A Far Gone Night (30 page)

“I’ve never been out on this deck,” Liv said. “It’s a wonderful place, and wonderful year ’round, I expect.”

“In warmer weather, Gotcha and I sit out here and engage in philosophical drinking. By the way, who’s taking care of Milton?”

“A colleague of mine whom I trust.
She’s done it before. They’re good buddies. I told her I had a family emergency I needed to handle and she was good enough to not ask questions. She’ll cover.”

“Good friend.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s nice out here, and I’m glad you like it. But you know
,
you haven’t seen the whole house yet. Gotcha and I like it a lot. It suits us. Would you like a tour?”

Liv nodded and we went inside. I took her upstairs and showed her the two guest bedrooms and the bath. She approved of my decorating, but I knew she would have done it differently, probably not going with “The Magician’s Nephew” theme. But she kept it to herself. Downstairs, she paused and looked at the pictures in the den of Karen, Michelle, and Annie.

“Beautiful family, Thomas,” she said softly, fingering the frames, not moving the photos.

“Yes, they were, Liv. But they’re gone now, they’re not walking through that door, ever, and I truly believe they are in Heaven, which is even better than Iowa.”

“That line’s from ‘Field of Dreams,’ isn’t it?”

“Something
like
that. Anyway, I am ready to go forward with my life. With you, if you want.” Sometimes I surprise myself. I hadn’t planned on saying that, but it just came out. I told myself to shut up.

“I haven’t been fair to you, Thomas. I’ve been judgmental, narrow,
accusatory
. And I’m sorry. I’ve made you out to be some kind of vigilante lunatic, ignoring the fact that you led an exemplary and peaceful life for a long, long time after you married, after you left the military, after you left your private security business. Not fair.”

“But to be fair to you, in just a little over two years you’ve seen me involved in the
Soderstrom
mess and now this with Moon’s niece, so maybe you’re seeing a pattern, right?”

“Good point, I guess. Yes, you
do
make a good point,” she said, reflecting. “But there’s something else I’ve noticed. You just seem more alive when you’re fighting, involved in shootouts. I think it helps shake you from the depression that comes with the loss of your family. Keeps you from being alone and inevitably feeling sorry for yourself, for which you have reason. Not judging, Thomas. Just seem logical now that I think about it.”

“It makes the time go faster, too.
Fighting for my life.
Moves me closer to the day when I move up to what Bonhoeffer calls ‘the true country.’
Beats macramé classes and Zumba.
Helps me deal with being alone.”

“But Thomas, now I understand that I
cannot
leave you alone. I just can’t. I fear for you sometimes. I want you to be happy, and you haven’t been happy for years, hiding behind your sense of humor.”

“I was happy in your bed the night of the gunfight in this house.”

Liv smiled. She was supposed to say, “Me, too!”

“And I’m happy right now, Liv, with you here. Much happier than the last time you were here and told me to kiss your ass, and when I asked you to please prepare that lovely surface for that specific act of affection, you reneged and stalked off.”

“The day of Horace’s funeral.”

“Yes. And I deserved your rebuke. It worked.”

“You came to the funeral.”

“Half in the bag.”

“But you were there.”

“Indeed, and blessed by Carl’s eulogy.”

“Me, too.
And by the way,” Liv said, a playful smile crossing her face, “feel free to kiss my ass anytime, or any other part of my body that pleases you.”

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I said, “Denuded of obstacles, such as clothing?”

She said, “I think we’re at the point where there should be no obstacles between us. What say you?”

“I’m in full agreement.”

We passed the rest of the day comfortably, watching the storm slow down, sputter, and die after leaving fifteen inches of snow in
Rockbluff
before it stopped. I couldn’t help but be grateful that the abandoned farmhouse with Moon’s Packard and the thugs’ Escalade would probably be safe from any inquiring minds for a long, long time. There would be no tracks, and the way I had rigged the gate to make it look locked would likely discourage anyone remotely curious about the place where six dead men, a load of drugs, and uncounted bullet holes waited.

It seemed to get dark early with the cloud cover, but outside it remained light because of the white comforter of snow covering everything. An occasional gust of snow would blow in from time to time, but the storm was spent, moving on into Illinois and southwestern Wisconsin, flexing its muscles there.

Liv fixed ham and cheese sandwiches on whole wheat bread, smoothed over with horseradish, a sandwich like that demanding a cold beer to take the edge away. I kept the fire going until well after dark, and we sat together wedged into one recliner while Gotcha appropriated the other. We dozed off together and woke up when a log broke and settled in the fireplace. I glanced at the clock over the fireplace. It read 6:30.

“You hungry?”
I asked.

“A little.
May I fix you something? Steak
tartar, blackened redfish, roast
duckling?”

I said, “How ’bout a fine red wine, for the antioxidants, of course, and some healthful snack food?”

Liv turned in the chair so that she could look me in the eye. “I’m skeptical of your definition of ‘healthful’.”

“Let me surprise you,” I said as we slid out of the chair. My side grabbed at me a little. Liv noticed and said maybe we should check those bandages, which we did. She changed them after telling me I looked like a fast healer. I said it was her nursing skills that were the key factor.

“Tender loving care,” she said, and then we both kind of caught on that “loving” word and mutually and silently moved on.
Deep territory.

So I poured us each a glass of merlot and then put together some almonds, cheese sticks, and dried apricots to munch on. Liv gave me an approving look as I brought the wooden bowl to her in front of the fire and set it on an end table where we could both reach it. We spent the next few minutes in small talk, sipping the wine, and enjoying the food and the fire.

“You know, Thomas, I don’t know very much about you. I know what you’ve lost, but nothing about your mom and dad? Are they still living?”

That stopped me, but I should have known the topic would eventually come up, at least in any decent relationship, which I was hoping would be the case with Olivia. I finished my glass of wine, got up, went into the kitchen, and brought out the bottle. It was nearly empty, so I made sure I had a second bottle and a corkscrew with me. She held her glass to me and I topped it off, finished my glass, decanted the second bottle,
poured
myself a glass. I drank half of it.

“That bad?” she
asked,
her voice sympathetic.

“Probably.”

“Let’s skip it, then.
Topic for another day.
Don’t let me spoil our time together.”

“My mother was a saint, but she made bad choices. The man she married, for one. She wanted children, but I am an only child. Her husband didn’t want any more, and he made sure.”

“Oh. Your father made sure.”

“He didn’t like me, and I can understand that. I was pretty rebellious all through junior high and high school, couldn’t wait to go away to college,
couldn’t
wait to join the Navy, both to get away from him.

“He got emphysema.
Chain smoker.
Told me he smoked because of me. Said I was a failure and an embarrassment. He was a successful insurance executive, married to his job. When he was in the hospital, on his deathbed, my mother insisted that I come home from the University of Iowa and say my goodbyes. I wouldn’t have except that it was her request. So I went to see him. You know what his last words were?
Kind of funny, in a way.”

“Go on, Thomas.”

“Well, you know the old saying that no one, at their death, ever said ‘I wish I’d spent more time at the office’?”

Liv face paled. She was shaking her head and tears were starting to jerk down her cheeks.

“That old saying is a lie because that’s exactly what he said. He looked angry when I stepped into his room. I said hello, and he looked at me and smiled a little, disgusted smile, more a smirk, and said, ‘I wish I’d spent more time at the office and less around you.’ Then he turned his head away and said, ‘Now get out.’ And those were his last words.”

At this point Liv was openly weeping, and I felt badly that I had let that little episode in my past slip out. I never told anyone before, not even my mother. So, what’s wrong with me that I’d spill my guts to someone I’d only known a couple of years? Something about Olivia Olson, I believe. I went on.

“Now, my mom was another story. After a life chained to a man who allowed her little contact outside of the house, she took to her new situation. I sold the house and she moved into an apartment complex with people of all ages, and she just took off socially. Made lots of friends, starting going to church, even dated a couple of nice widowers. Then, when Karen and I got married and moved to Georgia, we took her along. She lived half a mile from us. She died eleven years ago, a happy woman.”

Liv was now smiling through a tear-streaked face. I finished my glass of wine. She finished hers and stood up.

She said, “I’m happy about your mom, but so sorry about your dad.”

“Not a dad by any definition.
My mother’s husband.”

Liv nodded. “So much pain,” she said, “but I think I can help you with that. Let me take you to bed.”

And so she did, and the pain floated away that night in our bed in our snowbound house, floated away like wood smoke on the wind.

I
wept after we made love that night, but only a little. Honest. Liv wept after we made love, too.
Quite a bit.
You’ve never seen such wet pillows. We each woke twice during the night and were good to each other. We slept and dozed and slept some more and it was good.

Sunday morning I felt clean and light inside my heart and my head, and I thought, by God,
by God
, I just might be able to live again.

“Don’t tell anyone I blubbered,” I said.

“I won’t. That is something
we
have. No one else has a right to it. It’s just between us.”

“You couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us last night.”

“Stop.
You’ll make me blush.”

“You couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us last night,” I repeated. Liv
gooched
me in the ribs, avoiding my wound, but when I flinched I could feel the injuries.

I looked at her head on the pillow, her blonde hair,
short
as it was, framing her face. I said, “You look as lovely as a whitecap on a glassy lake.”

Liv smiled, obviously pleased, and then said, “You’re very Irish sometimes, Thomas O’Shea.”

“And you love it, Olivia Olson.”

“I confess, I do.”

She kissed me and slipped out of bed and I admired her backside again as she jounced off to the bathroom. I heard the sound of water in the shower and eased myself to a sitting position, then stood and dressed. My wound nipped at my side, but a nip was better than a painful pull.
Progress.

It was cloudy and gray outside the window, but not in my spirit, as I made the bed, walking around Gotcha on her
tuffet
. When I finished, she got up and plodded into the kitchen and on to the front door. I let her out and she hesitated, the door pushing away snow that had stacked up overnight. Gotcha gave me a look and waddled out. I closed the door and set coffee to brewing while fixing a hearty breakfast of sausage patties, hash browns, scrambled eggs with bits of onion and chopped ham mixed in, and a few buckwheat pancakes.

As I reached for the maple syrup in a cabinet above the stove, I heard Liv come into the room. I looked up. She was naked as the truth, but much more alluring. I think my mouth dropped open.

“I got out of the shower and thought, why get dressed? I’d just have to get undressed again because you appeal to me very much when I hear you cooking and I want you right now, Thomas. Put the burners on simmer. I’m up for a quickie, just for the joy of it.”

I nearly knocked over two Teflon pans following Liv’s instructions.

“Great breakfast!” she said later. “One must wonder at the impetus to appetite provided by a roll in the hay with a real man.”

“I’ve never had that exact experience,” I tidied, wiping down the breakfast table, loading the dishwasher and setting it going. “What’s on your agenda for today, Good Looking?”

“Well,” she said, getting up from the table and coming to me, embracing me with her hands high up on my back, avoiding my wounds, “sadly, I will need to get back home. I’m sure the snowplows will have done their duty by this afternoon and we’ll likely have classes tomorrow. But I’d like to stay here with you until I have to go.”

“Stay as long as you want. I wish you didn’t have to go.
Ever.”

Liv leaned back from my arms and smiled a brief, sad smile, and said, “Me, too. So, what’s in
your
plans for the day?”

My answer was delayed when we heard a hard scratching at the front door. I had forgotten about Gotcha and left the steel sleeve in the doggy door. No wonder, considering the glorious distractions of Liv.

When I opened the door the chunky Bulldog glared at me. Snow was all over her back and the top of her head. Apparently she’d plowed through the fresh snow to get to her place to perform her duties, and she hadn’t liked it. She put her head down, hunched past me, and shook the snow off. Then she gave me an accusatory glance and walked into the kitchen and stood by her food and water dishes, turned, and looked at me. Olivia was laughing.

I attended to Gotcha and then continued my conversation with Liv.

“You asked about my plans. Well, I’ve got to get down to The Grain and talk to Moon, and be prepared to be questioned by Harmon and maybe some state cop types. They’ll be back. I know that’s coming.”

“You have a great alibi in me,” she said, letting go, going over to the kitchen counter, and sweeping a few crumbs into her hands. She dumped the crumbs in the trash can under the sink and brushed her hands off. She looked at me and smiled.
Such a smile!

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I don’t care, really. They can question me all they want. I came up here Friday right after second lunch when they let us out early and stayed through Sunday afternoon. We never left.”

“I didn’t know they let you out a little early. That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the weather reports were very clear the storm was going to be a whopper, and we have lots of kids from rural areas that need to ride the busses, so that dictated early release, and the postponing of the play.”

My hated cell phone rang, playing “Three Blind Mice,” the theme song of The Three Stooges. I checked. It was Ernie Timmons. I buttoned on the phone. “Hello, Ernie.”

“So, I’m guessing you’re behind that building in Minnesota being blown up.”

“What’s the weather like down there in
Belue
, Georgia?”

“Sixty-one degrees, blue skies, and the golf courses are calling me to action. Are you okay? Is Lunatic Mooning okay?”

“It’s Sunday morning. Why aren’t you preaching?”

“I’m off this Sunday. We have a visiting pastor.”

“Jeez Louise, you guys work one day a week and then you get a Sunday off, too?”

Ernie said, “So I’m guessing you’re behind that explosion over the northern border. Y’all okay up there?”

“All good.
We just got a ton of snow.
A real blizzard.
Nearly twice as much snow as the puny storm you and Jan got to experience. How are the boys?”

“Is Olivia Olson okay? Jan wanted me to ask.”

“Liv’s outstanding,” I said, turning and smiling at her.

“You need to call her. You need to get back together with her.
Jan’s orders.”

“Will do.
Talk to you later, Ernie.”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on news from up your way. Seems like there’s going to be lots more. Blessings on you and Olivia Olson,” he said, and hung up.

Sunday passed gently as we read together, sat together and watched wood burn in the fireplace, had a light lunch, read some more, watched more fire in the fireplace, and played a little with Gotcha, who had forgiven me, as dogs do.

When it was time to go, Liv replaced my old bandages with new, kissed me on the lips, and left in her yellow Subaru, the vehicle firm on the driveway. We had heard snowplows throughout the day, confident that, as Liv drove home in the fading daylight, she would be fine. She promised to let me know when she got home safely, and twenty minutes later, she called.

The house seemed empty, and so did I, yet I was content.
A rare thing.
I liked it.

On the TV news that night, it was reported that schools throughout the county would operate on their normal schedule Monday, businesses and organizations would be back to regular hours, and there was no sign of more snow. Then there was a live, on-site report from
Chalaka
, Minnesota that I found worthy of my attention. The reporter, bundled up and squinting in the glare of the mobile unit’s lights, was standing in front of what was left of the Pony Club, which appeared to be nothing but a charred ruin. Not even a wall had been left standing. I had to grin at Clancy’s handiwork. He hadn’t lost his touch.

The reporter, a girl who might have been fifteen, said the authorities were treating the demolition as a crime scene and the investigation was ongoing. Then she gave a number to call with tips and added, “Police are saying what happened Friday night here at the Pony Club is the work of a professional demolitions expert.
Back to you, Nils.”
Nils moved on to news about hog futures.

Just as I was preparing to see what might be on ESPN, there was a hard knock on my front door. It sounded urgent. I took Elsie out of the coat closet on the way and opened the door a crack, shotgun ready in my right hand. It was Harmon. I decided not to shoot him.

“Come on in, Harmon. It’s cold out there,” I said, slipping the shotgun back into the closet.

He gave me a look and stepped inside the foyer.

“I have some questions for you, Thomas.” I gestured for him to come on in to the living room.

“Have a seat in front of the fire, Harmon. Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m on duty.”

I sat down in a wingback chair next to the recliner where Payne was now sitting. “Go ahead. Shoot.”

He gave me a look when I said “shoot.”

“Thomas, you and Moon and that Dominguez guy went up to
Chalaka
on Friday and blew up the Pony Club, then came back here in that storm.
Revenge for Cindy Stalking Wolf’s murder.”

“That’s a statement. You said you had questions.”

“Okay, Thomas. Did you go up to
Chalaka
Friday night, with Moon and Dominguez, and blow up the Pony Club, killing Ted
Hornung
?”

“No, and I mean that, Harmon. We did not.”

“I’ve talked to Moon and he has an ironclad alibi that is pure bullshit. Where were you Friday night?”

“Here.”

“Anyone verify that?”

“Yes.”

“Who would that be?”

“Can’t say.”

Payne shook his head. “You mean,
won’t
say.”

“That’s right.”

“I noticed fresh tire tracks leading away from here since the storm stopped.”

“You
are
a trained
law enforcement professional.
Hot damn!”

Payne sighed, looked around the room, unzipped his parka and leaned forward. “Okay, Thomas, then, where is Clancy Dominguez? I expected to find him here. This is where he’s been staying every night?”

“Yes, I mean, well, this is where he’s been staying except for one night.”

Payne looked at me.

“He spent one night allegedly with Suzanne
Highsmith
at the
Rockbluff
Motel.”

“She spend Friday and Saturday and today with you?”

“Nope.
She is not my type.”

“More bullshit.
Thomas, it’s getting deep in here. Glad I wore my boots.”

“Sure I can’t answer any more questions? Come on, Harmon, take off your coat and stay awhile. Can I fix you some Irish coffee, a glass of wine, some Myer’s Rum?”

Payne stood, slipped off his coat and laid it over a chair. He took out his radio and called in, said, “
Landsberger
, I’m officially off duty as of now,” looking at his watch, “at six-thirty PM.
Call
me if you need me, deputy.” He put away the radio and sighed, sat back down. “I’ll take a beer if you’ve got something strong.”