Текст книги "Guest Of Honor: A Novelette"

Автор книги: Mark S. R. Peterson

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GUEST OF HONOR

 

A novelette written by:

Mark S. R. Peterson

Kobo Edition

Copyright 2013 © Mark S. R. Peterson

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Novelette: Guest of Honor

I. King Of Trails

II. The Finer Points of Estate Planning

III. The Maroon Boat

IV. Sandy

V. The Engels

VI. Samantha

VII. Justice

VIII. Vigilante Extraordinaire

Dedication

Afterword

About The Author: Mark S. R. Peterson

 

Bonus Features:

Short Story: "Hatchet Harry"

Excerpt from Thriller "Beholder's Eye"

 

I.

King of Trails

 

A semi rolls on by.  No brake lights.

Not this time, anyway.

Megan Dust is not worried about finding a ride.  Even up here in northwestern Minnesota, sooner or later someone will stop.  They always do.  More than likely, it’ll be a guy, noticing her long tan legs and denim mini-skirt.  In the meantime, she strolls right along the grassy border edging the shoulder, peering south along Highway 75—AKA the King of Trails.  The road is a two-laner that starts out at the Canadian border and cuts along the western edge of Minnesota, straight down to the Iowa border.

Megan grew up about seventy miles south of our neighbor to the north, on a farm near Warren, Minnesota.  They had no animals, yet her father planted whatever crop seemed to be the in-thing.  For the past five or so years, due to a spiked demand for canola, corn had been his crop of choice.

Another semi speeds on by, followed by a line of three cars.

The rear one brakes.

Shit.

It’s a cop.

This is the risk she runs hitchhiking.  Not that she’s doing anything wrong.  She’s eighteen and free to do what she wants.

And right now all she wants to go down to the Twin Cities.

It’s one of the white county deputy cruisers.  It turns around and roars its engine, accelerating back towards her.  Then, just when she thinks the car is going to pass on by, it eases over onto the shoulder and whips around behind her.

Megan steps off into the grass.

The cruiser eases forward and passenger’s side window rolls down.

“Hey, Megan, I thought that was you,” Deputy Phil Cross says.  “What the hell you doing?  Don’t you know that hitching is dangerous, especially dressed the way you are?  Who knows what kind of creep will wanna pick you up.”

She smiles, for she has the type of body that’s been known to palpitate the heart rate of most men she encounters, be it the grocery store clerk or her math teacher or even the local clergy.

She knows hitchhiking is dangerous.  Six months ago there was a concert down in Fargo.  The guy who picked her up was a chatty little shit, talking about how he’d just left his wife who’d been cheating on him for close to twenty years.  Then, he pulled off onto a gravel road.

At first, she thought he was taking a detour, but, as the doors locked and the level of inhabitance dropped dramatically, she knew this wasn’t going to turn out good.  Lucky for her, the passenger’s door didn’t lock properly.  The guy was also extremely overweight and had a heart attack right when she scrambled out and started running away.

“Yeah, I know,” Megan says.  “But then again so is just plain living.  We could all get cancer or be in a car wreck or . . . whatever, we could just die.”

Phil cracks open his door, and waits for a semi to whiz on by before exiting.

He walks around and leans back against the hood.  He crosses his arms.  “I’m sorry about your folks,” he says.

She glances up and down the highway—north, then south.  “I know.”

“I just wish there was something else that could’ve been done.  Anything I can do to help now?  Need any money?”

She shakes her head.  “The auction was this morning.  I’ll be okay.”

Phil’s mouth twists a little, then he unfolds his arms.  “A good turnout, I heard.  I couldn’t make it, on account that I’m working.  I think there was a trailer he owned that I wouldn’t have minded buying.”

He drums his fingers against the hood.

“Everything go?” he asks.

She nods.

The house and farmland still need to be sold though.  I guess I’ll have to make one last trip back up here when the realtor calls me and I need to sign the papers.

“Figured as much.  Where you heading?”

“The Cities.”

“Know what you’re gonna do when you get there?”

Megan likes most cops—especially the ones who’ll let you suck them off to get out of a traffic citation or a minor consumption charge—but there is something about all of them that’s downright annoying: their constant questioning.

Where are you going?

Why are you doing it?

Who are you meeting?

When did you leave?

How are you getting here?

Questions, questions, questions, and more motherfucking questions.

She shrugs.  “Not sure yet.  Just need to get out of here . . .”

She almost says for a while but knows that would just lead to even more questions.

“Wanna ride?” he asks.  “I can take you all the way down to the county line, south of Crookston.  That should save you a bunch of miles.”

A pair of semis roars on by, each heading in opposite directions right on this stretch of highway.  The sudden blast of wind twists her hair in front of her face.  She takes out a band from her pocket, and ties her hair back into a ponytail.  She notes Phil’s roving eyes, imagining the vicious lust cascading in his mind.

He opens the passenger’s door.  “Let me clean the seat off for you,” he says.

On the front seat, there is a briefcase, left open with various citation booklets and forms and other gadgets strewn about inside, as well as an organizer attached to the back of the seat which holds even more gear.

“You really need all that stuff?” she asks.

Phil chuckles.  “Most days all I need is a notebook, my citation book, and maybe an accident form,” he says, shaking his head.  “All the other stuff are for those few times when I need something quick and don’t have the extra forty-five minutes to run back to the office.  I’ve done that once or twice and it sucks.”

He pops the trunk, and places the gear in amongst the already stuffed interior, rearranging things here and there.  He stands back when he’s certain the trunk will close.

“Is that a shotgun?” she asks, pointing at a long rifle case.

“Nope.  We don’t carry shotguns anymore.  That’s an AR-15.”

“Why don’t you carry it up front?”

“Because we don’t need it that often, unless there was a school shooting or some dickhead is holed up in a house with some hostages.”

A semi speeds on by, causing the car to rock a little.

He shuts the lid.

“Hop on in.”

Phil punches the cruiser up to seventy-five.

“Ever shoot anyone?” she asks, thinking back to the rifle in the trunk.

If I can get him talking, the less he’ll ask about me.

He shakes his head.  “Only pulled my gun on someone once.  Which is typical.  Most cops go their entire careers without ever pulling their guns out with the intent to use it.”

“When was that?”

“Honestly, it was about a month ago.  Heard about this guy who’s been killing prostitutes down in the Cities?”

Megan turns, her hands on her lap.  She sees his eyes darting back and forth from the road to her legs—he seems to spend a bit more time on the latter and ends up rolling onto the shoulder, a cloud of dust puffing up behind them.

“Kind of.”

She heard something about it a while back, but no details.  She’s been preoccupied lately with more urgent matters.

“Over the past two years,” he says, “four prostitutes have had their throats slashed.  The first one was in a hotel room, I believe, but the rest were all in alleys and such.  The last one was about a month ago and someone apparently called 9-1-1 with the description of the vehicle.  It was either a black Cadillac or a Lincoln.  Minneapolis PD sent a teletype to all of the law enforcement agencies across the state, and what do you know I see this big black Lincoln ahead of me.  The eyewitness also said there was a bumper sticker on it too, something about if you can read this blah-blah-blah.  Well, this Lincoln also had a bumper sticker: Honk If You Love Jesus.  Or something like that.  He was driving north right on this road here, going exactly fifty-five.

“I radioed in to the dispatcher and gave her the twenty-eight—that’s a license plate, if you didn’t know.  Know what she said?  The car was from Minneapolis.  Holy shit, was my heart beating.  I told her what I thought I had.  She didn’t believe me.  Not at first, anyway.  What were the chances that this guy would be all the way up north here?”

The police band radio squawks, something about a twenty.

Phil releases the mike from the side of the radio receiver and says, “Fifty-two twelve, I’m ten-six with a ten-twelve.  I’m southbound on 75, north of Crookston.”

The radio squawks again.

I don’t see how cops can even understand what they’re saying.  Sounds like gibberish to me.

“No, everything’s ten-two.  Just giving a civilian a ride to the county line.  Got something?”

The radio squawks again, and this time she can hear a ten-this and a ten-that.

“Ten-four,” Phil says, sighing.  “I’ll be there out at the Miller’s in about twenty minutes.”

He eases off of the accelerator.

“Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  I was trying to get someone else to help me in case it all turned to shit, but the closest officer was at least thirty minutes away.  Then, I noticed the license tabs.  I almost didn’t catch it at first because I was so in shock about where the car was from.  His tabs expired just a few days prior.  Holy shit, was I nervous.  I turned on my lights and siren, and it took a good mile or so for him to pull over.  I then got out and drew my gun.  I kept it behind my back.”

“Let me guess.  It wasn’t him.”

“Nope.  It was a preacher, heading on his way to a funeral.  It was the guy’s uncle or something and he was the guest preacher.  I told the guy to get his license tabs renewed when he was back at home.  He was kind of a jerk about it.  I probably should’ve written the guy up, but in all my years of doing this, I’ve never given a preacher a ticket.  I always figured God would probably send me straight to hell if I did.  But, man oh man, he was a jerk.”

Megan crosses her legs.  Once again, his eyes slip on down and he veers over onto the shoulder.

Instead of correcting it, this time he slows down to a stop.  “Sorry about this.  I can’t take you to the county line.  I have a few murders to look into.”

She clutches the seat.

He smiles.  “Sorry.  Mailbox murders.  It’s only property damage, but I still have to write a report on each one.  Seems like there’s about seven or eight that’s been reported in so far.  Will probably have a lot more by the time my shift is done though.  One is a county commissioner’s, so I gotta do that one first.”

“That’s okay,” she says, opening the door.

A semi speeds on around them, rocking the car slightly.

She shuts the door, then eases off into the grass.  She starts walking away, southward, knowing he’s probably looking right at her ass and mentally jerking himself off.

Then, the sudden whine of the power steering and the crunch of gravel indicate that he has gone back to investigate his murders.

 

II.

The Finer Points of Estate Planning

Far south along the horizon are thin trails of smoke, like fingers stretching up to the sky, spewing up from the sugar beet plant in Crookston.

A car coming from the south starts to slow.

Wrong way, buddy.

It’s an older maroon Cadillac—similar to one her grandfather had when she was a kid.  She loved riding in it, pretending the hood ornament was a space gun.  At night, the soft orange-yellow glow of the dashboard illuminated his chiseled features, completing the spaceship ambiance.

The Cadillac passes on by, but continues at a slow pace.

She ignores it.

Before too long, she hears the crunch of gravel right behind her.  She turns.

The Cadillac—its four headlights staring at her like a giant bug—gleams in the bright mid-afternoon light, the white top so pristine it looks like freshly fallen snow.  The driver’s door opens.  A slim, middle-aged man steps out.  He’s wearing a suit, charcoal gray, and a thin matching tie.

“Need a ride somewhere?” he asks.

She shrugs.  “Depends.”

He smiles.  “I have a granddaughter around your age.  She’d be pretty upset with me if I told her I just drove right on by without offering you a ride.”

“What’s your granddaughter’s name?”

“Crystal.  Oh, she has her mother’s eyes, let me tell you.”

A semi roars on by.

“Holy mackerel,” he says, hugging his midsection, “let’s get you off this road.  Hop on in.”

Megan takes one step towards the car, then stops.

Phil said that killer from the Cities had a Lincoln or a Cadillac.  But I think he also said it was black.

“Don’t worry,” the man says.  “I’ll take you where you want to go.  You’ll be safe with me.”

“But you’re going the wrong way,” she says.

He tilts his head.  “How so?”

She points north.  “You’re heading that way.  I’m not.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Twin Cities,” she says before realizing she should’ve lied about it.  “I’m on my way to see my brother and boyfriend.  They’re roommates at the U of M.  My boyfriend is a martial arts instructor.”

He bows slightly.  “I’ll be heading back to the Cities this evening, once my appointment up here is done,” he says.  “I’m an attorney, doing some legal estate work for a farming couple.  So, if you want to ride straight to the Cities, hop on in the Maroon Boat.”

Megan eases back.  “The what?”

“Ha,” he says, clapping his hands.  “My granddaughter Clara calls this the Maroon Boat.  Well, I guess it can feel like a big boat at times.  Please, let me take you where you need to go.  It’d be nice to have company for a change.”

Megan glances up and down the road.  How long would she have to wait to find someone to take her where she wants?  And, of course, right where she wants to go.  Just because her final destination is the Twin Cities, that encompasses a huge area, from the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul and all of the surrounding suburbs, and the chances of finding just one ride there is slim.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Simms,” he says.  “Bart Simms, with two Ms.”

“Who are you meeting?  I might know them.”

“Oh, let’s see,” he says, eyes down, searching for the answer in the gravel.  “The . . . Engels, I believe their names are.  Sam and Judy.  Their names ring a bell to you?”

She shakes her head.

“They own a farm with quite a substantial amount of acreage.  With all the laws Washington puts in place each year, one really needs a top-notch legal mind like myself to keep the government’s hands off your money.  When they pass on, their kids won’t be forced to sell the farm in order to pay the hefty estate tax.  I’ve saved many family farms from being ripped apart.  In any case, if you want to ride, you’re more than welcome to tag along.  If you want to take your chances with someone else, I wish you luck.”

He waits at the front corner of the car for a pair of semis to pass by before strolling back into the car.  As soon as the door shuts and he starts to back up, she holds up a hand.  “Okay, I’ll go.”

 

III.

The Maroon Boat

The cool interior smells of clean, rich leather.

Bart eases the car around and heads back northward, eventually passing the spot where the deputy had dropped her off.

“I thought your granddaughter’s name was Crystal,” she says.

“Pardon me?” he asks, glancing over at her.  She notices that his eyes never stray down at her legs—or any other part of her anatomy, save for her eyes.

“You said before her name was Crystal,” she says.  “Then you said that Clara calls this the Maroon Boat.”

Bart drums his fingers on the steering wheel.  “I have three granddaughters.  My son has a daughter named Molly.  Clara and Crystal are my daughter’s.  She’s expecting her third soon.  If it’s a boy, they’re naming him Shane.  Cindy, if it’s a girl.  So, what’s your story?”

Since she already lied about visiting a fictitious boyfriend and brother, she decides to roll with it as much as possible and prays he doesn’t ask too many personal questions.

“Parents didn’t have much money to buy me a car, so that’s why I’m hitching down to the Cities.”

“Didn’t?  You speak of them as if they’re not around anymore.”

Megan looks out at the familiar countryside.  Although it’s entirely possible she doesn’t know everybody—how can anyone, really?—she doesn’t remember a Sam and Judy Engels.

There’s a Julie and Robert Engels, but they don’t own a farm.  They live just west of Warren.  I think she’s a nurse and he drives truck.

“Yeah,” she says, “they died recently.  Last month.  A car accident.”

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry,” he says.  “Was there anyone else involved?  I know someone in our firm who specializes in accidental injury laws.  I could have him-”

“No, that’s okay,” she says.  She picks up her backpack from the floor.  “There wasn’t anyone else.  Just them.”  She takes out her cell phone.

“Prepare for right turn in point-five miles.”

“Ah, we’re getting closer,” he says, patting the top of his GPS.  He sighs.  “Almost thought I’d never make it.  It’s nice up here, but there’s still a whole lot of nothing.  Sorry, I know you grew up here.  Where was that?”

“South of Warren.”

“That a town?”

She nods.

“Farmers?”

“Yup.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, did they have all of their affairs in order?  I could help you out, pro bono, if you need anything.”

In one of the inside pockets of her backpack are two business cards: one for a local accountant and the other for an attorney in East Grand Forks.

I need to call them Monday morning, now that the auction is done.  The house and farmland still need to be sold though.

“No, that part turned out okay,” she says.

He turns down a gravel road, but soon stops.

“Hope we don’t meet anyone,” he says.  The road is so narrow, if the Cadillac had a twin and is parked side-by-side, both would need to be off in the ditch in order to achieve such a feat.  “Do you think it’s safe?”

Having been on roads such as this all her life, she doesn’t quite see what the worry is.  “Should be.”

He smiles, his gaze still never wavering downward.  “I trust you . . . my Lord, I don’t even know your name.”

“Megan,” she says.

He holds out a hand.  “Nice to meet you, Megan.”

She shakes his hand.  It’s warm and smooth, and has probably never seen any form of manual labor, save for shuffling papers.  Most of the men around here have rough hands—hands that can change oil on a car, pound a nail, or even dig a ditch.

They pass by a few farmhouses and a field of two-foot tall corn stalks before coming upon a grove of dense woods.

As the GPS soon tells him to take a left here, then another right, Megan punches the web browser app on her phone.  She searches for Bart Simms in Minneapolis.  Due to their remote location—she only has one bar of signal—it takes several seconds before Google displays its results.

One of the top searches brings her to a law firm in Minneapolis.  She punches the link for the firm.

For what feels like a full minute later, the website appears.  It’s not mobile-friendly, so she has to spread her fingers over the screen in order to enlarge the pictures.  Sure enough, under the heading of ESTATES, she sees one Bart Simms.

The picture was probably taken years ago when he had less gray hair and was maybe fifty pounds heavier, but there’s no mistaking it.

She heads back to Google.

She searches for Minneapolis, murder, and prostitutes, receiving a lot of results regarding fictional crime books set in the Twin Cities, until she spies a link for one called the Twin Cities Crime Blogger.

She punches the link.  She scrolls down and soon finds a blog post, close to a month old, titled: “Another Dead Prostitute.”

“So, what did happen to your parents?” Bart asks.  “If it’s too personal, I understand.  Lord knows I’ve had enough people in my life pass on.”