
“Last one leaves in 20 minutes. 9:30 on the dot,” came the answer from the ticket seller behind the glass. “$16.00 please.”
“And when is the last ferry off the island?”
“11, so unless you’re making a quick trip, you’ll have to stay the night. You do know there are no hotel rooms available on the island, right? The Race to Mackinac just ended and it’s a madhouse there,” she said.
“I’ll take my chances.”
The boat ride was quick. Four hours and 27 minutes into his journey, Bill’s resolve was not weakened. He stepped off the island and started asking where Dick Grund’s place was. Dick? Who? No one knew. For such a big man, Bill thought, he was certainly not a celebrity on Mackinac. His mind went naturally to the one place he considered a good source for directions: the police station. He decided better of that option and continued to make his way up toward the center of the island, undaunted. Surely, someone in one of the big mansions he’d seen would be able to tell him.
He stopped at the Grand Hotel. He had never seen anything like it before in his life. So this is how the other half lives, thought Bill, amazed at the beautiful wide expanse of veranda that flanks the front. He wondered how much a room went for. This thing about not being able to get off the island has put a slight crimp in his plans. Bill made his way up the grandiose staircase and into the front lobby, where he found a concierge.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Dick Grund,” he said, smiling at the woman behind the antique partner’s desk.
“Is he a guest in the hotel?” she asked.
“No, he’s a . . . a local, I guess you could say.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I know him, but our general manager might. Can you just wait here?” She got up to leave. Bill waited.
Bill looked around at the famous hotel in all its glory. The nicest place he and Julie had ever stayed was a Windham hotel in Chicago once. He imagined bringing his wife here and how she would love just one night in a place like this. They could sit on the veranda together and sip exotic drinks, watching the sun set over the lake, and . . .
“So, heading up to ol’ Dick’s party, are you?” the voice came out of nowhere and scared Bill for a moment.
“Yes, the party. Yes, he invited me.”
“Well, he’ll be glad you could make it, if you find him. I hear his parties are legendary and big. If you get lucky, you see him. What do you do for Dick? Or are you just old friends?” the Manager asked him. Bill could see that he was eyeing his clothes, which were not really party clothes. He had forgotten to remove his tie, even. He supposed he looked a little silly.
“I’m his accountant,” said Bill, suddenly self-conscious about his tie and shirt combination (clearly working class, he thought). He hoped the “accountant” thing would cover for the outfit. “I would have come earlier, but I was working on another matter,” he said.
“Of course, of course. Yes, well, you should loosen your tie and get ready to have a good time. But I’m sure you know that,” he said with a wink. “Anyway, the party’s probably just getting started, so you didn’t miss much. And the place, it’s not hard to find. I’m sure you’ll hear music when you get close, but let me draw you a little map.”
Map in hand, Bill walked away from the antique desk and back toward the grand expanse of steps. Though his mind was on a single focused act, he couldn’t help but look at his surroundings. He didn’t smell the mildew that permeated the old hotel. He didn’t see the worn and faded cushions on the lobby chairs. Bill saw only the grandeur. Through his eyes it was a playground for people not like him. It was a place for the wealthy ne’er-do-well playboy and the old money gentry. He wished again in that moment that his wife could share the place with him.
As he made his way out of the hotel, he noticed the black men in their monkey suits, racing past him toward the dining room, and the black women in their maids’ outfits no doubt doing maid things, and the black men in their box hats helping people out of the horse drawn carriages. It struck him as strange, and a little plantation-like. He wondered if that’s the way wealthy people liked it – like the old days, before things like political correctness got in the way. Before pension funds got too big. A place where you didn’t have to be held accountable for what you did. Well, Dick Grund was going to be held accountable. He would walk right up and in front of everyone, tell that man what he had done to an entire community, to him, to his daughter.
As the manager had predicted, he could hear the sounds of music and partying before he arrived at the place. He had not been expecting a party when he started his journey, but it wasn’t going to deter him now. He wondered if Dick would be at the front door, greeting each guest, as he and his wife did when they had a party. He would have to do it then, right then, because a man as important as that, well, he might have bouncers and they would be told to look for him. He toyed with ripping off his tie so he would blend in more, but it wouldn’t matter; he could never blend in with these people anyway.
Bill approached the big Victorian style home with the sense of awe that most rich people never have; the sense of awe – some might say – in which the house was meant to be viewed. He had only seen such things in books and on his family trips to places in Keewenaw county, but then they were always converted to museums. Certainly no one lived in such places and if they did, it was their primary home. Such largess, well, it was simply obscene.
There was no one standing at the top of the stairs that he could see. There were no brawny men, like he had seen standing at the front of the Main Street bars, waiting to discard undesirables. There was only Frank Sinatra, and the buzz of people talking and laughing. He stood in front for a moment, wondering how he should do this thing. It occurred to him now that he had never killed a man, not even when he served in Viet Nam. He didn’t know the first thing about killing a man, but he had killed plenty of ducks and a few deer. Go for the neck, he thought. The neck is better than the heart.
Several people walked past him and over toward the side gate. One couple smiled at him.
“You trying to get in? Dick usually leaves the side gate open. C’mon, the drinks are flowing,” the woman said with a smile. Bill followed her in.
Inside the back yard there were throngs of people. He hung to the side, straining his neck to see above and around the revelers, in hopes of getting a good look at Dick and making his move. People were drunk and loud. For the most part, standing there – even out of place – he was ignored. It occurred to him only now that he might be able to get away with this without being caught or noticed; that it might be better to wait until the wee hours of the morning and come back. He considered this plan. He couldn’t get off the island anyway – no boats would be leaving for the mainland until tomorrow morning. Now he needed a place to hide and wait. He had to plan it just right. Not too late so no one was around except maybe his wife. Not too soon so too many people were around. Just right.
He eyed the backyard and its low hanging wisteria lining the back. It looked as if it was a safe and secluded place to lay in wait, if he could ease himself behind it. He had hunted all his life. If he could find a place to crouch, he could be very still for a very long time, listening, listening, waiting. He pushed silently through the noisy boisterous crowd, still looking about as he did so to see if he could spot Dick. He couldn’t.
Bill ducked behind the wisteria. Evidently, he was not the only one looking for a secluded spot. A giggling couple passed him on the way out. He would have to find a place as far back as possible, unsuitable for necking. As he scooted past the couple, he spotted a cluster of rosemary bushes lining a back gate. He wished he had worn long sleeves at that moment, since rosemary could be prickly, but he crawled behind it and crouched low. No one would come back this far. He waited.
From his vantage point he could see nothing, but he heard the sounds of an ever growing party around him. He heard footsteps very near him and occasionally they would be accompanied by soft conversation. He was completely obscured as he listened to the conversations intended for no third party’s ears. No one knew he was there, and if he did move, surely he would be thought just an animal. He felt safe in the cocoon of the rosemary. Though the branches had scratched him when he first crawled into the space, he hardly felt them now. In fact, this was considerably more tolerable than hunting. He had a purpose now. He was doing something righteous now. He could wait.
He had made one bad decision going to Bobby C. that fateful day. And that decision was made without rational thinking. In retrospect, he realized that he had not been thoughtful about it at all. Here, now, he had time to think about this decision. He had time to consider the consequences. He couldn’t escape his debt to Sasha and he didn’t believe that Sasha would ever honor his agreement to let him go once he got paid, so it didn’t matter now. This decision was made with a conscious understanding of what might befall him should he be caught. And it didn’t matter. Sasha couldn’t touch him now. He didn’t care.
The party continued to rage on. It got louder. He heard footsteps again, this time he could tell by the voices that it was two men together. He laid low as they talked. The conversations were not particularly interesting, but it helped him pass the time. He imagined who the men were, what they looked like, from their words.
“I’ve got what I promised, Jujee, and it’s yours for pick-up as soon as you bring me what you promised.”
“You ain’t gotta worry, Mr. Walker, I be back in 20 wid everyt’ing. Cook and curry. No problem.”
“Let’s make it an hour. I need to go make arrangements. You meet me right back here in one hour exactly.”
“Yah. Right here, Mr. Walker.”
Bill heard one of the men leave. The other seemed to stay behind. He could hear him rustling through the bushes and Bill worried that he was getting too close. The bushes moved, and Bill could see a pair of legs just on the other side of the rosemary. This man was looking for something. Had Bill miscalculated? Could he be seen? He held his breath. Oh god… oh god… please don’t let him find me.
Suddenly, the man pulled the bushes back just in front of Bill and let fly a small canvas bag, about the size of a large woman’s purse. The stiff rosemary caught and partially suspended the bag from hitting the ground. The man gave another push and the bag fell just to Bill’s left. He thought sure he had been seen, but the man seemed satisfied that what he came to do had been completed and Bill heard him walk back out toward the party.
Bill’s heart was still racing from the adrenaline of the foregoing moments. He looked at the bag in the fading light. It was a boating bag with a zippered top. He knew the man would be back for the bag, and judging from the conversation, it would be within the hour. When he came to retrieve it, Bill would be discovered, no doubt, since the man would have to climb back, as Bill did, to get it. He needed to move, perhaps to the other side of the yard, where he might find – he hoped he would find – another place to seclude himself.
Quietly, he reached over to the zipper and drew it toward him. Inside was cash. Lots of it in 6 little bundles. It wasn’t neatly secured with little bands that said how much was in each bundle, like he was used to seeing on television. Each bundles was encased in a rubber band. He gently lifted a wad of the cash and looked at the bills. They were $100s. The only time he had seem a one hundred dollar bill was when he went to the bank to get two for his oldest daughter’s wedding. He had never seen so much money. He counted silently: $10,000.00 in each bundle. $60,000.00.
He had come to do damage to Dick Grund. He could finish what he started. Or he could walk away right now. He could steal this cash, or some of it, and walk away right now. Right Now. He could plant $30,000 on Sasha’s desk, far more that he owed him, and walk away from that, too. Sasha didn’t need him any more. He kept him around because Bill still owed him. But that first day in the coffee shop hadn’t he said that he would be free the moment Bill was relieved of his debt? This would do it.
It was stealing, he knew. And the poor man who left the money there would be frantic. He knew that too. If he was an honest man, well, Bill would feel just terrible. But what honest man does business in the bushes with cash? No, this was money from ill-gotten gains, he was sure of that. Besides, the people at this party could well afford to lose $60,000. Hell, Dick Grund had spent over twice that much just on a stupid boat race.
There was no time to give this further thought. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you,” he whispered. Then he removed all six bundles from the bag, shoving two in his pockets, four in his socks. He crawled out of the bushes and eased back into the crowd, his hand shoved deep into his pockets to explain the bulge. When he got back into the main part of town, he would buy a bag of some sort, something innocuous. There was the little matter of staying on the island all night, but judging from the festivities going on about the island, it would not be odd to be seen walking the streets in the wee hours of the morning.
Bill eased out of the party and back onto the street. It was 11 o’clock, and well past the witching hour for the ferries. He had 8 hours to go before he could leave, but it didn’t damper his spirits. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for not forgetting me. I’ll keep my promise to you. I’ll keep it right now,” he said.
Once he got far enough away from the house to have some privacy, he removed the money from his socks and shoved it in the back of his underwear, so he could walk a little less gingerly. And he quickly found a t-shirt shop in which to buy a duffle bag for his booty. He also bought a t-shirt and a sweatshirt for his wife. It was $122.48 well spent. The sales clerk didn’t flinch when he handed her two $100 bills.
Bill spent the first few hours wondering the commercial streets of the tiny island. As he was at Dick Grund’s party, he was largely ignored. Finally, he walked to the end of the main street and peered in the windows of the public library, locked and dark for the evening. He wandered around to the back and spotted two Adirondack chairs facing Lake Huron. He settled into one and spent the rest of the very early morning staring out at the water, listening to its wavesong, watching and waiting for the sun to rise. At 8am, he caught the ferry back to his car and filled his tank for the ride back home.
There would be some money left after paying Sasha, but he would still have to find a job soon, which meant he would probably have to leave Portage; maybe move to Detroit or Ann Arbor. There was still his daughter to contend with, he knew that. Nothing that had happened had changed the situation at her school. Nothing he did would change the fact that she knew Bobby C. But he somehow felt freer to deal with it now, more conscious, more alive. The sickness in his stomach was gone. And there was that little promise he’d made to Jesus. He thought he better get started on that now. Bill walked over to a payphone and called his wife.
“Julie? It’s me.”
“Bill! God, Bill, are you OK? Where are you? We were worried sick about you.”
“Julie, Julie . . . I’m OK. I’m, well, I needed to take a long drive and think about things, that’s all. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“We’re fine, Bill. We just . . . when you let out that yell and ran out, it was like you were . . . like we didn’t know you. We were just worried sick,” she said. He could hear that she was starting to cry.
“Julie, no, don’t cry. I’m OK. And we’ll all be OK. I’m coming home and I should be back in a few hours. Don’t worry. I’ll call you from the road. We need to talk and I’m afraid I have to tell you some things you don’t want to hear, but the good news is that I know we’ll get through it.”
“Talk? Do you want to tell me you’ve been seeing someone? Because . . .”
“No, honey, nothing like that. I love you. We just need to . . . it’s time I told you what’s been happening. It’s time we worked together as a team. Can you wait until I get home? Everything’s fine. I just have some things to talk about, that’s all.”
He hung up the phone and climbed into his car for the journey back. He would tell her everything and it would be fine. He thought back to the words of the Woody Guthrie song that had fueled his anger on the trip down, and mouthed the words as the tears ran down his face.
They did not know we had these guns,
And the Red-neck Miners mowed down these troopers,
You should have seen those poor boys run.
Click Here for next chapter.
posted by Someone with a camera at 12:58 AM
Links
Previous Posts
- NARCOCORRIDO
- Epilogue
- Celebration on Mackinac, Part 3
- Celebration on Mackinac, Part 2
- Celebration on Mackinac, Part 1
- Discoveries
- Efficiencies
- Just Talking
- Domestic Disturbance
- Meth for Dummies
Archives
- 09/28/05
- 11/01/05
- 11/03/05
- 11/05/05
- 11/06/05
- 11/07/05
- 11/09/05
- 11/10/05
- 11/13/05
- 11/15/05
- 11/20/05
- 11/25/05
- 11/27/05
- 11/29/05
- 11/30/05
