With a weathered hand he caressed the package. This was the one. This would work. He grasped it in his palm and tossed it in the basket that dangled at his side. He turned to leave the aisle. He didn't want to linger. He needed to keep moving. He didn't like wasting time. He moved swiftly toward the front of the store. He just wanted to get home. He had what he came for, what he needed.
His mind suddenly drifted. He didn't know what he was going to say. How was he going to tell them. He had to do this right. He had to use exactly the right words. There was a great deal at stake. He was putting his reputation on the line. He thought he heard footsteps approaching. He spun around. It was only a store clerk headed to the front of the store. He tried to act nonchalant. He wasn't sure if he had drawn attention to himself. He lowered his head and gripped the handles of the basket more tightly. His palms were sweating. His mouth was dry. He was sure someone had figured it out. Someone had put the pieces together. Someone was going to ruin the plan.
He kept a steady pace. He reached the checkout and placed his basket on the counter. He reached in and removed it's contents, placing them before the cashier. She reached and retrieved the first item. Her eyes were innocent. She didn't know. She had no idea. She pulled the second and final item towards her. Beep. She placed it in the bag. He held out the wadded up bills for her. She took them and neatly opened them up and slid into their proper slots in the drawer. She turned and smiled, handing him his receipt. He nodded. That was all. And like that, it was done. He was surprised. He shouldn't have been. There was no reason to be surprised. Everything had gone as could have been expected. And yet he worried. He worried until he was safe in his car and on his way out of the parking lot.
Then the nerves set in. He wasn't worried anymore. He had what he needed. Now he was simply planning. He was planning what he would say. He hadn't completely decided to whom it needed to be said, but he practiced anyway.
His drive home was uneventful, full of contemplation. He turned into the driveway and climbed the hill to his front door. The bag swung at his side. The thin film of recycled plastic clung to its contents. He smiled at the notion. He was going to walk right last them with it. They had no idea. There was no inclination. He had been discerning in his actions. He had performed flawlessly. He had succeeded in his own opinion.
He opened the box in the corner of his closet and dropped the bag inside. He had to wait. Now was not the time. He still didn't know what to say. He slumped into the desk chair and then immediately straightened upright. Now was a time of serious importance. He couldn't be lazy. He needed to fully devote his attention on lay before him. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand.
He put pen to page. Page one. He wrote with ease. The words flowed from within. He no longer had to consider what to say. What needed to be said just came out naturally. Page two. He was still writing. The sun began to set. Page three. The pen hadn't left the page. He cracked his knuckles. Page four. He wasn't finished. Page five. He was tired. His mind was growing weary. Page six. The pen fell to mark a period. It slammed into the paper with defiance. He was happy with what he had written. It was finished.
He pulled open the drawer at his side. He searched for the file. His fingers thumbed over the color-coded tabs. Where was it? He needed one last thing. His fingers stopped on the green tabbed and he pulled the file out. He opened the folder. It was all there. Everything he needed. He folded the papers and slid them into a manilla envelope. He bent the metal clasp over, securing the pages within. Turning over the envelope, he places it before him. He reached again for his pen. He spelled it out in three bold letters. He put the pen back in its place and took the envelope to the box in his closet. He slid the envelope along the side of the box and folded down the flaps. He was confident. He was pleased with his progress. Now he could only wait.
He pulled back the blanket that covered his bed. He climbed beneath the sheet and pulled it up around his face. It was soft. The scent reminded him of his grandparents' house. He closed his eyes and hoped sleep would come quickly. His mind was racing. He tried to be at peace. He tried to be calm but he could only toss and turn. He was sweating. He hated that.
He awoke the next morning to the silence of a winter day. The house was closed up tight. Everyone had gone off to work and school. He found himself alone, as he had intended. He threw back the covers and rise to his feet. He didn't feel rested. He retrieved the box from his closet. He walked to the kitchen and placed the envelope on the island. It was in plain sight. It wouldn't be missed. He moved to the front door and stuck a note on the handle. It was a warning. A courtesy.
He climbed the stairs and moved to the bannister. He began to do his work. He opened the package he had purchased the night before. He moved back downstairs. He returned with a bottle and a glass. He poured a tonic and downed it in one long swig. It sloshed against the back of his throat. It burned. He stepped into position. He was ready.
With one final move, he kicked the chair from beneath him. The rope went taut.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Dakota (ch 20)
And she didn't. Rebekah stayed. She took Janie's room. She took care of me. I was still bitter. I didn't want her here. But it was nice having someone take care of me. I needed that, whether I was willing to admit it or not. I kept writing. I wrote to escape my reality. I didn't wan to focus on Rebekah's presence. I didn't want to talk to her. I didn't even want to see her. I avoided interacting with her at all costs. As the days rolled by, I regained strength. I healed. Her leg was still in a cast and I was down to therapy alone. I didn't need the brace or the sling. Rebekah had taken me to store, to the doctor. I was grateful and resentful at the same time. She had been right. I didn't have anyone. I did need her. I needed her to help me. But there is a far stretch of uncharted pavement between need and want. I didn't want her. I wanted solitude. I still wanted answers. Holt hadn't come up with anything. He assured me that the case was in capable hands with Donny Kahle and himself. I remained skeptical. There weren't any results to make me confident in their abilities. Just good faith.
Holt cared though. Even with Rebekah around, he still checked on me. He wanted to solve the case. He wanted to tell me the killer wasn't going to see the sun for the rest of his life, but he just didn't have that opportunity.
Janie would be home soon. I hoped it had worked. I wanted her to be alright. But I knew the statistics. It was likely if not probably that she would be back to her old ways in a matter of days. I knew that struggle all too well. I made it. I made it for a long time. It didn't make much of a difference now though. The bottle and I had been affectionately reaquainted. Somehow I was OK with that. I knew my limits. I was being responsible. I tried to be.
I sent Rebekah into town to up a few groceries. She was never quick at anything. She liked to doddle. She wavered on the simplest of decisions. She would have trouble deciding whcih brake of peanut butter buy. She did everything at a snail's pace. This was her last assignment. When she got back, I had to tell her. I had to get her out of my house. Janie would be home before long. I knew the two of them couldn't survive in the same house. And I didn't want them to. I had to tell her. Now.
Blink.
I crawled into my writers' room and tossed back a warm glass of bourbon. The ball glided across the page. Ink met the paper. Dots, lines, and curves transformed into letters, words. I wrote it out, something I never did. I practiced what to say, what to do. I appoached it with a business mindset. She was being let go. I was taking things in a new direction. Her services were no longer needed. I hoped this was going to go smoothly. I was nervous. I didn't want a big confrontation. I just wanted her to go. I wanted what remained of my life, back. She's wasn't a part of that. I reached for my glass. I downed another drink. This wasn't alright. I couldn't do this. Janie was coming home in 3 days. She couldn't be around liquor. I needed to stop relying on it. I needed to clean myself up. I didn't want to be the reason for her to backslide. I wanted her to be better. But I loved my friends. Jack, Jose, Jim. I would miss them. They had been good to me. Mostly.
I glanced down at the page leering back at me. Was this the best I could do? Was this going to work. It had to. I didn't know what else to do. I had made up my mind. It was going to go quick. I was doing this again. I didn't expect to do this. He first time was awkward enough. Bu I knew I could do it. I had to. I lifted the tip of the pen. I scratched the side of my head. I heard keys at the door. Nerves overwhelmed me. I heard the door swing open. I heard footsteps tiptoeing across the creeky floorboards. I had to do it now. No turning back.
Holt cared though. Even with Rebekah around, he still checked on me. He wanted to solve the case. He wanted to tell me the killer wasn't going to see the sun for the rest of his life, but he just didn't have that opportunity.
Janie would be home soon. I hoped it had worked. I wanted her to be alright. But I knew the statistics. It was likely if not probably that she would be back to her old ways in a matter of days. I knew that struggle all too well. I made it. I made it for a long time. It didn't make much of a difference now though. The bottle and I had been affectionately reaquainted. Somehow I was OK with that. I knew my limits. I was being responsible. I tried to be.
I sent Rebekah into town to up a few groceries. She was never quick at anything. She liked to doddle. She wavered on the simplest of decisions. She would have trouble deciding whcih brake of peanut butter buy. She did everything at a snail's pace. This was her last assignment. When she got back, I had to tell her. I had to get her out of my house. Janie would be home before long. I knew the two of them couldn't survive in the same house. And I didn't want them to. I had to tell her. Now.
Blink.
I crawled into my writers' room and tossed back a warm glass of bourbon. The ball glided across the page. Ink met the paper. Dots, lines, and curves transformed into letters, words. I wrote it out, something I never did. I practiced what to say, what to do. I appoached it with a business mindset. She was being let go. I was taking things in a new direction. Her services were no longer needed. I hoped this was going to go smoothly. I was nervous. I didn't want a big confrontation. I just wanted her to go. I wanted what remained of my life, back. She's wasn't a part of that. I reached for my glass. I downed another drink. This wasn't alright. I couldn't do this. Janie was coming home in 3 days. She couldn't be around liquor. I needed to stop relying on it. I needed to clean myself up. I didn't want to be the reason for her to backslide. I wanted her to be better. But I loved my friends. Jack, Jose, Jim. I would miss them. They had been good to me. Mostly.
I glanced down at the page leering back at me. Was this the best I could do? Was this going to work. It had to. I didn't know what else to do. I had made up my mind. It was going to go quick. I was doing this again. I didn't expect to do this. He first time was awkward enough. Bu I knew I could do it. I had to. I lifted the tip of the pen. I scratched the side of my head. I heard keys at the door. Nerves overwhelmed me. I heard the door swing open. I heard footsteps tiptoeing across the creeky floorboards. I had to do it now. No turning back.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Dakota (Ch 19)
I tried to lean back. My back was stiff. It ached. I had been slumped in this position too long. I pushed off the desk with my left hand and straightened my back. The pen clung to my forehead for a moment before it fell to the desk. A pool of drool dampened the paper before me. I stretched in my chair. The ink had bled. I was sure there was ink on my face. I slowly climbed out of the chair and stepped out of the office.
There was a knock at the door. Finally, Holt was here. I hoped he had brought groceries. I was starving. And there was nothing here.
I changed directions and headed for the door. I pulled it open. It wasn't Holt. He wasn't there. It was much worse than that. Standing opposite me was the last person I wanted to see. Rebekah stood still. She was caught off guard by my condition. She hadn't heard. Of course, how would she have heard. I was somewhat surprised she hadn't already returned to Chicago. Was this the first time she returned since the accident? We looked like a strange couple. I stood with my arm in a cast, she with her leg encased. Neither of us moved. I stared at her. She stared at me. My stare was more fierce. I looked through her. I wanted to know why she was there. Did she really think this was going to work? Did she really think we were going to get back together? It had been nearly four months. She looked deep into my eyes. It was creepy. It was a longing sort of gaze. Blink. We both blinked.
"Rebekah."
"Jake, I'm sorry I had no ide--"
"Why are you here? What are you doing?"
"You don't mind if I come in do you? I really shouldn't be on this leg very long."
"Are you kidding me? You're using your broken leg to weasel your way into my house. No. No, Rebekah. We'll do this here. We'll talk right here."
"Jake, I'm not weaseling. Seriously, I need to sit down. Please."
"Dammit Rebekah. Damn you."
"Please, I just want to talk."
"You want to talk? Fine. We can talk. We can do this your way. The outcome will be the same. You, hear?"
"Fine."
"Sit down. Are you comfortable?"
"Mmhmm."
"Alright, I'll try to not be a total jerk. I'd offer you something but there is literally nothing here. I haven't exactly been able to get around or anything."
"That's alright. I'm fine. I just ate breakfast before I drove out."
"Drove out?" From where?"
I was still agitated. I didn't want her here. I didn't want to do this. I just wanted to punch her face and throw her out in the yard. Yeah, that's the extent of it. I just wanted to get her the hell out of my house and sit back with a glass of bourbon. I longed for it.
"Pierre. I'm at the Holiday Inn out there. Closest place to stay I think."
"Yeah, probably."
"Well, if you need a ride into town, I'd be happy to take you."
She was still blissfully unaware of my disinterest in her visit, my distaste for her existence. I was loathful. I shouldn't have been past this. But I wasn't. Who did she think she was? I don't care what your justifications are. You cheated. You cheated too many times. I'm not about to open myself up to more pain, to a future like this.
"That's not necessary. Sheriff Holt has been taking care of me. He sees that I get what I need."
"Oh, um, OK. I just...I just..."
"What?"
"What happened to you anyway. Last time I was here there was a girl passed out on the floor and a Sheriff at the door. What's been going on up here?"
"You don't know anything. Alright? Nothing."
"I don't understand. Can't you just tell me?"
"Yeah, I could. I don't really want to though. That's the problem. It doesn't really matter to you. You aren't a part of my life anymore. And I don't want you to be."
"That's it then. We're just going to turn around and go our separate ways."
"Yeah. That's it. You can't have your cake and eat it too, Rebekah. You can't. You made your choice. In fact, you made that choice twice. You chose him. Go be with him."
"But it was a mistake. That's not what I want. I want you. I realize that now. I'm sorry Jake. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't."
She had started to cry. Great, exactly what I wanted. A sobbing, sappy, crying Rebekah.
"Bullshit. It's all bullshit. You've said this all before. I'm not deaf. I get it. You told me this same story last time. I'm not going to hear it this time. I just don't care anymore. You made your choice. Now live with it. Get back in your Civic and take your sorry ass back to Chicago. Don't run out on your parents again."
"Parent."
"Parent?"
"Yeah. Dad died. He died while I was off living with you."
"You made that choice."
"I know. I know I did Jacob. Don't tell me what I did. Don't lecture me. I get it."
"Well then running away will only hurt your mom more this time. Go home. Go home to her."
"I'm here for you. She knows that. She knows I can't move on. I can't live. I can't exist. Not without you."
"You're delusional Rebekah. You just need to start thinking about moving on. Start making a life for yourself. Your own life. You're not a kid anymore. You were when you left with me, but you're not anymore. Grow up. Be a damn grown up. Make a life for yourself."
"Like you're making a life here? You're not fooling anyone Jake. I can read it on your face. You hate it here. Just come back. Come back. You belong in Chicago. With me. You need to be working. You can't just sit here for another forty years."
"I don't like it here? Really? You know what my face is telling you? Do you? I don't think you do."
"You hate it. I know you Jake. I know you. We were together too long--"
"You don't know anything. OK? Listen. Nothing. Nothing. You know nothing. The day I left Chicago? Remember? I walked in on my brother clinging to life on the kitchen floor. That kitchen floor."
I pointed behind me. I was adamant. I was mad. She didn't know me. She didn't know anything. I resented her assertions. I resented what she thought she knew. I was a different person now. I was not the Jake that had spent all those years with her.
"Jay died, Rebekah. Someone murdered him. Here. They murdered him here. And I wasn't here to stop it. I was too late. Mom and Dad are gone. I missed that too. My sister is home. Well, what's left of her. She's been self-destructive since she was a child. She's back. She sauntered in to town knowing even less than you. I don't know why. I have no idea why she's here."
"Jake--"
"She sent me hurtling down the stairs just after you left last week. My arm is so messed up. I almost died. Janie's in rehab now and I'm here alone again. Jay's friend Bobby was killed. Same way. There are no leads. That's it. That's everything. Is that what you knew? Is it?"
"Jake. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know any of it. I'm sorry."
"Listen just go please. I don't want to talk to you. We're not getting back together. I have enough going on in my life right now. I don't need you bringing your drama back in here after four months. It's over. If you don't get that, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry for you. But it's over. There's nothing else to say."
"You need someone. You need me."
"That's where you're wrong. I don't. I don't need you. I don't them. I don't need anyone. I'm fine on my own. I am."
"No you're not. You said it yourself. There's no food here. What if he doesn't come?"
"I'll call him."
"What if he doesn't answer?"
"He'll answer."
"But what if he doesn't? You can't be out here all by yourself. You can't. You need someone. I want to help you Jake. I want to. Let me help you."
"No. Listen. It's not going to happen. We're not getting back together. You aren't going to just hobble in here, listen to my dark story, take care of me, and worm your way back into my life. No. We're done Beka. Done."
She sat up. She seemed to regain some confidence. She seemed less dejected. She looked intently into my eyes.
"No you listen to me Jacob. You need help. I'm going to help you, whether you like it or not. I'm not taking no for an answer. That's it. It's final. I'm not looking at this as us being back together. I know where you stand. I get it. I do. But I'm not leaving."
There was a knock at the door. Finally, Holt was here. I hoped he had brought groceries. I was starving. And there was nothing here.
I changed directions and headed for the door. I pulled it open. It wasn't Holt. He wasn't there. It was much worse than that. Standing opposite me was the last person I wanted to see. Rebekah stood still. She was caught off guard by my condition. She hadn't heard. Of course, how would she have heard. I was somewhat surprised she hadn't already returned to Chicago. Was this the first time she returned since the accident? We looked like a strange couple. I stood with my arm in a cast, she with her leg encased. Neither of us moved. I stared at her. She stared at me. My stare was more fierce. I looked through her. I wanted to know why she was there. Did she really think this was going to work? Did she really think we were going to get back together? It had been nearly four months. She looked deep into my eyes. It was creepy. It was a longing sort of gaze. Blink. We both blinked.
"Rebekah."
"Jake, I'm sorry I had no ide--"
"Why are you here? What are you doing?"
"You don't mind if I come in do you? I really shouldn't be on this leg very long."
"Are you kidding me? You're using your broken leg to weasel your way into my house. No. No, Rebekah. We'll do this here. We'll talk right here."
"Jake, I'm not weaseling. Seriously, I need to sit down. Please."
"Dammit Rebekah. Damn you."
"Please, I just want to talk."
"You want to talk? Fine. We can talk. We can do this your way. The outcome will be the same. You, hear?"
"Fine."
"Sit down. Are you comfortable?"
"Mmhmm."
"Alright, I'll try to not be a total jerk. I'd offer you something but there is literally nothing here. I haven't exactly been able to get around or anything."
"That's alright. I'm fine. I just ate breakfast before I drove out."
"Drove out?" From where?"
I was still agitated. I didn't want her here. I didn't want to do this. I just wanted to punch her face and throw her out in the yard. Yeah, that's the extent of it. I just wanted to get her the hell out of my house and sit back with a glass of bourbon. I longed for it.
"Pierre. I'm at the Holiday Inn out there. Closest place to stay I think."
"Yeah, probably."
"Well, if you need a ride into town, I'd be happy to take you."
She was still blissfully unaware of my disinterest in her visit, my distaste for her existence. I was loathful. I shouldn't have been past this. But I wasn't. Who did she think she was? I don't care what your justifications are. You cheated. You cheated too many times. I'm not about to open myself up to more pain, to a future like this.
"That's not necessary. Sheriff Holt has been taking care of me. He sees that I get what I need."
"Oh, um, OK. I just...I just..."
"What?"
"What happened to you anyway. Last time I was here there was a girl passed out on the floor and a Sheriff at the door. What's been going on up here?"
"You don't know anything. Alright? Nothing."
"I don't understand. Can't you just tell me?"
"Yeah, I could. I don't really want to though. That's the problem. It doesn't really matter to you. You aren't a part of my life anymore. And I don't want you to be."
"That's it then. We're just going to turn around and go our separate ways."
"Yeah. That's it. You can't have your cake and eat it too, Rebekah. You can't. You made your choice. In fact, you made that choice twice. You chose him. Go be with him."
"But it was a mistake. That's not what I want. I want you. I realize that now. I'm sorry Jake. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't."
She had started to cry. Great, exactly what I wanted. A sobbing, sappy, crying Rebekah.
"Bullshit. It's all bullshit. You've said this all before. I'm not deaf. I get it. You told me this same story last time. I'm not going to hear it this time. I just don't care anymore. You made your choice. Now live with it. Get back in your Civic and take your sorry ass back to Chicago. Don't run out on your parents again."
"Parent."
"Parent?"
"Yeah. Dad died. He died while I was off living with you."
"You made that choice."
"I know. I know I did Jacob. Don't tell me what I did. Don't lecture me. I get it."
"Well then running away will only hurt your mom more this time. Go home. Go home to her."
"I'm here for you. She knows that. She knows I can't move on. I can't live. I can't exist. Not without you."
"You're delusional Rebekah. You just need to start thinking about moving on. Start making a life for yourself. Your own life. You're not a kid anymore. You were when you left with me, but you're not anymore. Grow up. Be a damn grown up. Make a life for yourself."
"Like you're making a life here? You're not fooling anyone Jake. I can read it on your face. You hate it here. Just come back. Come back. You belong in Chicago. With me. You need to be working. You can't just sit here for another forty years."
"I don't like it here? Really? You know what my face is telling you? Do you? I don't think you do."
"You hate it. I know you Jake. I know you. We were together too long--"
"You don't know anything. OK? Listen. Nothing. Nothing. You know nothing. The day I left Chicago? Remember? I walked in on my brother clinging to life on the kitchen floor. That kitchen floor."
I pointed behind me. I was adamant. I was mad. She didn't know me. She didn't know anything. I resented her assertions. I resented what she thought she knew. I was a different person now. I was not the Jake that had spent all those years with her.
"Jay died, Rebekah. Someone murdered him. Here. They murdered him here. And I wasn't here to stop it. I was too late. Mom and Dad are gone. I missed that too. My sister is home. Well, what's left of her. She's been self-destructive since she was a child. She's back. She sauntered in to town knowing even less than you. I don't know why. I have no idea why she's here."
"Jake--"
"She sent me hurtling down the stairs just after you left last week. My arm is so messed up. I almost died. Janie's in rehab now and I'm here alone again. Jay's friend Bobby was killed. Same way. There are no leads. That's it. That's everything. Is that what you knew? Is it?"
"Jake. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know any of it. I'm sorry."
"Listen just go please. I don't want to talk to you. We're not getting back together. I have enough going on in my life right now. I don't need you bringing your drama back in here after four months. It's over. If you don't get that, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry for you. But it's over. There's nothing else to say."
"You need someone. You need me."
"That's where you're wrong. I don't. I don't need you. I don't them. I don't need anyone. I'm fine on my own. I am."
"No you're not. You said it yourself. There's no food here. What if he doesn't come?"
"I'll call him."
"What if he doesn't answer?"
"He'll answer."
"But what if he doesn't? You can't be out here all by yourself. You can't. You need someone. I want to help you Jake. I want to. Let me help you."
"No. Listen. It's not going to happen. We're not getting back together. You aren't going to just hobble in here, listen to my dark story, take care of me, and worm your way back into my life. No. We're done Beka. Done."
She sat up. She seemed to regain some confidence. She seemed less dejected. She looked intently into my eyes.
"No you listen to me Jacob. You need help. I'm going to help you, whether you like it or not. I'm not taking no for an answer. That's it. It's final. I'm not looking at this as us being back together. I know where you stand. I get it. I do. But I'm not leaving."
Monday, May 10, 2010
Dakota (Ch 18)
She was waiting. Waiting for the right time. Her leg was still healing but she was able to get around now. She was driving a rental. She was living out of a hotel. She had nothing to her name. Everything she owned, what little she didn't pack into her Civic, was back in Chicago. She lost it all when the car burned. What didn't burn, was ruined by water. She was living off credit cards. She was delusional. And she was waiting.
She still wanted Jake. She still wanted to get back together. She still thought it could work, that he would forgive her and they would ride back to Chicago and pick up where they left off the day before he left for that business trip. She was living in a fantasy.
The cast on her leg made it itch. She hated that feeling. She remembered it from when she had broken her arm playing softball as a little girl. She had collided with the second basemen and her arm twisted backwards. She hated having a cast then, even if all the kids did sign it and try to encourage her. It itched. She tried to think about other things, to distract herself. She sat at the table eating another restaurant meal. She poked at what was left of her pancakes. She tilted her head back, rolled it around and waited for the crack. The tension released. She licked her forked clean and tried to slide it between her cast and the tender skin of her upper leg. Her attempt failed. She tried to refocus.
Maybe today was the day.
"Hmmmm. I guess I could drive up there."
She spoke louder then she had intended.
"OK, now I look crazy. Why am I talking to myself?"
She grabbed her bag and dug for her keys. She dropped a few crumpled ones, the last of her cash, on the table and headed for the door.
Sitting in the car was uncomfortable. Her leg was so stiff. She had to move the seat back and then she could barely reach the pedals with her right foot. She always felt like she was leaning forward to reach the steering wheel, which made her back hurt. It would be over an hour drive. She had to drive from the Holiday Inn in Pierre. That was the closest hotel to Wessington.
She pulled out on to 14 and headed East. She was getting excited now. She couldn't wait to see him. Things were going to be good. She knew they were. He just needed time. She shouldn't have surprised him the way she did. She realized that now. She should have tried to stay calm. The sheriff didn't seem concerned about the other girl. She should have kept her cool. She shouldn't have freaked out. She wished she would have done it differently. But it'd been over a week. Her leg was feeling better and he should be over it by now. She was going to do it differently this time. This time it was going to be OK. This time they were getting back together. This time.
/ / /
Donny Kahle was doing his job. He was good at it. It showed. Holt knew Kahle was good. He just didn't know how good. It took some time. But Kahle found what he was looking for. Janie Samuels had lived in Panama. And she had lived in Costa Rica. She even spent a week in Belize. Apparently, the Panama Canal was her barrier. She had made it there. Booked an excursion to cross, but she never used the ticket. She was supposed to continue on to Maracaibo, Venezuela. She never showed. She missed the trip, never made it to Venezuela.
Kahle couldn't figure out what had made her turn around. What drove her home? There had to be a reason. Something or someone was pressuring her, motivating her decision. It'd been too long to just decide to drive home.
He couldn't figure out how she crossed borders either. She had a passport from when she was a kid. The entire family had gone to Jamaica on vacation. The family income dropped drastically the following year. The same year Jake left for Chicago. But her passport would have been long expired before she even left Wessington. There was no way border authorities could have missed the childhood photo on the passport. Still, there was nothing recorded about being detained at a border. Not even once, even with all the borders she had crossed.
He tried to keep his mind on what he did know. And where he could go from there. He wanted to sit down and talk to her. He just wanted to ask a few questions. But he knew there was no chance of that happening. He couldn't waltz up and start interrogating her. He needed a clever scenario. She was in rehab. She was two hours away. He needed a plan. Perhaps Holt could help with this. Kahle decided to await Holt's return to the office. They would talk it out there. Then he could get the information he needed from Janie. He could find out why she came home. And why so fast.
He looked back down at his desk. All of the new information lay before him. He had the details of her three rape allegations. The first was from Tijuana. It was withdrawn the next day. She claimed she was too afraid to pursue the case.
The other two were both in Cancun. In the initial claims, Janie had asserted that tourists had raped her. The reports were almost identical. The only difference Kahle noticed was the color of her attackers' hair. The first report listed that the attacker's hair was blond. In the second, it was reddish brown. Both were withdrawn three days after the incidents.
To Kahle, it was clear that she went to Cancun to score some cash working as a pro again. It's what she knew, and for Mexico, it was probably the cleanest place she could have done what she did. Anywhere else, she would have ended up dead. She had some sense. Or so it seemed.
Kahle tried to trace her route in his mind. Los Angeles, murder. Tijuana, fake rape. Cancun, fake rape times two. Belize. Costa Rica. Panama, excursion, retreat to Wessington, South Dakota.
"What am I missing? What else is there? What were you doing Janie?"
He stared at the map. He looked at the booking confirmations from her hotel in Belize.
"This was a vacation from whatever you were doing. You didn't set up shop here. Just passing through. But why here? Why Belize, Janie? If you're running, why use your real name?"
He moved on, followed her path.
"Costa Rica. Alright, why'dya go? Wha'dya do here Janie?"
He picked up the folder for Costa Rica. He opened it and pulled out a few sheets of paper. He thumbed through them. That's when he noticed. The authorities had faxed him information about Janie's time in their country. He had missed it when the fax came in. Or Marge had misplaced it.
"Marge? Marge? Can you come here?"
He called out the door. She stepped softly to the opening and glanced in at him.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Marge, this fax that came in earlier. It was only 2 pages that came?"
"Why, I don't remember Donny."
She paused and concentrated on something that wasn't quite clicking in her mind.
"I gave you everything that came through."
"So there were no more pages? The machine isn't out of paper or anything?"
"No. No sir. I just received another fax. Some Sheriff in Wyoming looking for--"
"That'll do Marge. Thank you."
"Oh, alright sir."
She looked as though she was still focused on finishing her initial thought, but she turned and walked back to her desk.
"How could I have missed this!"
Kahle looked at the fax again. The cover sheet said 'Paginas: 5'. There were only two sheets. He was missing three pages. Maybe they could help solve this puzzle. Maybe they held the key to this mystery.
He picked up the phone and punched in the number with force.
She still wanted Jake. She still wanted to get back together. She still thought it could work, that he would forgive her and they would ride back to Chicago and pick up where they left off the day before he left for that business trip. She was living in a fantasy.
The cast on her leg made it itch. She hated that feeling. She remembered it from when she had broken her arm playing softball as a little girl. She had collided with the second basemen and her arm twisted backwards. She hated having a cast then, even if all the kids did sign it and try to encourage her. It itched. She tried to think about other things, to distract herself. She sat at the table eating another restaurant meal. She poked at what was left of her pancakes. She tilted her head back, rolled it around and waited for the crack. The tension released. She licked her forked clean and tried to slide it between her cast and the tender skin of her upper leg. Her attempt failed. She tried to refocus.
Maybe today was the day.
"Hmmmm. I guess I could drive up there."
She spoke louder then she had intended.
"OK, now I look crazy. Why am I talking to myself?"
She grabbed her bag and dug for her keys. She dropped a few crumpled ones, the last of her cash, on the table and headed for the door.
Sitting in the car was uncomfortable. Her leg was so stiff. She had to move the seat back and then she could barely reach the pedals with her right foot. She always felt like she was leaning forward to reach the steering wheel, which made her back hurt. It would be over an hour drive. She had to drive from the Holiday Inn in Pierre. That was the closest hotel to Wessington.
She pulled out on to 14 and headed East. She was getting excited now. She couldn't wait to see him. Things were going to be good. She knew they were. He just needed time. She shouldn't have surprised him the way she did. She realized that now. She should have tried to stay calm. The sheriff didn't seem concerned about the other girl. She should have kept her cool. She shouldn't have freaked out. She wished she would have done it differently. But it'd been over a week. Her leg was feeling better and he should be over it by now. She was going to do it differently this time. This time it was going to be OK. This time they were getting back together. This time.
/ / /
Donny Kahle was doing his job. He was good at it. It showed. Holt knew Kahle was good. He just didn't know how good. It took some time. But Kahle found what he was looking for. Janie Samuels had lived in Panama. And she had lived in Costa Rica. She even spent a week in Belize. Apparently, the Panama Canal was her barrier. She had made it there. Booked an excursion to cross, but she never used the ticket. She was supposed to continue on to Maracaibo, Venezuela. She never showed. She missed the trip, never made it to Venezuela.
Kahle couldn't figure out what had made her turn around. What drove her home? There had to be a reason. Something or someone was pressuring her, motivating her decision. It'd been too long to just decide to drive home.
He couldn't figure out how she crossed borders either. She had a passport from when she was a kid. The entire family had gone to Jamaica on vacation. The family income dropped drastically the following year. The same year Jake left for Chicago. But her passport would have been long expired before she even left Wessington. There was no way border authorities could have missed the childhood photo on the passport. Still, there was nothing recorded about being detained at a border. Not even once, even with all the borders she had crossed.
He tried to keep his mind on what he did know. And where he could go from there. He wanted to sit down and talk to her. He just wanted to ask a few questions. But he knew there was no chance of that happening. He couldn't waltz up and start interrogating her. He needed a clever scenario. She was in rehab. She was two hours away. He needed a plan. Perhaps Holt could help with this. Kahle decided to await Holt's return to the office. They would talk it out there. Then he could get the information he needed from Janie. He could find out why she came home. And why so fast.
He looked back down at his desk. All of the new information lay before him. He had the details of her three rape allegations. The first was from Tijuana. It was withdrawn the next day. She claimed she was too afraid to pursue the case.
The other two were both in Cancun. In the initial claims, Janie had asserted that tourists had raped her. The reports were almost identical. The only difference Kahle noticed was the color of her attackers' hair. The first report listed that the attacker's hair was blond. In the second, it was reddish brown. Both were withdrawn three days after the incidents.
To Kahle, it was clear that she went to Cancun to score some cash working as a pro again. It's what she knew, and for Mexico, it was probably the cleanest place she could have done what she did. Anywhere else, she would have ended up dead. She had some sense. Or so it seemed.
Kahle tried to trace her route in his mind. Los Angeles, murder. Tijuana, fake rape. Cancun, fake rape times two. Belize. Costa Rica. Panama, excursion, retreat to Wessington, South Dakota.
"What am I missing? What else is there? What were you doing Janie?"
He stared at the map. He looked at the booking confirmations from her hotel in Belize.
"This was a vacation from whatever you were doing. You didn't set up shop here. Just passing through. But why here? Why Belize, Janie? If you're running, why use your real name?"
He moved on, followed her path.
"Costa Rica. Alright, why'dya go? Wha'dya do here Janie?"
He picked up the folder for Costa Rica. He opened it and pulled out a few sheets of paper. He thumbed through them. That's when he noticed. The authorities had faxed him information about Janie's time in their country. He had missed it when the fax came in. Or Marge had misplaced it.
"Marge? Marge? Can you come here?"
He called out the door. She stepped softly to the opening and glanced in at him.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Marge, this fax that came in earlier. It was only 2 pages that came?"
"Why, I don't remember Donny."
She paused and concentrated on something that wasn't quite clicking in her mind.
"I gave you everything that came through."
"So there were no more pages? The machine isn't out of paper or anything?"
"No. No sir. I just received another fax. Some Sheriff in Wyoming looking for--"
"That'll do Marge. Thank you."
"Oh, alright sir."
She looked as though she was still focused on finishing her initial thought, but she turned and walked back to her desk.
"How could I have missed this!"
Kahle looked at the fax again. The cover sheet said 'Paginas: 5'. There were only two sheets. He was missing three pages. Maybe they could help solve this puzzle. Maybe they held the key to this mystery.
He picked up the phone and punched in the number with force.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Dakota (Ch 17)
Recovery was painful. It was slow. But acceptable. It was expected. I spent my days in bed, watching TV and wanting to get up and move. I'd have been home sooner if there was someone there to take care of me. But there wasn't.
When I finally talked to Sheriff Holt, I got the full story. It was delayed and I should have enouraged Janie to tell it to me much earlier. Either way, I knew it now. Every last sordid detail. Every one that he knew anyway. He had said there was likely more, and I knew there had to be. There is no way this could have been everything. She had to have more hidden in that closet. It scared me. But I needed to know what else there was. I needed to talk to her.
I hadn't seen Janie since the accident. I was kept at County Medical Center and she was sent off to rehab. Holt said she voluntarily signed the papers. I was surprised, but it was a step in the right direction. It was a six week program in Sioux Falls. I was afraid she would run. I didn't want to lose her. Not now. Now that she was home. I loved her, crazy as she was. Still, I hoped she would get better, sober.
I laid in the hospital for three days. I got the chance to get to know Karen. She was sweet. I didn't really remember much of her from school. But I remembered her smile. It hadn't changed. I liked that. I liked that I knew who was taking care of me. I liked that I knew she cared. Talking with her helped me pass the time. She had been screwed over too. We shared that story. I shared mine with her. We speculated on what made people do the things they do. Why do some people get screwed and other people turn up nothing but roses. Even after they plant gravel rather than seeds. It's the way life is. There was no getting around it. Fact. Not fiction. I missed my work. I needed something to read. Something to write. Something to edit. Anything.
Holt took me home on the fourth day. I had been up and walking around the halls a bit, but it was still difficult. It was slow going. My right side was extensively bruised. My head generally spun when I stood up. the room went sideways, like a boat tipping over. I had to close my eyes and take deep breaths to right the ship, to stop the spinning, to walk. It was annoying. I just wanted to move. I just wanted to do something, anything.
I tried to protest. I didn't know how I was going to take care of myself like this. I couldn't drive. What if there was an emergency?
Holt assured me that he and his deputies were only a phone call away. but after my experiences with police, fire and ambulance response times I wasn't sure this was comforting or frightening. He promised to stop by everyday for a while, until I was able to get up and down the stairs.
The house was quiet. Empty. I was relegated to the sofa in the living room, which unfortunately was not a sleeper. The stairs just weren't happening, for now anyway. At least, not without help.
I leaned on my memories to get by. I tried to remember all the times that the three of us, Jason, Janie, and I, had had fun growing up. Climbing trees. Running. Jay and I did a lot of running. I remembered the times we went downtown and just sat outside of Murphy's. The old Murphy's. The good one. Not the giant one that struggled to stay solvent now. I remembered camping out in the woods. Fishing. Fishing with dad. I remembered that terrible band that Jason started. He was an awful drummer, terrible. But he had fun. There was no getting around how bad they sounded though. Not even a little.
When I stopped remembering, that's when I started hurting. The pain came in waves. First just a small one. It always had a way of pulling me in, until I couldn't think about anything else. It always ended the same way. I felt like I was drowning, crushed by an all-consuming, thrashing wave of intense pain. The little yellow pills made everything better. The pain went away. It was what miracles were made of.
It wasn't all bliss though. The pills made the trees taller, the house smaller. The room colder. My heart beat faster. I felt more alone.
I had been home for five days. I was tired of reading. It had been my job for over ten years and yet I was tired of it after five days. I wanted to write. I needed a pen.
I leaned heavily on my left side and pushed myself to my feet. My right arm was still stiff. The exercises they had given me were working. They were slowing working, but it was still painful. It ached. Stretching my hand sent pains up my arm. Turning my wrist was out of the question. It hurt too much. I should have been going to therapy, but I couldn't drive. And there was no one to drive me. This was the middle of no where. There were no physical therapists willing to drive here. Zero. I was on my own for now.
I shuffled my feet for a few steps. Now I was thirsty. And hungry. I gained some strength. I took full steps into the kitchen. There was nothing in the fridge. There was nothing here. I filled a glass with water. I took a long drink. I leaned back against the counter. My eyes stared ahead into the emptiness. My mind was blank. I thought about what to think about. I thought about how I wasn't thinking about anything. Blink. I dropped my head and rubbed my eyes. What was I thinking? What was I doing? I couldn't go on like this. Jason had been dead for almost four months. And I hadn't done a damn thing since then. I still didn't have job. The killer was still out there. And I was at home. Reading. Like a retired school teacher. This wasn't the life I wanted. I wanted to do something big. To go places. To live. This wasn't living. This was getting by. How was my life different from Jason's? Why was I still here?
I set the glass down and hobbled to the cabinet next to the back door. I reached atop the window and retrieved the key. Still there. It had been there since we were kids. Jay was a man of habit. I respected that. I stooped down to the cabinet and turned the key.
"Why hello my friends."
I reached in and pulled out one of the glass bottles. I fingered the neck. I rubbed the label. My lips felt dry. I spun off the metal cap and poured a glass. Scotch. On the rocks. I tossed my head back and swallowed.
"Oh, hell."
It burned. It had been too long. I wasn't used to the bite. I hated that taste. I poured another glass. This one went down a bit easier. But still, it had been too long. Nineteen months, six days and four hours, give or take.
The third drink was sweet. It slid down the back of my throat like the glass of water had. No bite. Liquid bliss.
I needed a pen. I grabbed my glass and the bottle and headed for the office. I climbed in that tiny room beneath the stairs, shut the door, shut out the world, and fell into the desk chair.
I picked up the pen, put the tip to the line on the paper before me. And I wrote.
When I finally talked to Sheriff Holt, I got the full story. It was delayed and I should have enouraged Janie to tell it to me much earlier. Either way, I knew it now. Every last sordid detail. Every one that he knew anyway. He had said there was likely more, and I knew there had to be. There is no way this could have been everything. She had to have more hidden in that closet. It scared me. But I needed to know what else there was. I needed to talk to her.
I hadn't seen Janie since the accident. I was kept at County Medical Center and she was sent off to rehab. Holt said she voluntarily signed the papers. I was surprised, but it was a step in the right direction. It was a six week program in Sioux Falls. I was afraid she would run. I didn't want to lose her. Not now. Now that she was home. I loved her, crazy as she was. Still, I hoped she would get better, sober.
I laid in the hospital for three days. I got the chance to get to know Karen. She was sweet. I didn't really remember much of her from school. But I remembered her smile. It hadn't changed. I liked that. I liked that I knew who was taking care of me. I liked that I knew she cared. Talking with her helped me pass the time. She had been screwed over too. We shared that story. I shared mine with her. We speculated on what made people do the things they do. Why do some people get screwed and other people turn up nothing but roses. Even after they plant gravel rather than seeds. It's the way life is. There was no getting around it. Fact. Not fiction. I missed my work. I needed something to read. Something to write. Something to edit. Anything.
Holt took me home on the fourth day. I had been up and walking around the halls a bit, but it was still difficult. It was slow going. My right side was extensively bruised. My head generally spun when I stood up. the room went sideways, like a boat tipping over. I had to close my eyes and take deep breaths to right the ship, to stop the spinning, to walk. It was annoying. I just wanted to move. I just wanted to do something, anything.
I tried to protest. I didn't know how I was going to take care of myself like this. I couldn't drive. What if there was an emergency?
Holt assured me that he and his deputies were only a phone call away. but after my experiences with police, fire and ambulance response times I wasn't sure this was comforting or frightening. He promised to stop by everyday for a while, until I was able to get up and down the stairs.
The house was quiet. Empty. I was relegated to the sofa in the living room, which unfortunately was not a sleeper. The stairs just weren't happening, for now anyway. At least, not without help.
I leaned on my memories to get by. I tried to remember all the times that the three of us, Jason, Janie, and I, had had fun growing up. Climbing trees. Running. Jay and I did a lot of running. I remembered the times we went downtown and just sat outside of Murphy's. The old Murphy's. The good one. Not the giant one that struggled to stay solvent now. I remembered camping out in the woods. Fishing. Fishing with dad. I remembered that terrible band that Jason started. He was an awful drummer, terrible. But he had fun. There was no getting around how bad they sounded though. Not even a little.
When I stopped remembering, that's when I started hurting. The pain came in waves. First just a small one. It always had a way of pulling me in, until I couldn't think about anything else. It always ended the same way. I felt like I was drowning, crushed by an all-consuming, thrashing wave of intense pain. The little yellow pills made everything better. The pain went away. It was what miracles were made of.
It wasn't all bliss though. The pills made the trees taller, the house smaller. The room colder. My heart beat faster. I felt more alone.
I had been home for five days. I was tired of reading. It had been my job for over ten years and yet I was tired of it after five days. I wanted to write. I needed a pen.
I leaned heavily on my left side and pushed myself to my feet. My right arm was still stiff. The exercises they had given me were working. They were slowing working, but it was still painful. It ached. Stretching my hand sent pains up my arm. Turning my wrist was out of the question. It hurt too much. I should have been going to therapy, but I couldn't drive. And there was no one to drive me. This was the middle of no where. There were no physical therapists willing to drive here. Zero. I was on my own for now.
I shuffled my feet for a few steps. Now I was thirsty. And hungry. I gained some strength. I took full steps into the kitchen. There was nothing in the fridge. There was nothing here. I filled a glass with water. I took a long drink. I leaned back against the counter. My eyes stared ahead into the emptiness. My mind was blank. I thought about what to think about. I thought about how I wasn't thinking about anything. Blink. I dropped my head and rubbed my eyes. What was I thinking? What was I doing? I couldn't go on like this. Jason had been dead for almost four months. And I hadn't done a damn thing since then. I still didn't have job. The killer was still out there. And I was at home. Reading. Like a retired school teacher. This wasn't the life I wanted. I wanted to do something big. To go places. To live. This wasn't living. This was getting by. How was my life different from Jason's? Why was I still here?
I set the glass down and hobbled to the cabinet next to the back door. I reached atop the window and retrieved the key. Still there. It had been there since we were kids. Jay was a man of habit. I respected that. I stooped down to the cabinet and turned the key.
"Why hello my friends."
I reached in and pulled out one of the glass bottles. I fingered the neck. I rubbed the label. My lips felt dry. I spun off the metal cap and poured a glass. Scotch. On the rocks. I tossed my head back and swallowed.
"Oh, hell."
It burned. It had been too long. I wasn't used to the bite. I hated that taste. I poured another glass. This one went down a bit easier. But still, it had been too long. Nineteen months, six days and four hours, give or take.
The third drink was sweet. It slid down the back of my throat like the glass of water had. No bite. Liquid bliss.
I needed a pen. I grabbed my glass and the bottle and headed for the office. I climbed in that tiny room beneath the stairs, shut the door, shut out the world, and fell into the desk chair.
I picked up the pen, put the tip to the line on the paper before me. And I wrote.
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