Bad Axe County Read online

  Dale has an idea. “Look at those sad bitches. My girl is gonna win. How about you pay the purse? Just add it on.”

  “This is how much, OK?”

  “Winning girl gets two hundred.”

  The noise of the DJ, the men carousing . . . Pepper loses the thread. The drinks are weak, vodka with too much Sunny Delight, but she hasn’t eaten all day. She has goofed her way through round one of the “amateur strip contest.” This already seems like long ago. She remembers jumping around in her bra and panties, doing some kind of weird impromptu fancy-dance/ballet-type moves while men hooted. She sucks at dancing, but she is the only one here with legs. In the finals she will face the bruised-banana chick with the heavy-duty tits that she has yet to release from her harness of a bra. Probably she will lose to those tits, Pepper predicts. Suddenly a guy is yelling wetly into her ear, “You’re a real pretty girl. I like dark. You mixed? You got a little spade in you? You got beaner?”

  His grease-black hands hang like hooks at his side. She’s got Ho-Chunk, Pepper informs him, snapping the rubber band around her wrist. One-quarter German.

  “You got a dick?” His breath wets the side of her face. “That why you’re so athletic?”

  He swings a hand under her skirt, gropes Pepper’s privates for his answer. She snaps the band and keeps her balance. You can’t hurt me. Marie never said don’t come. The Amtrak is only $165 plus tax, and Marie did not say no, don’t.

  But Dale has seen the grope. He sea-monkeys over with his foul mouth running and shoves the guy. The guy shoves back. He asks Dale, “You wanna go? You wanna get down?” Dale launches a head-butt, probably something he learned in prison. They go, they get down, whatever, because Pepper clears the hell out, woozing away too drunk now and wondering all over again why her backpack, why all her stuff in the world, has ended up here, in Dale’s van.

  Some new guy jerks words into her ear. “So, Pocahontas, you like ice fishing? Twenty bucks, you want to see what’s biting?”

  He is short, smells like manure. Pepper looks across the top of his dirty hat and sees a tiny bird flit through the rafters, trapped inside the barn. Her line of thinking continues: Amtrak is only $165 plus tax to Whitefish, and she will need a cab from there. She would like to bring gifts. She snaps the blue band. “Fifty bucks.”

  “Going rate is twenty.”

  “You get what you pay for.”

  “Sweet piece like you, girl, I’ll go thirty.”

  “Forty.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  She heads toward the tents, snapping.

  “You don’t really bite, do you, Pocahontas?”

  “Call me that one more time and you’ll see.”

  * * *

  Sometime later—time drifts—she vomits into the cold slop outside. Back in the barn, she clings to a shadowy space behind the stage and watches the other girls wrestle with the drunken farmers, the road-crew guys, the bikers, and the truck drivers. Her eyes track that little bird—a sparrow, she sees—following its insoluble panic overhead. The outside door opens, again and again. The bird only has to fly through, and away. But it doesn’t understand.

  “I guess I’m riding back to the Dells with yous guys.”

  Surprising Pepper with this announcement is Cotton Candy, the girl with the turtle legs and the dyed-pink hair. The girl’s lip gloss is smeared. Her spine sags. She offers one of two red cups, more vodka and Sunny Delight. Her eyes plead. Pepper’s mouth needs rinsing, so she takes one.

  “But he’s nice, right?” the girl asks.

  “You mean Dale?”

  “He said there’s a place to stay. He takes care of everything.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “And I can make friends.”

  “There’s two other girls, yeah.”

  “I was at the Dells once. We rode the Ducks.”

  “Cool.”

  “My name’s Bailey. Dale says we’re leaving in five.”

  “In five?” Pepper thinks this can’t be right. “But I’m in the final.”

  “ ‘We’re leaving in five minutes so get your shit’ is what he said. This storm, I guess.”

  “And he tells you, not me?” Dully angry, Pepper downs the drink. Now four girls? Packed in that tiny motel room? “Shit. Then I’m gonna use the potty. If you mean by nice, yeah, he’ll stop for the bathroom, but only if he’s the one who needs to go.”

  She squishes through ice-cold drizzle to the portable toilet. She pees and comes back in. Shivering, she holds the door. Come on, out you go. But the sparrow freaks and flits away in the wrong direction.

  Then Pepper cannot find Dale. Cotton Candy is nowhere either. She hurries to the front door. Dale’s old blue van is pulling away.

  What?

  She staggers, flings her hand, catches something slick and cold. She barely stays on her feet as she fights a closing blackness. Her eyes grasp at images, claw for the surface as she goes under: glazed fence posts, boarded-up farmhouse, overarching glitter of tree tops. Then there is engine noise and a horn toot. Headlights ignite a wallowing body—her body—her skirt and legs and boots—but nothing feels like hers.

  “OK, hop in, then, yaw?”

  Pepper shakes her alien head. You can’t hurt me.

  “Here we go. Hippity-hop.”

  He steadies her, the miniman in the brown suit and the rubber overshoes, the one who talked to Dale, who gave her drinks.

  “Off we go. Fair and square.”

  She swims her arms, fighting. You can’t hurt me. He laughs. He opens his passenger door and shoves her and she can’t feel the ground. She feels herself lifted like a little girl. She tries to find her rubber band and snap it. On his car seat, the moment before she blacks out, Pepper sees her backpack.

  18

  Headlights flashed in the sheriff’s mirror. Here came the extra school bus Denise had ordered to speed the transfer of Bad Axe Manor residents from Blessed Savior Lutheran, the bomb threat evacuation site, back to their beds at the manor.

  But the bus was moving too fast. It was aiming for the breezeway of the main building, slapping its windshield with a single frantic wiper. The sheriff slung herself from her cruiser, waving her arms. She intercepted the bus and pounded on its passenger door. Just as she feared, the wild-haired older woman behind the steering wheel, gumming an unlit cigarette, was Belle Kick, Harley’s mom.

  “Belle . . . you can’t clear the breezeway. The bus is too tall.”

  “Who’s watching the kids?” the woman squawked.

  “What do you mean? Harley is.”

  They stared at each other. Belle pulled this gag every time—Who’s watching the kids?—and the sheriff was still falling for it.

  “The bus is too tall for the breezeway, Belle. We have to unload out here.”

  With a sigh Harley’s mother pulled her emergency brake. She had been driving with a lighter in her fist. “Is my grandson OK?”

  “Which? Why?”

  “Did Taylor get over his fever?”

  “Taylor had a fever? When?”

  “Earlier tonight.”

  “Harley told you that?”

  “Who else is he going to tell? Poor guy.”

  The sky shed fat flakes that fluttered crazily between the sheriff and her husband’s mother. Then Belle was out of the driver’s seat and coming down the bus steps, sheltering the cigarette and the lighter against her phlegmy bosom. “Let’s go, people!” she hollered back in at the elderly and infirm struggling up from their seats. “Chop-chop.”

  She continued, “I told Harley to give the kid a shot of whiskey and put an ice cube on his neck. He’ll be fine.”

  The sheriff watched her mother-in-law scurry off, looking for shelter to have a smoke. As she helped folks from the bus, she admitted that Ladonna’s brutal math had worked perfectly: one call, plus no bomb, equaled three hours later. There was no doubt that she had missed the party. She hoped they at least had a list of license plates.

  “There never is a
bomb. It’s always just some jerk.”

  The sheriff put her hand up to see through the snow. The observation had come from a pretty young woman who didn’t have any legs. She sat heavily in a wheelchair that had side pockets containing a water bottle, a laptop, paperback books, binoculars, and a fly swatter. She had just been lowered from a transport van and didn’t seem to notice the snow.

  “It’s always just some guy who didn’t get his homework done. Or somebody who wants to get out of school and party.”

  “You’re right. But we had to check.”

  “Or keep the cops busy. I mean, why else bother us?”

  Now she noticed the snowflakes and put her face up to catch more.

  “By the way, Sheriff Kick,” she said, smiling shyly, “I’ve got your back.”

  “You do?”

  “On social media? When people hate on you?” She displayed her smartphone, in a pink case on a lanyard around her neck. “On Twitter, I’m @groundbeef. Get it?”

  Beaming expectantly at the sheriff, she waited two seconds. “Ground beef? What do you call a cow with no legs?”

  “I don’t . . .”

  Abruptly the sheriff was breathless, punched by a visceral memory of when her own life had become a carnival of self-loathing. For a full half year, after the wrong gun had been returned—not her father’s gun, but no one believed her—she had dreamed of lying down in front of a freight train. Then she had planned it, right down to which train, which spot on the tracks, and which body parts would be severed. Only a worse idea had saved her: use that wrong gun to kill the killer. Steering her mind away from the terrifying memory, she squinted through glassy eyes to read the name tag: Cindy Lemke.

  “Well, thank you, Cindy. But . . . I don’t think you should call yourself that.”

  “I think it’s funny.”

  “Well, thank you. I don’t even look at the social media stuff. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

  “You’re right, it’s mostly not. That Jerry Myad dude? Did you see where he tweeted that you should be hit in the head with a bat? I’m in his sick face every day.”

  The sheriff’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She answered Denise with a lump in her throat. She was suddenly so weary.

  “I’m just wrapping this up. Did we get some names?”

  “You bet we did,” Denise said. “Buddy Smithback just got back from Faulkner’s. The party was breaking up already. They were shooing people home, tipped off by Ladonna, of course. But Buddy nailed it.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “He photographed every license plate there. I’m using DMV records to construct a roster of names. You’re gonna like this, Heidi. All these Ducks Unlimited liars are gonna want to make deals to save their marriages. You’re gonna get all the dirt, everything and everybody—”

  “Just the dark blue van with dealer plates,” the sheriff interrupted as she dropped heavily behind the wheel of the Charger. “He’s the one I want right now. Aggravated battery. Possibly pandering and sexual assault of a minor.”

  “Buddy got a picture of the van just before the guy left. I’ve got the tag number. Those are actually Illinois dealer plates. So I’m logged in to Illinois DMV, waiting. The website says it’s verifying my credentials.”

  To the sound of Denise tapping her keyboard, the sheriff glanced at the Charger’s clock: a few minutes after midnight. She put the car in gear, rolled away into stormy darkness. So where was that girl now? Where were any of those girls?

  She had just paused the Charger at the highway, was watching a snowplow splatter past, deciding that she would now pursue Walt Beavers, see what the old porn-hound-in-the-library could tell her about what happened there, when Denise blurted, “Whoa!”

  “What?”

  “Holy shit. I mean, you know a lot of these guys. And I know all of them. This is a regular Who’s Who of Bad Axe County. But for your information, no Harley Kick on the list.”

  As she exhaled a breath she didn’t know she was holding—of course Harley wasn’t there—the sheriff watched two vehicles approach from the south and pass through her headlights—one red sedan, one black pickup—both drivers properly decelerating for conditions as they entered town. From the north, a semi rumbled down Main Street and accelerated where the street became the highway. But it slowed and turned into the Ease Inn before it reached her.

  “No, I say whoa because there’s a couple county board members here. Real churchy fellas. Pretasky and Glomstad. Wow. Gosh, boys.” Then Denise sighed. “But sorry, Heidi. I’m finally in with Illinois DMV, only to find out those plates were stolen off a vehicle in Wisconsin Dells, probably from some schmuck at the Ho-Chunk Casino.”

  The sheriff listened as Denise attacked her keyboard. A new set of headlights coming from the south abruptly slowed and wobbled, as if the driver had been startled by something and was now indecisive. Every cop knew the moment. The driver was guilty—almost always it was DUI, very frequently also drug possession—and had just seen her cruiser. Denise was saying, “I just sent Dells PD the picture of the plate and the van, see if they know it.”

  Now the headlights retreated erratically, the vehicle swerving in reverse. The sheriff leaned forward in her seat, her foot trembling over the accelerator. The vehicle had backed up all the way to Ten Hollows Road, about to turn off the highway. It was still within the range of her headlights. She was about to get a look at it broadside.

  “Oh, lovely,” Denise went on. “Here’s Ricky Schlitz at the party, here’s Randy Brundgart, all these guys are Rattlers, big heroes in the community, here’s Brandon Delk, here’s Kyle Kumpf—”

  “Got him!” the sheriff broke in.

  “Got who?”

  “Dark blue van. He was northbound on the highway. He saw me and ducked off onto Ten Hollows Road. I’m in pursuit.”

  “Be careful, Heidi. I’ve got nobody even close to helping you right now. And it’s—”

  She cut the call. She put her business lights on, surged the cruiser to the Ten Hollows junction, and turned left. Anticipating her, the driver had switched his headlights off, tried to disappear in the night. But Ten Hollows meant ten hollows, and soon enough he was hitting his brakes on the first steep downhill turn, his taillights blooming in the icy mist.

  She added siren. He put his headlights back on and sped toward the coulee bottom. She followed only fast enough to keep him in visual contact. As an out-of-towner, her librarian-punching pimp wouldn’t know where he was going. There was plenty of nowhere in the coulees. He would make a wrong turn. As she followed, Denise’s warning looped through her mind—no help—but she didn’t want help. Since the Bishops Coulee murders had scrambled her in time, alone was how she wanted to feel, that old dark habit, hidden struggle, her against the world.

  But the driver took all the correct turns. It was almost as if he knew that his best chance was to stay with Ten Hollows Road until it climbed back up and crossed County Highway ZZ. From there, going left on ZZ, he could race her back to the highway junction where the Ease Inn was, get himself buried in the tavern’s busy parking lot, and claim to have been there all along. It was a reckless, low-percentage ploy that had worked for her a few times in her drunk-driving days. This guy was trying it, just like a native.

  Her heart jittered as she coasted the Charger in beneath the Ease Inn’s plaza lights, following the van between the pumps. He squirted around the far side of the parking lot, disappearing briefly. When she caught up, he had snugged the van between two pickups. She came to a stop behind him—

  Shit. The van was maroon. Not blue.

  She shoved the Charger’s door open and stepped out. OK, maroon was close to blue. She took two steps before the door burst open on the driver’s side. The driver’s legs appeared first. She drew her Ruger. “I need to see your hands! Now!” Then his ass came out, his hands still reaching inside. She put two hands to the Ruger and braced herself. Her heart skittered and her eyes stung as they narrowed. She was sure he was reaching fo
r a weapon. Then a beer can fell out, spilling into the slush. The driver lost his grip inside and toppled backward onto his ass.

  Shit. He wasn’t bald or stocky. He was not a pimp. He knew how to run from her because he was a native, Randy Brundgart. Her gut heaved. With a sweat-slick hand she holstered the Ruger. She swung an unsteady boot at the van’s slush-caked rear plates. Shit. Wisconsin. She had come a half second from shooting the Rattlers’ first baseman.

  “Missus Harley! How’s it goin’, girl?”

  As Brundgart crawled in the slush, more bodies lurched from the van. Soon the entire Rattlers infield greeted her in a slur of voices, Scotty Clausen, Wade Gibbs, Sherman Ossie. “Hey, how’s it goin’? What’s the problem? We were here the whole time! Damn, you were gonna shoot Randy!”

  “He was driving intoxicated.” Her voice felt thin and unconvincing. This was not her battle tonight. “He ran from me.”

  “We were here all night!”

  “You were at a stripper party.”

  “Us?” Now amid the blur of faces and voices she heard the tone shift, heard the snickering. “Who, us? What party? We guys? Harley’s buddies? Us?”

  And more. They surrounded her. “Get away from me,” she snarled. She closed them out, slammed her door and sat inside the Charger. This was not her fight tonight.

  Again a massive sense of aloneness overwhelmed her. She had not just fanaticized this time. She had practically hallucinated in real time. Not only had she whiffed on the pimp and failed to extract the black-haired girl, but in drawing a gun on the wrong man, nearly shooting him, she had sideswiped her own past. As she sat there trying to slow herself down, her kill-the-killer mistake swept back in a wave. That shitty little Cobra .38 that Crawford County gave back to her was not her dad’s antique revolver. She was sure. So where had the Cobra come from? She had gone straight to Cecil Mertz, proprietor of Rolling Ground Shooting Range and a black-market gun dealer. Maybe Mertz had sold the Cobra, and maybe he had seen her dad’s heirloom Colt on the market. In other words, maybe Mertz could tell her who had killed her parents. She had been so terribly lost, had been just about to lie down before the midnight ore train out of Duluth, and Mertz, the evil old prick, had toyed with her.