ALSO BY STEVEN W. HORN
The Pumpkin Eater:
A Sam Dawson Mystery
Another Man’s Life
Cheyenne, Wyoming
www.granitepeakpress.com
© 2015 Steven W. Horn. Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the publisher. Request for permission should be submitted to Granite Peak Press, P.O. Box 2597, Cheyenne, WY 82003, or email: info@granitepeakpress.com.
Granite Peak Press
www.granitepeakpress.com
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This book is a work of fiction. All references to real people, actual events or places must be read as fiction. The characters in this book are creations of the author’s imagination. The dialogue is invented.
First printing 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9835894-9-5
LCCN: 2015944683
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FOR TRAPPER
Table of Contents
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 7:15 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:01 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:05 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:19 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:30 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:36 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:38 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 8:45 A.M.
CLINTON, IOWA—1921
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 10:55 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 3:44 P.M.
CLINTON, IOWA—1921
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 4:18 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 1, 10:45 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 3:33 A.M.
WATERTOWN, SOUTH DAKOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 6:57 A.M.
WALKER, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 8:56 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 9:02 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 9:18 A.M.
CLINTON, IOWA—1925
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 9:43 A.M.
ULYSSES, KANSAS—1933
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 9:45 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 11:35 A.M.
CLINTON, IOWA—1955
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 11:50 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 11:52 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 11:55 A.M.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—1933
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 11:58 A.M.
SPIRIT LAKE, IOWA—1934
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 12:51 P.M.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 1:09 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 1:22 P.M.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—1935
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 1:23 P.M.
CLINTON, IOWA—1926
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 1:30 P.M.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 7:00 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 2, 11:15 P.M.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—1935
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 3, 7:05 A.M.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—1935
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 3, 7:46 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 4, 11:01 A.M.
CINCINNATI, OHIO—1935
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 5, 8:15 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1935
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1935
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 5, 9:04 A.M.
BEMIDJI, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 5, 1:45 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1935
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 6, 8:00 A.M.
MISSION, TEXAS—1935
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 7, 7:15 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 7, 7:50 A.M.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 7, 2:20 P.M.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 8, 8:37 A.M.
MISSION, TEXAS—1936
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 8, 9:00 A.M.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 8, 11:19 A.M.
MISSION, TEXAS—1936
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 7:16 A.M.
NATCHITOCHES, LOUISIANA—1937
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 7:24 A.M.
BOONE COUNTY, IOWA—1936
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 7:33 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 7:50 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1956
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 7:53 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1956
WALKER, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 8:42 A.M.
EMPORIA, KANSAS—1936
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 9, 8:50 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 6:31 A.M.
MAQUOKETA, IOWA—1936
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 7:18 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1936
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 9:00 A.M.
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS—1936
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 9:10 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 10:00 A.M.
OGALLALA, NEBRASKA—1941
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 10:11 A.M.
BOONE, IOWA—1949
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 3:42 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1949
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 4:01 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 10, 4:15 P.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 11, 6:27 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 11, 7:52 A.M.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 11, 8:27 A.M.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007: DAY 15, 8:12 P.M.
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
The noise grew louder, a low rumbling punctuated with an occasional shout. There were no children’s or women’s voices. It was a man-crowd. The volume intensified.
“Sounds like a logging truck on a foggy morning,” Rubber Man said, pursing his lips over his toothless gums.
“More like a lynch mob to me. The kind that took my pappy when I was a young’n’ in Mississippi,” William said matter-of-factly. He rose from his kneeling position near the turnbuckles that kept the ring ropes taut.
The first figure dashed into the intersection at the far end of Main Street, then another, and suddenly an entire swarm of writhing humankind, jumping and shouting, loose around the edges and tight in the middle. Arms were held high in the midst of the throng of dark clothes and fedoras as everyone pushed their way toward the center. Clamorous but coordinated, the mass turned left and flowed slowly down Main Street toward the midway of O’Brien’s Wonders of the World Travelling Show.
“Jesus jumped-up Judas Priest,” Doc O’Brien whispered slowly when he spotted the mob heading toward them. He pulled the ever-present cigar butt from his lips; his mouth remained open. “What the hell is that?”
At first it appeared that the crowd was carrying something large high above them. But as the mass moved closer, the details snapped into focus.
“What is it, Doc?” Curly Martin, the carnival’s advance man, said, squinting into the sun low on the horizon. “Some guy on stilts?”
“A giant,” Doc said. “It’s an honest-to-God giant.”
“What’s he carrying?”
“Trapper—somebody find Trapper!” Doc shouted without taking his eyes from the approaching spectacle.
“What’s he carrying?” Curly repeated.
“Railroad ties. He’s carrying railroad ties, new ones, one on each shoulder. Trapper!” Doc shouted. “Where’s Trapper? William, fetch me the megaphone.”
“Just ’cause I’m a Negro and work for ya, don’t mean I’m your boy. What do you say, boss?”
Doc stared at him for a moment, unbelieving. “Please, damn it, fetch me the megaphone.”
“That’s better,” William said as he turned and trotted toward Doc’s trailer.
“What’s he carrying railroad ties for?” Curly said, pushing his hat back on his head and scratching above his ear as the crowd slowly advanced.
“How the hell should I know?” Doc shot back. “Because he can, that’s why. Trapper!” he shouted again.
The giant approached from the west. The crowd’s noise contrasted with the ear-ringing silence that had settled over the mildewed tents of the carnival midway. Incoherent whispers of disorder drifted among the amusements. They were carried on the mist of dust particles that rose and bent with the waves of heat escaping the bruised canvas. Raw-boned carnival workers stood silently, their gaunt bodies wet from last-minute preparations; their heads cocked, they listened. Operators, talkers, shills, and roughies faced west. Cigarettes hung limply from parched lips; eyes amid weathered faces squinted into the late afternoon sun setting behind the worn-out Minnesota town. There was anticipation.
“Jesus jumped-up Judas Priest,” Doc whispered again, the cigar butt clenched in the side of his mouth. He stepped toward Curly. “I thought you told me this town was wide-open.”
“I took care of it, boss—the town marshal, the mayor. I even bought off the ole hen that rules the local temperance roost.”
“What about the thumpers?”
“I didn’t miss a trick, boss. All we got is mackerel snappers and Lutherans. The priest was an easy mark. But I had to tell the Kraut there was no kootch show and contribute to their building fund. The rest of the townies were chumps. The place is greased, I tell ya.”
“Trapper!” Doc yelled, his voice desperate.
Hans Rudolf Gottlieb—“Trapper”—moved easily through the maze of motionless workers and tangled moorings that established both the ring and the tent protecting it. His calfskin wrestling shoes, with the laces tied together, were draped over his shoulder. He was a handsome man, almost baby-faced with a full head of light brown hair slicked back in a pompadour. At a distance he did not stand out; he melded into crowds. But up close, it was easy to see why he was one of the toughest carnival wrestlers in the country.
“Strike the sidewalls of the ring tent!” Doc yelled. “Now!” he screamed. “Get all the canvas away from the ring. That mob will tear this center joint to hell and back.” Turning back toward the cheering crowd he found Hans standing at his side, also looking toward the oncoming mob. Doc stared at Hans’s cauliflower ears, chiseled features, and nineteen-inch neck. “What do you think, Trap?”
“He’s over eight feet, maybe four hundred pounds or better,” Hans said without looking at Doc. “Those ties weigh more than three hundred pounds apiece and those leather tie saddles strapped to his shoulders add another hundred pounds.” He paused, then added matter-of-factly, “He’s strong.”
“Jesus jumped-up Judas Priest. I hate these godforsaken logging towns with all their blonde-headed Norman, Norse, Scandinavian fish eaters. The whole town reeks of lutefisk.”
William suddenly appeared, slightly out of breath, and handed the megaphone to Doc, who took it without taking his eyes from the crowd. “What do you say?” said William.
Doc looked at him with astonishment. “Oh, where are my manners? Thank you, William.”
“You’re welcome.”
The noise had reached a fevered pitch as fists full of dollars were thrust toward the odds makers who flanked the giant, pencils furiously recording on notepads. The glint of brown beer bottles and quart jars of moonshine flashed in a kaleidoscope of moving bodies.
“They’re going to tear this place apart and the cops are going to let them.” Doc stared again at Hans, measuring him. “You’re paid to win. I’ll sell you like chattel to another show if you ever lose, but I’m thinking this one time, it might be best if you take a fall.”
Hans looked at him from beneath eyebrows of scar tissue and smiled. “They’re going to tear this place apart regardless of who wins.”
Doc said nothing for a moment and then a smile slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Then kick his ass,” he said as he brought the megaphone to his lips. “All carnies, listen up!” he shouted, turning toward the workers. “Save what you can and retreat to camp. Protect yourselves and nothing else. They’ll most likely stay in the midway. If they follow, scatter into the woods and regroup here at dawn. Don’t give the authorities anything to charge us with. I want out of this town. I need the ring crew to stay behind with Trapper. All right, people, let’s move.”
“How do you want to play this, Doc?” Hans said, unbuttoning his shirt.
“I’m figuring the longer you keep him in the ring, the more worked-up the crowd will get. Put him down early and you might take some of the wind out of their sails. Two out of three falls will just drag it out and get them more agitated.” He looked squarely into Hans’s intense green eyes and smiled. “You’ll be Jack the Giant Killer for the rest of the season. We’ll pack the house in every stinkhole from here to Hannibal.”
“And if I lose?”
“You’ll be standing in line at a soup kitchen in Des Moines. You can come visit me at the poor farm on weekends. Get your shoes on. I’ll try to pitch ’em and do the outside talking, but I doubt we’ll get anybody to buy a ticket. If we get separated, we’re scheduled to play Fargo next Friday. Good luck, Hans.”
Hans offered a half-smile. Doc O’Brien only called him by his given name when he was drunk or dead serious.
The crowd numbered close to three hundred, an impressive figure for Deep Lake. Saturday-night lumberjacks and farmers blowing steam from a week’s worth of dragging logs and picking rocks. They sounded mean.
“Yawza, yawza, yawza!” Doc yelled into the megaphone as the tip of the throng started up the midway. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He dragged out each syllable and then realized there was neither in the crowd. “Step up. Don’t crowd.” He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. “Don’t crowd? What the hell am I saying?” he said softly to himself. He glanced toward his trailer and saw Madame Marguerite watching from the doorway. He tipped his hat, and she turned and disappeared inside, shutting the door behind her.
Hans twisted from side to side as he stretched his torso in the far corner of the ring. He had shed his shirt and dungarees and stood bare-chested in his high-waist wrestling tights. He wore his trademark, snug-fitting, black leather hood and mask; his eyes appeared large, catlike. Broad, square shoulders and huge, bulging biceps helped shape the massive V that defined his chest.
Hans’s attention was drawn to a distant figure standing in front of a storefront whose sign read “Thor’s Trim, Cut, and Shave Barber Shop.” The barber’s white smock was illuminated against the dark mass that flowed down the sidewalk and street. Hans stared at him, captivated by the contrast—a white pebble on a black beach.
TIMBERLANE COUNTY, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 7:15 A.M.
Them are good eats,” the waitress said, nodding toward Sam’s plate. She was thin and anemic-looking with recessed, dark eyes.
Sam struggled to not correct her grammar. “Those are,” he said, gently pushing the remainder of his breakfast away from him. “Could you please scrape what’s left into a doggie bag for my traveling companion?” Sam motioned with his thumb toward the antique vehicle parked in the gravel lot just outside the window. An aging billboard with a giant northern pike leaping from a reed bed, a red-and-white daredevil spoon hooked in its lower jaw, loomed over the restored 1953 Willys Station Wagon and 1958 Airstream Bubble. Sam’s dog, L2, sat rigidly in the passenger seat of the Willys, staring at him. A glistening strand of saliva stretched from her mouth to her shoulder.
The vintage rigs had been expensive distractions purchased with the proceeds from the sale of his perfectly good Winnebago motor home. He had spent several years and much of his savings restoring them. He found the Willys near Encampment, Wyoming, in the Sierra Madres, a “For Sale” sign on the windshield. The old prospector who sold it to him claimed it came from an abandoned mine near timberline. The vehicle identification number had been removed and there was no registration or title, but Sam paid the fees and filed the applications and was now the proud owner of America’s first SUV. He found the Airstream in Laramie. The elderly woman he bought it from was the original owner of the two-hundred-fifty-eighth Airstream Bubble to come off the assembly line. Sam had meticulously restored the fifteen-foot trailer to its original specifications even though the absence of air-conditioning, refrigeration, and a shower were an inconvenience. He liked seeing America from the back roads at speeds below sixty.
The waitress looked at him with total indifference, obviously not impressed by either the rig or the dog. The right side of her nose was inflamed from the tiny diamond stud that had been rudely punched through her nostril. “What kind of dog is that?”
“The hungry kind.”
“No, what kind is it, really?”
“Bloodhound.”
She turned and disappeared into the kitchen, apparently satisfied with her feigned interest and obligatory customer relations. She knew the tip would be between one and two dollars.
Sam sipped the dregs of his coffee and looked above the rim of his cup at L2. It was hard to believe she would be seven years old in a few weeks. It seemed like yesterday that Annie had surprised him with a puppy, a replacement for Elle, who had been struck down in her prime. L2 was still with him, but Annie was gone. He missed her. Neither spoke of Colorado and the trauma they had experienced there, nor of the love they had shared in Iowa. They still talked on the phone, but it was becoming more infrequent. She usually started the conversation with “Jeez O’Pete, Sam, do you know what time it is?” The last time he called, Mark answered. Sam heard a muffled “It’s that old guy, your cousin” as Mark called Annie to the phone. The age difference had been a minor issue, he believed, but the genetic relatedness was like a bucket of cold water thrown on copulating dogs. “It’s just too creepy” was her final proclamation. Coitus interruptus was the story of his life, both romantically and professionally. At forty-four he was still alone, had no close friends, had spent most of his savings, and would rather sleep than work.
Minnesota had not been his idea. Sam’s vision of taking pictures of dead trees—snags, in remote high-altitude settings had not panned out. The boxes of unsold books in the publisher’s warehouse were a painful reminder of the public’s fickle taste. He resented the fact that his customers did not share his appreciation for the beauty of nature. His loyal alpine imagery fans had bought a few books and he had sold a few calendars in the usual venues, but not enough to pay the bills. He believed the real issue was the public’s fascination with electronic readers and the increasing obsolescence of books, especially expensive coffee table books. Pat, his publisher, had insisted the market was still ripe for Sam’s pictorials of obscure cemeteries, especially in the Midwest.
He had done the fall shots in southeastern Minnesota along the Mississippi drainage. The hardwood colors had been spectacular from Red Wing to Winona. The winter had been dry in the southern part of the state. He had captured the starkness of small-town cemeteries from Moorhead to Mankato, grain elevators hovering over abandoned rail spurs in the background. Small towns on the verge of an uncertain death clung to their agrarian roots, hunkered down against the scouring wind and unpredictable economy. He knew how to find cemeteries around farm towns, but as Sam worked his way north in search of snow for the winter shots, he felt the anxiety of uncertainty descend on him. At the same time, he worried about pulling the Airstream on slick roads. His weight distribution hitch made the Willys squirrelly unless it was in four-wheel drive. Duluth’s cold wind off of Superior turned him westward. The thought of International Falls’ boreal chill blunted his northward advance, and he decided to finish the seasonal shots that Pat demanded somewhere between Grand Rapids and Bemidji. Looking past the parking lot with the giant jumping pike, the small green highway sign read “Deep Lake 1 Mile.” It had started to snow.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 8:01 A.M.
The external world was silent. Hans preferred to be deaf. It allowed him to hear the past better, to see it better too. He could visit years gone by without sleeping and he liked it. The past was familiar; he took refuge there.
Leafless trees reached into a gray sky that rested heavily on the tiny greenbelt just south of Whispering Pines Care Center. Paper birches, their black-and-white trunks in Morse code patterns, silently telegraphed unknown messages to each other. Black spruce provided contrast—dark pyramids that braced for the snow beginning to fall.
Hans’s aged eyes appeared glassy and small, the morning cold biting at their corners. His dry lips trembled as they parted in an expression of recognition. He heard them first, a distant murmur, unintelligible vocalizations of an ancient species. Lifting his eyes, he saw them coming. The agitated mob flowed toward the ring tent, a restless serpentine mass that was both beautiful and foreboding. At its center the giant appeared unaffected by the weight of the railroad ties he carried above the heads of the agitated mass. It had been seventy-four years, but Hans could see him clearly. The world was no longer silent. He was young again. He focused intently through the gray clouds of cataracts and time. The odor of hot canvas from so long ago reassured him.
They could not see Hans. He peered out of the eyeholes of his mask, hidden behind a curtain of leather; the executioner’s identity was secure. The filling and flushing of his lungs was rhythmic, keeping cadence with the dull resonance of his heart buried deep in his chest. He felt the warm tingle of blood rushing to his extremities as he stared at the giant. All else faded around him. The transformation was complete. He had become Trapper. Without rising from the park bench, he turned his time-worn body stiffly to the west and gazed into the past.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 8:05 A.M.
Has anyone seen Hans this morning?” Aimee Pond, the nursing supervisor, asked as she approached the nursing station from the south hall of Whispering Pines Care Center. The chest-high counter that separated the station from the three long hallways and common visitor’s area was covered with flowers. Pots wrapped with colorful foil and vases with bright ribbons were lined up atop the counter. Aimee thought it interesting that the nurses and staff so easily disposed of human remains but could not discard the flowers that arrived with the news of death. Their combined fragrance caused her stomach to roll in the mornings and did little to mask the stench of death and dying. The large flat screen TV, sound muted, flashed above the homey-looking common area. The crawl across the bottom of the screen declared President Bush’s troop surge in Iraq a success while California wildfires still burned out of control.
“He’s not in his room?” Taneesha Jeter asked in a falsetto voice. The rotund nurse’s aide did not look up from the tray of tiny white paper cups in which she was placing the morning allocation of meds that sustained the Whispering Pines residents.
“Gone again,” Aimee said matter-of-factly.
“Where does that old man go?” Taneesha said, shaking her head. “You want that I should call security?”
“Security won’t go after him anymore. Administration threatened to fire them if they turned in any more workers’ comp claims. Let’s wait until I’m done with my rounds, then we’ll find him.” She looked out the window at the light snow fluttering in the air. “He’s probably at the greenbelt again, staring across the bike path. He acts as if he’s waiting for someone.”
“Did I tell you he spoke to me yesterday?” Taneesha said.
“Really? That’s rare,” Aimee said, looking up from her chart. “What’d he say?”
“When I walked into his room carrying some towels, he lifted his head and said, ‘William?’”
“That’s it? That’s all he said? Who’s William?”
“Got me. Do I look like a William to you?” She paused. “You best be careful in how you answer that.”
Aimee was used to the incoherent ramblings of patients with dementia. They were sincere, often enthusiastic in their pronouncements and wanted her to share their excitement. But there never seemed to be any context, just random statements without relevance. More frequently, she believed her life was equally without history or direction. Sometimes she imagined herself slumped forward in a wheelchair pointing a bony finger at an imaginary participant, profane words spilling from her mouth like a toilet overflowing—all the things repressed from a lifetime of disappointment rolling out of her mouth for the world to hear.
Aimee attempted a smile but knew it came out as a sigh. Strong coffee and estrogen replacement, she told herself, made it possible for her to show up every day. She looked at the calendar, another picture of a loon looking beady-eyed below the bold numerals “2007.” She was beginning to hate loons, wolves too. One thousand seven hundred and thirty-six days until retirement. She mentally put a dark X through Monday and then glanced at the clock above the counter. Another loon graced the clock’s face. The administrator and, it seemed, most of Minnesota had a thing for the goofy-looking fish eaters. Aimee wished the administrator would take as many loons as she could stuff into her Louis Vuitton briefcase back to Los Angeles, along with her MBA degree.
“Oh, Taneesha, remember to check on Mrs. Dawkins. If she hasn’t had a bowel movement by noon, we’ll need to give her an enema.”
Taneesha raised her eyebrows, exposing the whites of her eyes that contrasted with her ebony skin. “She’ll have a BM all right, even if I have to borrow one from somebody else.”
Aimee smiled and looked at the clock again. It was 8:15 a.m. as the clock chimed its mournful quarter-hour loon call. One thousand seven hundred thirty-five days, seven hours and fifteen minutes, she thought.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
Yawza, yawza, yawza!” Doc O’Brien yelled again through the megaphone. “One hundred dollars paid to the man who can beat the mighty Trapper! Step right up, no need to crowd. No need to crowd,” he repeated softly to himself in wonderment. The air under the tent seemed to grow stale as the angry crowd sucked the oxygen from it. Doc wiped the back of his neck with his soiled handkerchief as he nervously considered his escape options.
Noisy men with mouths open and excitement in their eyes flowed and swirled from the midway into the area surrounding the ring. Desperate men emboldened with liquor, mindful of their wagers and what was at stake for their children. Caught up in the primordial excitement of the hunt, driven by maleness, they had no choice.
“Trapper, the greatest wrestler in the world, descended from Greek gods. Invincible, unconquerable, inviolable, he is un-de-feat-able. Come one, come all, step right up, no crowding,” he smiled. “Ten cents, one thin dime, one tenth of a dollar is all it takes to see the greatest wrestling spectacle of the modern world.” He knew no one would pay. The rules were suspended by their rage. He looked toward the roughies standing helplessly near the far corner of the ring; they each held a roll of tickets and a red coffee can for collecting the entrance fees. Doc shook his head at them. Hans stood in the same corner, calmly holding the top rope on each side of the corner post, his eyes as emotionless as the mask he wore.
The giant stopped just outside the ring tent. Half a dozen men on each side of him hoisted the railroad ties from his shoulder saddles while others unbuckled the leather cinch from around his bare chest and arms. His steer-sized head was topped with a mass of curly brown hair that looked like a crown of thorns. Sad eyes, one slightly lower than the other, peered out from below the broad shelf of his forehead. A massive, long, square jaw, dark with stubble, appeared rock solid, belying his cartoonish gap-toothed grin. Without the railroad ties he stood stoop-shouldered, almost arthritic. With arms as big as an ape’s and the legs of a giraffe, he stepped over the ring ropes and stood awkwardly in the corner opposite Hans.
“How much you weigh, Clem?” Doc yelled up at him.
“Four hundred sixty-five pounds,” the giant said in a voice as big as the rest of him.
“What’s your name, Clem?”
“Milo Knuteson.”
The crowd quieted as they attempted to hear Doc, who had assumed the role of referee. They pushed closer, surrounding the ring in a uniform mass of heads looking upward.
“Yawza, yawza, your attention please! Welcome to O’Brien’s Wonders of the World Athletic Show! The Lancashire rules of catch-as-catch-can wrestling apply. One hundred dollars to the challenger who can win by pin or submission; one hundred dollars to the man strong enough, big enough, and smart enough to beat Trapper,” he barked as he gestured with a broad sweep of his arm toward Hans, who suddenly looked very small. Doc looked at the giant and smiled. “You’re certainly big enough and strong enough, but are you smart enough, Clem?”
“My name is Milo,” the giant said menacingly.
“In this corner, weighing four hundred and sixty-five pounds, from Deep Lake, Minnesota, the challenger—Milo the Silo!” Doc yelled through the megaphone.
The crowd roared and twisted in an agitated, writhing mass of dark clothing and pale skin. The smell of liquor and tobacco rose upward toward the ring on the moist heat from their sweaty bodies.
“In this corner, weighing two hundred and twenty pounds, from Clinton, Iowa, the undisputed carnival wrestling champion of the world—Trapper the Giant Killer.”
Hans turned his masked face toward Doc in surprise at the new moniker he had given him while the crowd booed angrily. Someone threw a beer bottle, narrowly missing Hans.
Doc stepped to the center of the ring and motioned for both men to join him. The crowd again quieted in an attempt to hear the rules. The giant, bent low at the waist, hovered over Doc. “Milo, you’re the biggest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen. When this is over, come see me. I have a job for you. Trapper, p-eeyuhz-ut h-eeyuhz-im d-eeyuhz-own f-eeyuhz-ast.”
Hans nodded that he understood Doc wanted him to put him down fast and responded in the same carny language, “F-eeyuhz-argo n-eeyuhz-ext w-eeyuhz-eek.”
“I’ll see you there,” Doc said. “Gentlemen, to your corners, please.” He nodded to William, who was crouched behind the turnbuckle at Trapper’s corner. William paused and stared back at Doc. Doc rolled his eyes and then mouthed the word “please.” William raised the hammer and then brought it down sharply on the ring bell.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 8:19 A.M.
Sam stood in the cold cemetery, digging through several layers of clothes to reach the ringing cell phone. He hated the intrusive little device and rarely used it to place calls. His daughter, Sidney, had insisted he carry it so she could reach him with messages and had sworn to never give the number to anyone else.
“Hello?…Hi, baby. What’s going on? Is everything okay?…Another one? That’s the second blizzard this month. Are the roads closed?…It’s probably trucks piled up on the side of the mountain outside of Laramie. Did you have classes this afternoon?”
Sam had moved to Wyoming for two reasons: to get away from Colorado and the aftermath of his discoveries there, and to establish residency so Sidney could pay in-state tuition rates at the University of Wyoming. He had told her she could go to college anywhere, but she had chosen Wyoming for strategic reasons, he believed. She would be far enough from her intrusive helicopter mother, Marcie, but close enough to visit when necessary. Most of all she wanted a horse, and in Wyoming horses outnumbered people.
Sam had found a remote and beautiful quarter section of property in the Laramie Range between Cheyenne and Laramie. It had taken him nearly two years, and most of the profits from the sale of his Colorado home, to renovate a long-abandoned cow camp at the end of a winding, wet meadow deep in the forest—an inholding of private land surrounded by the Medicine Bow National Forest. It was still a work in progress, but he now considered it home. The hard, physical, outdoor work had toned and seasoned him. The creases that flamed from his eyes were highlighted by flashes of gray at the temples.
Sidney had moved in with him after her junior year at UW. She had justified the move as a cost-saving measure in light of his poor book sales, but Sam was not convinced. While she hid her hearing aids beneath her hair, she could not hide her increasing apprehensiveness of growing deaf and eventually blind. Her academic advisor had recommended she attend law school elsewhere, but she insisted on staying at UW. A small monthly paycheck from Sam, for managing his affairs and tending house, kept her in gas and hay. Sam complained that the cost to support a horse was more than the cost to support a daughter.
“Best to stay put until they get the roads cleared. Think you can get to the county road without plowing?…Make sure the chains are tight and you might check the oil in the pickup….Deep Lake. It’s in the north central part of the state….Pat? What did he want?…He knows full well where I am. He sent me here….He’s my publisher, not my mother, for crying out loud….He’s agitated? You think he found out about my proposal to Churchill?…He has no right to be upset. I offered it to him first and he wasn’t interested….No, he’s the one who needs to read the contract….I’m not jeopardizing the contract, and you don’t have to tell me we need the advance from this book. Save your oral arguments for class….I’m not killing the messenger, Sid. I guess I’m a little frustrated. Bored and frustrated. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it….She’s fine. She’s bored too….I know bloodhounds always look bored. But she’s sleeping more than usual. I took her to an old folks’ home a couple hundred miles south of here to cheer her up, kind of like a therapy dog….I know you told me to stay away from old people….Pat can’t pull the plug if he doesn’t know about it. Look, Sid, I’m just trying to maximize my options. It’s a good proposal. I think the book will sell, especially to aging boomers….Yes, dear. Look, if I wanted someone to nag me, I would’ve stayed married to your mother….I’ll call him. I promise. Got to go, sweetie. It’s snowing here too. I want to finish these shots by noon….Yes, I’ll stay away from old people….Love you too, sweetie. Stay warm.”
Sam looked out over the rows of uneven headstones. He had lost most of the available light. A uniform grayness descended on the cemetery as storm clouds continued to roll in from the north. He had been in so many cemeteries in the last ten years that he had difficulty differentiating between them. In a snowstorm they all looked alike. Their colors flowed together into a dark mass of geometric redundancy. He sighed. His fingers were numb as he fumbled with the door handle of the vintage station wagon.
“L2, wipe the slobber off your face and put a smile on,” Sam said. “We’re going to see some old people. It’ll be our little secret.” He winked and slid into the driver’s seat.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 8:30 A.M.
Hans, what are you doing out here?” Aimee Pond said as she stepped in front of the park bench at the greenbelt. She was not a tall woman, but her presence was imposing. Her hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of her long wool coat. She wore a red stocking cap pulled over her ears. Snow was starting to collect on her head and shoulders.
“Fargo next week,” he said, looking up at her, his eyes darting back and forth across hers.
“What’s in Fargo next week?” A foggy vapor rose from her lips.
He looked down and stared at the concrete between his feet.
“Hans, do you know where you are?”
He raised his head and looked into the distance. Snowflakes landed gently on his eyelashes.
“You’re not supposed to leave the care center without supervision. You know that, don’t you, Hans?”
He looked at her through cloudy eyes, the intense green washed out by thick, gray cataracts. The ridges of scar tissue above each eye were lost within pale folds of skin that had succumbed to gravity. The misshapen lumps that had once been ears still told the story to the astute observer.
“Hans, can you hear me?” she said loudly. “We worry about you. What if you get lost? What if you fall and hurt yourself? Aren’t you cold?”
Her lips moved, but he did not hear. He stared past her. The snowy haze of the present lifted slowly; he could see the other side. There was no noise. From the sides of his eyes he could see the crowd boiling angrily as the giant charged across the ring toward him.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
There was no contest, none of the ritual displays of aggression. It was over so fast that many in the crowd did not see it. A wristlock, a modified fireman’s carry, a slam without drama, and a rear naked choke. The crowd went silent as the giant struggled briefly, his arms and legs spread across the ring floor, twitching in spasms. The giant did not have a chance to tap out; there was no time for concession as his brain starved for oxygen. He was unconscious before anyone could react. Hans maintained the choke hold.
Doc dropped to all fours beside the giant. Holding his hand above the mat, he whispered, “Don’t kill the bastard.” He slapped the canvas loudly and William beat the bell furiously. Trapper released his hold and lowered the man’s huge head gently to the floor. As he stood over the sleeping giant, Doc lifted Trapper’s hand into the air. “How long will he be out?” he whispered from the side of his mouth.
“Another thirty seconds,” Hans said.
The crowd was still silent but began to move restlessly. It seemed to compress inward on the ring as people attempted to see the motionless giant. “Cheater!” someone yelled. Another screamed, “Murderer!”
Doc grabbed the megaphone. “He’s fine, folks. Your boy is fine. Let’s give the lad a good round of applause for his efforts.”
No one clapped. A man scrambled into the ring. With catlike quickness Hans picked him up over his head and threw him into the crowd. William climbed into the ring and stood, hammer in hand, beside Hans. Suddenly, spontaneously from all sides, the crowd exploded. They swarmed into the ring; bypassing their fallen hero, they rushed toward Hans and William. Men yelled, bones snapped, a shot was fired. Then cymbals crashed, drums rolled, and a clarinet hit a teeth-grinding note. The crowd turned their attention toward the midway just outside the ring area.
O’Brien’s Wonders of the World Burlesque Show had begun. Colorful feather fans and bright, sheer gauze were all that separated the three women’s nakedness from the crowd. They twisted and twirled provocatively to the snake charmer’s tune as they slowly followed the ragtag three-piece band down the midway toward the sideshow tent. Madame Marguerite walked slowly along the edge of the concession fronts, motioning discreetly to the dancers, who looked frightened.
“Yawza, yawza, yawza!” Doc yelled into the megaphone as he struggled to his feet, grabbed his hat, and placed it on his head. “The most beautiful women in the world, handpicked from the far corners of the globe—twelve gorgeous beauties in all. Count them, an even dozen, each with a secret tantalizing display of cultural diversity. Come see the other nine. Naked, one hundred percent nude, disrobed, ungarmented, without a stitch, gentlemen. See them. Free admission this afternoon only.”
The mob’s tone changed as it flowed from the athletic show into the midway. Whistles and catcalls replaced the angry threats as they followed the scent of the dancers toward the sideshow tent.
“Free admission, gentlemen,” Doc repeated into the megaphone. He tipped his hat to Madame Marguerite, who nodded and faded into the shadow of the ring toss concession.
“Dirty rotten pups,” Doc said as he stepped over injured, writhing men, abandoned by their cohorts for the lure of sex. He made his way to Trapper’s corner and then stood motionless, staring at the pool of blood. Red polka dots trailed from the ring canvas through the ropes and disappeared into the trampled earth.
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 8:36 A.M.
Does your leg hurt, Hans?” Aimee Pond asked, leaning over the old man in front of her. She could see her breath. A light breeze caused the snow to swirl on the park bench next to Hans.
With both hands, he rhythmically massaged his right thigh just above the knee. In the distance he heard the clarinet’s soothing melody. The crowd had become silent.
“Hans, can you hear me?” Aimee said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
With lightning speed his right hand shot upward, caught the underside of Aimee’s forearm, and pushed it violently aside, sending snow flying from her shoulder. With the same speed his facial expression changed from dull neutrality to menacing aggression, and then more slowly to wounded submission in apparent realization of what he had just done.
“I’m sorry, Hans. I shouldn’t have touched you.” Startled, her voice was a little too high and her hand began to shake as she groped for the fanny pack on her hip. She had seen this behavior before. She likened it to a dog snapping at its owner’s hand in defense of a bone. She tried not to show her fear. She stood her ground and lowered her voice. “Hans, I’ve got just the thing for that sore leg.”
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—2007
DAY 1, 8:38 A.M.
Sam thought he might be homesick. Sometimes after talking with Sidney he felt very much alone, even depressed. There was a heaviness that seemed to descend over his shoulders. Taking a complete breath was an effort. A burning deep in his sinuses forced him to think of happy distractions. He reached across the seat and massaged L2’s large, soft ear. It did not help.
He was still in second gear after exiting the cemetery when he saw the sign for Whispering Pines Care Center. “How about that, girl? Old people right next to the cemetery, just like I promised. That ought to cheer both of us up.” He slowed and leaned forward to study the cookie-cutter architecture of the sprawling, single-story structure behind the row of uniform spruce trees. Red brick below tan, steel siding with large, wood-framed windows and fake shutters gave it the desired homey look. Assisted living, community care center, health and rehab facility, retirement community, and other assorted terms that implied tranquility, serenity, and pastoral settings were all listed under the heading “Nursing Homes” in the phone book. “Not me, girl,” he whispered as he turned into the tree-lined driveway and parking lot.
In search of rural cemeteries in several states, he found that nursing homes and prisons were growth industries. Communities actively pursued them and competed for them. Out-of-state, specialized construction companies swooped in and swooped out, leaving straight lines of bricks and mortar behind along with a handful of low-paying jobs. Sam wondered at their similarities and how he might explain them to a visitor from another planet. “Dog pounds for people, girl.” Some were incarcerated, others given perfunctory care. All were displaced and confined. “Wag that tail, L2. It’s showtime.”
DEEP LAKE, MINNESOTA—1933
Her dress was purple. When she was a girl, her father called her Morning Glory. Outside her bedroom window her mother had planted purple morning glories that climbed magically up the trellis and delicately scented her room in the summer. Purple was her color. It represented innocence. She believed it masked the harsher tones of her youthful indiscretions.
The late summer evenings had become almost chilly, and she struggled to put on her coat as she closed the door to the clinic behind her.
“Miss, miss!” William shouted from the walkway leading to the ordinary-looking, white clapboard house. “Is this the doctor’s office?”
Gloria Halvorson looked up and brushed her long, brown hair from her face. A large black man was half-carrying, half-dragging an even larger shirtless man wearing tights, up the sidewalk.
“Yes, yes, this is the clinic,” she said hesitantly, staring only at William. She turned and glanced at the sign next to the door. The bold, black letters spelled out “Deep Lake Medical Clinic.”
“This man’s been shot in the leg and he’s lost a lot of blood,” William said.
“Bring him in.” She pushed the door open and stood aside. “First door on your right; put him on the table,” she said, pulling off her coat.
“Down you go, Trap. You’re gonna be fine now,” William said as he placed Hans on the examination table in the center of the small room.
Gloria Halvorson had put on a white linen coat. She quickly started cutting away Hans’s tights above his right knee.
“Miss,” William said, “shouldn’t you fetch the doctor? This man’s been shot and he’s lost a lot of blood,” he repeated.
Blood was dried and caked around the wound. She felt the hotness of his skin. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday about this time,” William said.
She peeled back Hans’s eyelid, then poked her fingers into his right armpit. “The wound is infected and he’s burning up. Why did you wait so long before bringing him here?”
“We was hidin’ in the woods north of town waiting for things to simmer down a bit.”
“Are you with the carnival that was here?” she said as she prepared instruments in a metal pan.
“Yes, ma’am. This here’s Trapper, the undisputed wrestling champion of the world—descended from Greek gods,” he added proudly.
“So this is the man responsible for so many broken bones last night. Some of those men looked like they had been beaten with a hammer.”
“Oh, that was me, ma’am,” William said, smiling. “Trapper calls that hammer my equalizer. He says what I lack in ability I make up for with sixteen ounces of hardened steel. What about the doctor, ma’am? Is he here?”
“I’m the doctor,” she said softly without looking up. “What’s his name?”
William said nothing, but stared intently at her. “I’ve never seen a woman doctor before.”
“I’ve never seen a Negro in Deep Lake before,” she said, staring back at him. “What’s his name?”
“Trapper, I mean Hans. His name is Hans.”
“Hans, I’m going to give you an injection that’s going to make you drowsy and then some ether to put you to sleep for a while. The bullet passed all the way through your upper leg, but I need to make sure there are no bullet or bone fragments in the wound. You’ll be fine. I’ve seen a lot worse. You’re lucky it was a small caliber; I’d say a thirty-two. A forty-five would have taken part of your femur. Do you understand, Hans?”
Hans stared up at her; his lips parted, but the words did not come. The room appeared foggy, a white mist encircling the angel who stared down at him. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Trapper!” William said loudly. “Do you understand the lady?”
He turned his head toward William and scowled. “I was shot in the leg, not in the head,” he whispered. “And why are you yelling?”
“Mr….,” Gloria said, looking at William.
“Just call me William, ma’am.”
“I would like you to wait in the parlor.” She nodded toward the door. “I’ll come and get you when I’m finished.”
William stood staring at her, waiting.
“Please,” Hans said weakly.
“Yes, ma’am,” William said and started for the door. He stopped and turned, and said, “Trap, I’ll be right out here if you need me.” He closed the door gently behind him.
“He’s very devoted to you,” she said.