See Also Murder (29 page)

I didn't wait for him to say anything else. I made my way to the other side of the car and inspected it as closely as I had the driver's side. When I got to the end of the rear fender, I hadn't seen anything to alarm me. Not a bullet, a scratch, or what might have looked like fresh paint. Unless Curtis Henderson was an expert at body work, it didn't look like this was the car that chased after me, that I'd shot at.

I was only mildly relieved. “Not it,” I said as I made my way past Guy Reinhardt.

I'm sure I looked like a crazed moose, dressed in funeral clothes, a .22 clutched in my hand as I made my way back to Curtis Henderson. I didn't care, to be honest.

“Come on,” I said, as I passed the extension agent. “Let's go see Hank.”

I glanced over my shoulder as I made my way into the house and saw Guy staring at me like it was the first time he'd ever seen me. And he might have been right about that. This was a new side of myself, even to me.

Shep circled around Henderson and barked as the extension agent followed me into the house. To his credit, the new recruit didn't flinch when the border collie nipped at his heels. He wasn't afraid of the farm dog at all.

I was glad to put the Remington back where it belonged. Hank's eyes followed my every move, but he said nothing, just waited. I was sure he had heard most everything through the open windows, and I knew he was tracking the extra set of footsteps with his finely tuned ears—compensation for his blindness that showed itself in the early days after bringing him home from the hospital.

“So,” Hank said, “you're Lloyd Gustaffson's replacement?”

Curtis Henderson had stopped at the door. I had cleaned the room of the night's bodily functions, but there was a sterile odor that hung in the room no matter how wide the window was open. I had grown accustomed to the smell of sickness in my house, but judging by the look on Henderson's face, it was much stronger than I thought it was.

“Well, yes, I am, Mr. Trumaine.” Henderson stepped forward, and tried to wipe the disgust off his face with a half-hearted smile.

“Call me, Hank.”

I stood back, next to the door, and allowed Henderson to approach the side of the bed. He sat his briefcase down and fidgeted with his hands, unsure of what to do with them. One thing was for sure: he had manners, was formal, seemed to have been raised right. It was his natural inclination to want to shake Hank's hand. He stared at it, lying there motionless, then turned to me. I just shook my head no and tried to convey that it was all right with a look, but Henderson didn't seem to understand. I guess he wasn't a mind reader like Lloyd Gustaffson had always seemed to be. Lloyd always seemed to know what we needed before we knew we needed it—like indexing work.

“Sorry, I can't stand up,” Hank said. He tried to smile, but it was lost in the discomfort of the moment.

“It's okay,” Henderson said.

I let my gaze fall to Hank's face. The tension had not left him; he was as tight as a freshly tuned guitar string.

Henderson looked back at me. “Ma'am?”

“I'm not leaving. I don't care what you have to say. Hank can only do so much now. If Lloyd Gustaffson passed something on to you that concerns this farm, then I'm going to have a say about it, too. I need to know why you're here, Mr. Henderson.”

“Marjorie,” Hank interjected before the extension agent could say a word.

I knew the tone; it was a directive to leave the business of the farm to the men in the room. The tone was intended to put me in my place, and, after all I had been through in the last few days, I was in no mood to be put there. “No, Hank. I'm sorry, I'm staying to hear what Mr. Henderson has to say, and that's that. Mr. Henderson?”

He looked at me, suddenly sad-eyed. “I hope you'll come to call me Curtis, someday.”

“We'll have to see about that, won't we?” I snapped. Hank turned away and cocked his head as far as he could toward the open window.

Henderson sighed, opened the briefcase, and grabbed up an official- looking piece of paper. “I'm sorry to tell you, Hank, that the Air Force is not going to build the new radar station on your land. They have rejected your proposal.”

It was like I couldn't process what I had just heard. Along with the missile silos that the Air Force was building, mostly around Fargo and Minot, they also needed radar to track outgoing nuclear bombs. Incoming missiles, too, I supposed. This was a different war than the one that Herbert Frakes and the boys of his generation had fought. I could barely breathe at the revelation. I had never considered a government site on our land. It wouldn't be our land anymore. My house, the only life I had ever known would be changed, gone forever. Anger boiled in the tips of my fingers.

“Hank?”

He turned his head back so that he was staring up at the ceiling, away from my hard, questioning gaze. “It was for you, Marjie. Lloyd and I thought it would be best to get out from underneath the burden of the land. We can't keep up with it. Especially now, without the help of the Knudsen boys. It was all I could do to make sure you'd be all right.”

I exhaled deeply as I watched Hank fight off the emotion of loss, of fear, of regret. He didn't have the strength to face the battle. A tear slipped down his cheek and wetted the fresh, white sheet with a brief puddle.

CHAPTER 33

I felt sorry for Curtis Henderson, caught on the edge of more tragedies than he knew how to handle, but I was glad to see him go. A hint of his aftershave—Old Spice, most likely a college graduation gift from his grandfather—lingered after him but didn't last long. One of the pleasures of the constant wind was that it pushed things away quickly—sometimes too fast, other times not fast enough.

I had no time with Hank alone. As the extension agent was leaving, the Knudsens' red International Harvester pulled past the front gate and onto the drive like it had so many times before. An ordinary sight that was forever changed.

I wouldn't have yelled at Hank anyway. Honestly, I didn't know what to say to him at that very moment. It was all too much. I had lost the best parts of him, my two dearest friends, and any feeling of peace and security I might've had, all in a short period of time. I could hardly fathom losing the farm, too, selling it to the government, or otherwise leasing it for an eternity. Just like Hank, I had planned on living on the farm for the rest of my life, dying in our house at a very old age. No matter what happened, I would make do, survive. It was what we did. Or, at least that was what I had always thought and believed—until now.

Regardless of the arrival of the Knudsen boys, I couldn't contain myself. The urge to say my piece was too strong to restrain. I rushed back to the bedroom with words burning on the tip of my tongue. “You had no right, Hank Trumaine. No right, at all.”

Hank didn't answer. Didn't flinch, just stared at the ceiling and pretended that he wasn't there. Which might have been the truth of it for all I knew.

A knock came at the door. I waited for an answer from Hank, but none came. “We're not finished with this,” I said, then turned to leave. “You just can't . . .” I stopped, conscious of the volume of my voice, of the height of my emotions.

Thunder followed my feet, and Shep opted not to greet the guests; he stayed back, as close to Hank as he was allowed, wagging his tail in short, nervous sweeps. He knew the sound of the red International Truck as well as he knew the sound of Hilo's truck. There was no reason to be alarmed about anything—except my actions, my words.

I opened the door with a hard yank and found myself staring at another sad face.

Distantly, weakly, Hank finally answered—when I was at the very edge of earshot. “Yes, we are,” he said.

I heard his words and turned back to the bedroom quickly, riled more than I already was, but unable, or unwilling, to say anything else, to continue the argument in front of one of the Knudsen boys. If they'd ever seen Hank and I cross with each other, it would've been a faint memory. We didn't share our differences with anyone on purpose, and I wasn't going to start now.

Jaeger looked at me, his misshaped face long and dark, reflected by the graying sky overhead. The suit he wore only added to my perception of the heavy cloud that engulfed him. It was a black three-piece outfit that looked a size too small and smelled of mothballs.

Jaeger leaned on the doorjamb, using it to hold himself up. “I came to load up Hank,” he said, his words falling, broken before they reached the stoop.

I looked past Jaeger, to the truck, expecting to see Peter making his way toward the house, but my expectations were not met. There was no sign of Peter Knudsen. Instead, a girl sat in the truck, in the middle of the bench seat, next to the steering wheel, like she had been sitting as close to Jaeger as she could.

Jaeger followed my outward gaze. “Betty Walsh,” he said. “We got back together last night.” Something flickered across his face, and I wasn't sure what that something was until I saw that Jaeger's shirt was buttoned up out of order, his tie thrown around his neck, lipstick smudged on his collar, like someone had tried to wipe it away. There was nothing I could say to him. I didn't blame him for needing comfort of some kind. I just hoped he had been careful—even though careful had probably been the last thing on his mind.

“Hank said he asked Peter to come along,” I said, furrowing my brow.

Jaeger nodded. “He had to run a few things into town, to the funeral home. I can handle this. It's the least I can do for you both.”

I didn't say anything, just stood there taking in the sky and the sight of Jaeger in the dimming light. The day was off, out of kilter already. I was surrounded by waning light instead of a waxing light. Despair instead of promise. The weather was changing. The string of recent perfect days looked like it was about to break. Clouds had begun to metastasize on the distant horizon, rising tall out of the ground like granite mountains thrust upward from a fiery, angry earth. It was a faraway storm and would either gain speed as it moved east, toward us, or push south, leaving us with nothing but a stronger wind than we had now to deal with. I hadn't listened to the radio to know what to expect for the day. Rain had been the farthest thing from my mind.

“We'll have to prop Hank up in the cab,” I said.

Jaeger nodded again, slowly. “Done it before, Miss Marjorie. Hank's no trouble.”

“If you say so.” I didn't wait for a reply, just spun around and went back inside the house. It was time to go. There was nothing I could do to stop the clock.

I could feel Jaeger's uncertain eyes on the back of my neck, like he didn't know what to say and was surprised by my tone concerning Hank. I guess my ire was the last thing he needed to see, and I felt bad for causing him discomfort, but I was in no mood to explain myself to Jaeger Knudsen, or anyone else for that matter. Hank had left me out of a life-changing decision, and I was put off as much by that as everything else that had happened over the past few days. Maybe more so.

Jaeger secured the wheelchair in the bed of our truck, and Hank was strapped into the front seat tight enough so that he sat up straight as a board. His head was bound with a belt, pinning him in, so it couldn't move from one side to the other willy-nilly. He could just face forward—which was fine by me. I didn't care if he looked at me at all.

He remained quiet on the ride into Dickinson. I didn't push anything; it wasn't the time to sling an arrow into the battle. We had mutually, silently, agreed to a ceasefire, to settle this matter in the privacy of our own home when the time was right. We had other things to do. Sad things.

I looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of my own pale eyes and makeup too thin to mask the reality of our situation. I had my normal needs stuffed in my purse, along with the index I'd created since the murders started—just in case I needed to add something— and my Salems, of course.

Jaeger followed close behind us—close enough that I could see Betty Walsh nearly sitting in his lap. I wondered how he could drive with her all over him.

I pursed my lips without intention, then sighed as I realized that I was jealous. I was jealous of their youth, of their possibilities, of their future—even under the vile circumstances of the moment, driving to the funeral home to the visitation for both of his dead parents. Jaeger Knudsen and Betty Walsh still had their whole lives in front of them. I couldn't help but envy that.

Beyond Jaeger's truck, I could see the front end of Guy Reinhardt's police car, bringing up the rear of our little caravan. In the end, it had taken both men to get Hank situated in the truck comfortably and safely. Jaeger had been all thumbs.

The moody gray sky followed after Guy. I was still uncertain of what it would unleash, but there was no doubt that the result wasn't going to be butterflies and rainbows. At least not at first. We'd have to go through
something
before that happened. It was just a matter of what that something was.