See Also Deception (18 page)

It wasn't that long ago that none of the modern conveniences were available to us this far from town. My grandparents and parents survived most of their lives with minimal intervention from technology, no electricity and no phone, and they got along just fine from what I could tell. But those kinds of survival skills fade fast. You got used to the power being there when you turned on a light switch or picked up the telephone to call the librarian in town for a quick answer to a question. Modern technology seemed to disappear into the daily routine and brainwash you into believing that it had always been there, that you couldn't live without it.

At least it was morning. The darkness of night would have only added to the confinement, fear, and loss that I felt as I stared at that cut line. Just considering such a thing nearly pushed me off balance and sent me into a fit of sheer terror. I took a deep breath instead and tried to calm myself.

I had no choice but to hurry back inside the house. I felt like a rabbit fleeing from the shadow of a hawk as I edged along the siding, hoping the house would protect me with its power of love and its persistence at surviving the winters since my grandparents had built it, would save me from whomever lurked out of my sight—but not out of my mind.

Shep followed along and charged past me and ran circles around me as I stepped foot inside the house. He didn't bark, just eyed me with a stern look that said to stop and stay. I'd always trusted him, so I did.

I closed the front door and locked it. But I kept hold of the .22. That gun wasn't going to leave my sight until I figured out what was going on and what I was going to do.

“Stay,” I said to Shep. Then I went around to all of the windows, peered out of them, and closed the blinds. I knew I was closing myself in more by doing so, but I didn't want anybody seeing me move about. If they had a knife, they might have a gun, too. One shot through the window and that would be the end of me. I had to think like that. I had to get back to Hank somehow.

I gripped the .22 tighter as I made my way through the house closing the blinds. The odd red light in the early morning sky had faded, but there was still a pink glow penetrating the slats of the blinds.

What had I done?

I got to the bedroom last and, as I closed the blind and put the house into a sullen, stormy, gray darkness, I started to feel something else. Another emotion sprouted from deep inside me and began to overcome the fear I felt. I was starting to get mad. Mad at the crazy world I lived in, mad at the situation I found myself in, and mad at the person who'd sent me into a state of terror. I answered my own question then: I hadn't done a damn thing. Not a damn thing. I didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve this at all.

I have a funeral to go to, damn it!
I wanted to scream, but I didn't. I was afraid someone would hear me, afraid that I would snap. Instead, I allowed a single tear to run down my cheek. One. It was all I had left.

CHAPTER 30

The idea of having two functional vehicles to maintain and look after was absurd, a luxury that Hank and I would never consider or be able to afford. The Studebaker had been our one and only means of personal transportation for nearly as long as I could remember. A single pickup truck to meet all of our needs, whether it was to pull a hay wagon loaded down with bales or drive to a funeral in our best clothes.

The only other operational vehicles on the farm were an old Farmall tractor that I was unsure of and the Allis-Chalmers Gleaner Model E combine that I was still making payments on. I had never driven the Gleaner. That machine had been Hank's pride and joy, and the care and operation of it had fallen to Erik Knudsen after the accident. Now that task was another thing Jaeger had taken on. I didn't even know how to start the darn thing. I'd have to check the index in the operator's manual and hope to good heavens that the indexer had put an entry in for starting it—if not, I'd have to write it in.

The Model E had no driver's enclosure, meaning I would be exposed to the world while I hunted for the ignition. Another bad plan. It'd be my luck that I'd get shot using the index. I almost smiled at the irony of the thought. Almost. There was nothing funny about murder as far as I was concerned.

Get ahold of yourself, Marjorie. Think. You can find a way out of this. You have to.

I took a deep breath and looked down at Shep. I wished I had trained him to run to the Knudsens' on command, used him like a passenger pigeon with a note asking Jaeger to come rescue me, but I hadn't. Shep had never been that kind of dog. Instead, he sat staring up at me, waiting to see what I was going to do next. He was always trying to figure it out before I did. If only I had his talents. But I didn't; I had no clue about what to do next.

I was about to go peek out the window and see if I could see anything—or anyone—moving about, when Shep's ears shot straight up. He turned his attention to the front door and ran to it, barking.

I panicked. “Shep, shut up. Shut up, boy,” I said through gritted teeth, as quietly, but as demandingly, as I possibly could. As usual, the dog paid me no mind. I didn't have the commanding tone that Hank had. All that man had to do was utter a syllable in a deeper than normal voice and Shep would freeze at attention no matter what he'd been doing. I guess I was a pushover.

And now, whatever—or whoever—had gotten Shep's attention, was alerted to the fact that we were inside the house. But I guess if they'd been watching all along then they already knew that . . . didn't they?

Shep continued to bark, then he spun in circles like he always did when someone drove onto the land. I hadn't moved an inch, and I wasn't sure that I was going to be able to unless I had to, so I stood there and strained my ears to hear what the dog heard. And I did hear. At least distantly. A vehicle of some kind had turned off the road and was rumbling toward the house. It was either that or a tornado. I doubted that Shep had a different dance for bad storms. Besides, the sky had been red not green.

I repeated my demand again for Shep to shut up, but he ignored me, actually heightening the pitch of his bark. I knew the only way he was going to quiet down was to let him out so he could see for himself who had trespassed onto his territory without permission.

I sighed and made my way to the picture window that looked out on the road. Slowly, carefully, so I didn't ripple my mother's handmade curtains. I peered out.

A dusty, black, ten-year-old Ford sedan rolled to a stop behind the Studebaker and a familiar man stepped out of it, intent on making his way to the door. I sighed again, only this time in relief. It wasn't a killer, or a bad man set on doing me further harm. The man was Pastor John Mark Llewellyn from the Lutheran Church in Dickinson. And then another wave of stress hit me. I had chicken shit on my shoes from doing chores, and I was sure that I smelled of fear and panic from everything that had transpired since discovering my tires had been slashed. I was in no way ready for—or expecting—company from a man of God. But I was, at the very least, certain that he hadn't come to kill me, though even that was hard to be sure of these days. The truth was, everybody I encountered was likely to find their way onto my suspect list. At least until I, and the rest of the world, figured out why somebody had killed Calla Eltmore.

I took a deep breath, half ashamed of myself for thinking Pastor John Mark could kill someone. He was no more than a gentle boy just a few years out of the seminary. No, I was certain that Pastor John Mark had come to save me in one way or another. And for once, I was grateful for the idea of salvation.

There were five Lutheran churches in town. I never understood the difference between them, and the truth was I suspected that it didn't much matter. My father always said that humans made God a lot more complicated than they needed to. And then he'd say, “All a man has to do is to stand in the middle of a North Dakota wheat field to know he isn't alone in this universe, Marjorie.”

I agreed with him for the most part, but I'd had my own arguments with God long before Hank stepped into a gopher hole. That incident had only deepened the schism. Still, I had to say I was never more relieved to see a man of the cloth on my front stoop than I was at that moment.

The first knock came as I was halfway between the picture window and the door. Shep was spinning so fast that I thought for sure he was going to blend his black and white fur into a permanent gray. He was barking his fool head off, too.

I had just about given up trying to shush him. “Shep!” I yelled. “Be nice!” To my surprise, the dog stopped barking and sat down properly at my ankle without making another sound.

The second knock came as I slowly opened the door. I judged how long it would take for me to slam the door closed and lock it if I felt threatened. I couldn't help myself.

“Marjorie?” Pastor John Mark said. “Are you all right?” His voice was as soft as his sweet blue eyes. If he meant me harm, then there was no escaping it; I was sure of it. Pastor was a tall man, with hair as yellow as the best straw around, and he was lean and fit. He could have muscled his way into the house before I could raise the .22 to fire.

I couldn't answer him. All I could do was shake my head and open the door a little wider to let him inside.

CHAPTER 31

Putting Pastor John Mark Llewellyn on my personal suspect list seemed like the worst kind of sin I could have committed at that moment. He was a calm, serene man, young, but wise in ways I would never understand, and he always seemed happy as a lark. And he should be. He was married to a beautiful girl—well, girl to me—Connie, who was pregnant with their second child. She was the perfect pastor's wife—calm but energetic, comfortable in the shadow of a religious man, and amazingly unfazed by jealousy. Pastor garnered a lot of attention that could be misinterpreted by a less confident woman. Connie Llewellyn seemed completely comfortable in her skin, and every time I had been around her I'd been completely at ease. The two of them took pleasure in building a life in Dickinson after being transferred from another church—his first—in Minnesota. Their firstborn son, Paul Mark, was the spitting image of his father and just as happy. They lived in a well-kept bungalow behind the Redeemer's Lutheran Church just off 10th Street. It was a Free Lutheran affiliation. As far as I knew, everybody in the congregation loved Pastor John Mark. My time in the pew had been sparse since his arrival, so I had been dependent on subtle gossip. Everyone at church hoped Pastor planned on staying on for the rest of his life—but no one believed that he would. A handsome, gregarious pastor like him was bound to be promoted to a larger church at some point in the future. The religious life suited him well, and even though he was fair-haired and fair-skinned, he looked good in black, not faded, pale, or weighed down by the color or the position at all.

“What on earth is the matter, Marjorie?” Pastor asked, as he stepped cautiously inside the house. He glanced down at Shep quickly, I think just to make sure he knew where the dog was, then turned his attention back to me a little more warily.

I could barely form the words to answer him. I knew I must have looked crazed, all disheveled like Medusa, with my work clothes on and the Remington .22 clutched tightly in my hand. All I could do was keep shaking my head from side to side.

“Marjorie,” Pastor said, stopping just inside the threshold, “you're concerning me. Is everything all right?” I didn't blame him for not wanting to come inside the house any farther. He was a trained observer, but it was my guess that he'd never walked into a situation like this before.

As usual, he was dressed head to toe in black, including his perfectly starched shirt. His dog collar was nothing but a white square perched directly and perfectly under his Adam's apple. I was reminded of Pete McClandon's outfit, but Pete didn't emit authentic grace like Pastor did.

“I'm not all right, Pastor. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you.”

“Is something the matter with Hank?”

“Not that I know of. But I wouldn't know. The telephone line's cut.”

“Cut? On purpose? Are you sure, Marjorie?” He looked at me like I was a child prone to making things up. It was a practiced look for such a young man.

“I'm certain of it.” I still had hold of the .22. I wasn't letting go of the rifle just yet. Shep had calmed down. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Pastor since he'd walked in the door, and he sensed, I guess, that Pastor, like Hank, frowned on animals in the house.

“Who would do such a thing?” he asked.

“The same person who slashed all four of my truck tires, that's who.” I was angry and scared and did nothing to hide it.

Pastor swallowed hard. “You're certain of that?”

“As certain as we are both standing here.”

“Did you call the police?”

I glared at Pastor, then realized what I'd done and tried my best to make the look go away. I'm sure the question was just a gut reaction.