COPYRIGHT 1985 BY
Dana M Anderson                               
715 W. 4th St.
Northfield, MN  55057














OBIT

by Dana M Anderson



     The phone rang.  I answered it.  I couldn't  just ignore 

the damn thing.

     Frank was dead, she told me.  Dead since last week.  It 

looked like suicide, but she knew it couldn't be, and could I 

please come up and find out what happened?  I was the only one 

who could help her now.  Frank couldn't have killed himself.  

There was no reason.  And, even if there was, he knew the 

insurance would be voided if he did.  He wouldn't leave her alone 

like that.  Please help me, Michael, she cried over the line.  

She said I had to help.

     Dale Crary was right; I had to help.  That's why I packed up 

my worn MG and headed her north out of Minneapolis toward the 

snow covered farmland of northwestern Minnesota.  It's a long 

drive.  I wouldn't have gone if I didn't have to.


     Sure, she did butter me up a bit with that crap about my 

being the only one to help her.  And I'm sure she relied a great 

deal on any old feelings I might have left for her -- so many 

years after she married the wrong guy.  But, after all, I am the 

only friend she has who plays private detective for a living.  

And, as an old lover, I'd hate to see her lose the insurance 

money just because they don't pay for suicides.

     Besides, Frank Crary was too much of a babbling optimist to 

blow his head off.  Especially if it left Dale penniless.

                                #

     Northwestern Minnesota is a patchwork quilt of farms and 

fields, stands of trees and occasional streams, squared off by 

county roads and highways and telephone lines and shelter belts.  

Every ten miles or so down any paved road you happen to be 

traveling, you'll pass through another small town getting 

smaller.  Decaying remnants left in the cold when the interstate 

went through, they are still in the process of being destroyed by 

the automobile.

     I was driving through the center of a quilt of fields in the 

early hours of the cold December morning.  The road was straight 

and empty.  The heater in my old car worked erratically, and my 

toes and fingers were numb.  I kicked the old bucket up to 

seventy and coughed past the scattered trees and barns and the 

empty fields.  By two o'clock I could see the glow of 

streetlights that could only be Harrison, Minnesota.

     I passed the storefront office of the Northwestern_Reporter, 

the weekly paper Frank and Dale Crary ran.  It was a good paper, 

recent winner of the Minnesota Journalists' award for small 

newspapers.  The best in the state.  Two blocks past the paper, I 

turned right for one block and stopped before a small green house 

with white shutters and a pine tree in the yard.  Light spilled 

softly through the curtains of one front room.  I got my bag out 

and shivered up the walk to the door.

     "Come in, Mike."  She grabbed by sleeve and hurried me in.  

"You look half frozen."

     "Hello, Dale."  I kissed her cheek, patted her shoulder.  

     She wore a pale green robe and matching fuzzy slippers.  Her 

honey blonde hair was pulled back and ponytailed behind her.  I 

couldn't be sure if time or the strain of her recent disaster had 

traced the faint lines of worry on her forehead and at the 

corners of her lovely eyes.  They were not unbecoming lines.  She 

was a beautiful woman, but she looked empty, as if the life had 

spilled out of her.  I took her hand.

     "Don't worry, Dale.  I'll find out who did this."  I spoke 

with more conviction that I felt.  Suddenly, I felt less the 

detective and more the stumbling family friend, meaning well but 

unable to help.

     "I thought you could sleep in Billy's room.  He's staying 

with my mother."  She smiled thinly.

     "That'll be fine."

     There was nothing more to say.  An awkward greeting and a 

quiet smile was all we had between us.

                                #

     At eight o'clock the next morning I was awakened by the 

smell of bacon and, yes, there were eggs and pancakes and orange 

juice and strong black coffee to go along with it.  I decided 

that I must be on another planet, one where people actually ate 

before noon.  I found the custom a bit strange, but not 

disagreeable.

     While I stuffed as much of the meal as I possibly could into 

my mouth, I had Dale fill in the details of Frank's death.  

     "Frank left here on Wednesday morning at nine-thirty.  The 

paper comes out on Wednesday, so it's kind of our day off.  He 

was going out to Elmer Bratten's farm to do a little target 

shooting, and he said he'd be gone about an hour or so.  He went 

there every Wednesday morning to shoot.  When he hadn't come 

back by eleven-thirty I called Elmer too see if he had stopped in 

to talk.  Elmer said he hadn't but he'd go out to see if Frank 

was still shooting.  That's when Elmer found him.

     "Mike, it looked like suicide.  He was lying at the bottom 

of a shallow depression where the targets are set up.  He had the 

gun in his hand.  There wasn't any evidence of murder, and no 

motive that I can think of, but I know Frank wouldn't have killed 

himself.  So, no matter how dumb it may sound, it had to be 

murder.  It just had to be."

     "Did they check fingerprints on the gun?"

     "Frank had gloves on.  There were no fingerprints."

     "What kind of gun did Frank own?"

     "I don't really know.  He said it was a magnum."

     "A big gun.  Do you know how long the barrel is on it?"

     "I'm sorry, I didn't know they came in sizes."

     "No biggy.  The Sheriff will know."

                                #


     Sheriff Bert Peterson was a large man, both in height and 

width, a man seemingly built of steel with large, muscular hands 

welded to the ends of his thick, powerful arms.  He crushed my 

merely human hand in his grip and smiled down at me, then took me 

across the street for coffee and conversation.  I liked him right 

away.  He was a direct man, uncomplicated in manner.

     "Mr. Evans," he boomed across the small restaurant table.  

"I should probably tell you to get out of town and quit poking 

your nose into official business.  I should be hurt that the 

widow thought so little of my capabilities that she called in 

outside help.  But I won't because I'm not.  I don't blame her 

for calling in the cavalry.  I'd do the same thing, and, to tell 

you the truth," he said, lowering his voice to a confidential 

roar, "I'm not very damn satisfied with that investigation 

myself."

     "Why?"

     "I've known Frank for all of the nine years since they took 

over the paper, and I've never known a happier guy.  Hell, 

nothing ever got him down.  He was one of those guys who run 

around calling half-empty whiskey bottles half-full.  A born 

optimist."

     "So you aren't convinced of suicide."

     "Officially, yes -- for now, anyway.  Personally, hell no!  

It just doesn't fit and I don't believe it."

     "Then why close the case?"

     "Ain't closed.  I just said it was to kinda clear the air.  

There's no sense causing a commotion running around looking for 

murderers."

     He said he didn't mind a little help on the case, in fact, 

he thought I had a better chance of finding something than he 

did.  I could nose around like the outsider I was and put some 

extra pressure on the guilty party with the worry that I might 

get the sheriff to open it all up again.  I told him I'd probably 

keep it informal to start with and play the family friend in to 

handle the crisis.  Mike Evans: Undercover Agent.

     Back at the cop house, he pulled out a file and we got to 

work.  A couple facts jumped out in contradiction to suicide.  

While they didn't make it impossible, they did make it damn 

improbable.

     First of all, Frank was wearing lined, leather gloves.  

Nobody I know would wear winter gloves while shooting.  They made 

too tight a fit on the trigger.

     Second, his gun was a .357 Magnum, a double action Colt with 

an eight inch barrel.  Have you ever tried to point a gun with an 

eight inch barrel at your head and still have enough leverage to 

pull the trigger?  Probably not.  I tried it with Frank's gun and 

damn near broke my wrist trying to squeeze the trigger.  If the 

gun had looser action, or I had used my thumb, I could have done 

it easily.  But it was the index finger of Frank's gloved hand 

that was stuffed into the trigger-guard.  So, it wasn't quite 

impossible, but almost.

     "Looks like murder, don't it?"  The sheriff closed the file 

and slipped it back into the drawer.

     "I'm a believer," I told him.  "Look, I'm taller than Frank, 

and if I had that much trouble pointing that hog-leg at my head, 

he wouldn't have been able to do it at all.  There's no 

question."

     "Wait a minute, son.  I said it looked like murder, not that 

it was.  The bullet didn't enter his skull from straight on.  It 

went in more to the back and at an angle from front to back.  

From that angle it's a lot easier to manage."

     "Not easy enough.  Besides, why was he shooting with heavy 

gloves on?"

     "I don't know, son.  I surely don't know."

                                #

     The target range on the Elmer Bratten farm was located in a 

cluster of maple trees on the west edge of a sugar beet field.  

Paper targets hung on clips nailed to a tall wooden fence at the 

bottom of a dried up creek bed.  There wasn't anything to look 

at but the weathered fence and a huddle of naked trees.

     "He was laying down by the fence, kinda on his left side.  

It looked like he rolled down the hill after he shot himself."  

Elmer Bratten turned his creased face toward the window, looking 

out to the trees.  He spoke with a rough, faded voice.  I judged 

him to be about seventy, but I'm no judge of ages.  "He had a 

kinda mad look on his face -- you know, angry.  The back of his 

head was all blowed off.  There was blood and brains on the 

ground about twenty foot up the hill.  Ain't much of a hill, but 

a gun that size packs quite a wallop.  Plenty enough to get him 

rolling good."

     That was all there was to say.  I went back to the newspaper 

office.


     "What was Frank working on when he died?"  I asked Dale as 

she hustled around the office completing the advertising layouts 

for the next issue.  

     "Nothing much," she said, trimming the edge of a photograph.  

"Just his regular features, Community Corner, a year-end grain 

price situation report and a photo essay on barns.  Why?"  Dale 

eyed me across the table.

     "I'm trying to go about this all scientific and logical," I 

drawled.  "Thought I might try to find a motive before I went 

whooping after murderers."  I sipped my coffee and watched a 

couple women scurry across the cold, wind blasted street from the 

Coast to Coast store and into the dime store.  Puffs of drifting 

snow swirled around their ankles as they slid across the street.

     "Have you found anything yet, Mike?"

     "Nothing that would convince the insurance company to pay 

out your money, but it sure doesn't look like suicide."

     "Can't you prove it?"

     "We need a motive.  Why would someone want to kill Frank 

Crary?  Did he make any enemies?"

     "No.  Oh, he might have rubbed a few people the wrong way at 

one time or another, but not hard enough to provoke murder.  

Everybody seemed to like him."

     "Yeah."  I drained my coffee and sat sliding the cup between 

my hands on the table.  "He wasn't doing anything out of the 

ordinary?  No investigative stuff?"

     "Frank wasn't a muckraker.  Our paper is dedicated to 

reporting the local news and events and always looking for the 

light side.  Frank and I felt there was enough bad news.  Our 

readers have the Minneapolis_Star-Tribune for that."

     "He was quite a crusader in college, and when he worked for 

the Trib."

     "Sure, he was.  That was in the Sixties and early Seventies.  

There was a lot to crusade against, and crusading was the best 

way to climb the rungs of a big city newspaper.  Not here.  Our 

paper is a weekly, sold for thirty cents in grocery stores.  The 

people want to know who had a baby and who went to heaven.  They 

aren't in the market for scandal.  We'd report it, but we don't 

go out looking for it."

     "Anything controversial in that barn story?"  I smiled.

     "No," she laughed.  "I'll shoe you the pictures."

     She walked back past the paper strewn desk and around to the 

side of the press.  In a moment, she was back with a handful of 

black and white glossies.

     "Here.  You can see it's just a bunch of barns."

     There were twenty-one pictures of old barns in various 

states of disrepair.  Most were standing alone, but some were in 

farm yards with machinery parked beside them.  Instinctively, I 

discarded those containing anything but a lone barn.  That left 

sixteen.

     "You'd make a good photo editor, Mike.  You threw out the 

same ones that Frank did.  Too much clutter."

     "Did he toss this one out, too?"  I pointed to a shot of a 

rickety old structure tilted about thirty degrees against the 

weakening support of its aging wood.  There was a white car 

showing its front end out from the far side of the barn.  License 

number CZD-938, Minnesota plates.  It looked like an Oldsmobile I 

once owned.

     "Oh, yes, that's the other thing he was going to do on the 

day he died.  That's such a nice old barn, but the car ruined the 

shot.  He was going to have Ronny move the car."

     "Ronny?"

     "Ronny Hamilton.  A local kid.  He helps us print the paper 

and deliver it to the stores sometimes.  The barn is on his 

father's farm."

     "Did he talk to Ronny about it?"

     "Tuesday afternoon, while we were printing.  Ronny said he 

didn't have a car parked out there, but he'd check in the 

morning."

     "I think I'll take this picture with me.  Where is the 

Hamilton farm?"

     "Straight south five miles and turn east for a mile.  It's 

the first farmstead.  You can't think he has anything to do with 

Frank's death."

     "Probably not.  Where's the barn?"

     "It's another mile east, then turn south to the old 

farmhouse."

     "Thanks.  I'm going to check it out.  See ya."

                                #

     I lunched at Edward's diner on hot beef and pie, then went 

back to the cop-shop.

     "Sheriff Peterson is out.  May I help you?"  She was a 

stocky woman, about thirty.  Her uniform strained slightly at the 

buttons.


     "Maybe," I answered.  "My name is Mike Evans.  I'm a P.I. 

from Minneapolis working for Mrs. Crary.  Perhaps the sheriff 

mentioned me."

     "Yes, Mr. Evans.  He said to help you if you came in while 

he was gone."

     "Fine."  I pulled out the photograph.  "I'd like a check on 

a license number.  Here, CZD-938.  Could you do that for me?"

     "Sure thing.  Just a second."  She went back to the 

communications console and punched out something on a keyboard.  

it took a minute for a reply, then the teletype started 

clacking.  

     "That's a hot car, Mr. Evans."  She smiled happily at her 

discovery.  "A white, '75 Olds Cutlass Supreme.  It was stolen in 

November in Fergus Falls."

     "Thank you."  I turned to leave.

     "Wait a minute!  Where was that picture taken?"

     "Don't worry about it, the car is probably gone by now."

                                #

     Straight south five miles and one mile east brought me up in 

front of a large ranch house looking small and lonely under the 

canopy of dirty clouds that hung overhead.  A German Shepherd 

barked at my car.  Braving the dog and the frigid wind, I walked 

up to the door and rang the bell.

     A weather-worn man in blue jeans and a flannel shirt 

answered the door.  He was totally bald, about fifty years old.

     "Yes?"

     "I'm helping Mrs. Crary out at the paper and I wanted to 

know if it was all right to go out and get another picture of 

your old barn.  She's doing a photo feature on barns.  There was 

a car parked beside it when Frank shot it the first time, and 

we'd like to get a picture without the car.

     "Come on in," he said.  "You don't look like a newspaper man.  

More like an athlete.  Football?"

     "Hockey, but not for a few years now," I told him.  "I'm not 

a newsman, just an old friend and weekend photographer helping 

out."

     "I see.  Coffee?"

     "Sure."  We walked back to the bright, modern kitchen, and 

he poured out two cups from his Mr. Coffee.

     "It's too damn bad about Frank.  He was a good man."

     "Yes, he was."

     "You know them long?"

     "We went to college together."

     "You go back a ways, then.  I didn't know him that long, but 

he didn't strike me as the type to kill himself."

     "You never know, Mr. Hamilton.  You just never know."

     "No."  He stared silently out the window for a minute.  

"What's this 'bout a car by the old barn?"

     "Yeah, a white Cutlass Supreme."

     "Ain't mine.  Never owned an Oldsmobile, just Buicks.  

Course, I used to drive Fords.  You know, I bought a brand new 

Edsel when they first came out.  Went and sold it.  Be worth 

money now."

     "A shame.  Maybe it was you son's car, or one of his 

friends?"


     "No, Ronny bought himself one of those Trans Ams last year.  

All his friends drive fast cars.  No Oldsmobiles."

     "Well, maybe Dale was mistaken.  It doesn't matter."

     "No, I guess not.  You go ahead and take all the pictures 

you want.  If you get a good one, maybe you could make me a copy.  

My old man built that barn in the Twenties.  I don't think it'll 

last many more seasons.  From the look of the weather, it might 

not last the night.  I think we're going to get some snow."

     "Sure, Mr. Hamilton.  I'd be glad to blow up a print for 

you."  I rose to go.  "Thanks for the coffee."

     The barn and farm house stood alone at the end of an 

overgrown road.  A few mangled trees twisted in the wind and 

slapped against the sides of the house, thrusting branches 

through broken windows.  The barn seemed to lean even more 

precariously than the picture indicated, but it didn't sway.  

It stood solidly defiant against the wind.

     The barn doors were chained and locked shut.  On closer 

inspection, I saw that the doors had been cut down on the bottom 

to allow them to swing against the barn's undesigned slant.  I 

shook the chain and tried to widen the gap between doors enough 

to see inside.  My hands were damp and stuck to the cold metal, 

but I pulled hard and held an eye up to the crack.  The car was 

inside at the far end, just sticking out of a stall and partially 

covered with hay.  Curiouser and curiouser.  I tore my hand free 

from the chain and turned to go.  A red Trans Am was parked 

beside my old MG.

     A small kid, about twenty, got out of the car.  His hair 

whipped into his eyes as we approached each other across the 

brown grass and crunching snow.

     "This is private property."  His voice was high and it 

strained against the blast of the rising wind.

     "You must be Ronny."  I held out my hand, but he didn't take 

it.  "Your dad said it was all right if I came out to take a new 

picture of the barn.  It's for the paper."

     "Mrs. Crary didn't say anything about finishing that 

article.  I could have taken the picture."

     He was about four inches shorter than me and was more 

lightly built all around, yet he stood as though he was ready for 

a fight.  He brought his hands out of his pockets slowly, long, 

thin fingers clenching and unclenching nervously.  We squinted at 

each other in the wind.

     "Where's your camera?" he asked, defiantly.

     "In the car.  I'm all done."

     "So, why are you looking in the barn?"

     "Curiosity."

     "Nothing in there but mice and sparrows."

     "I see.  I'll be going now."  He moved slightly, as if to 

block me, but let me pass.  He didn't say anything more.

                                #

     The sun had set when I got back to town and pulled up in 

front of the court house.  The sheriff was on his way back to 

town.  Back by eight.  I went over to Dale's house to be greeted 

by a note saying she was at the paper and I should have some of 

the cold roast beef in the fridge.  I had a sandwich and a glass 

of milk before going downtown.


     The front lights of the Reporter office were out, but I 

could see a glow in the rear.  I pounded on the door and huddled 

myself up against the driving wind.  It was beginning to snow 

heavily; hard projectiles of ice bit into my face.  I pounded 

again.

     The light remained on, warm and inviting beyond the glass.  

It seemed brighter than before.  It seemed to flicker.  Then I 

saw the smoke piling up against the high ceiling, rolling up from 

the back of the room.  I stepped back and kicked my foot through 

the glass door.

     A rush of hot air hit my face as I reached around to open 

the broken door.  I ran back to the glow beyond the press.  The 

stacked newsprint was pushed over into a pile and lit on fire.  

Two bottles of clear liquid sat near the fire -- too near.

     Dale's purse lay on the floor; her coat hung over a chair.

     "Dale!"  No answer.

     Unless she was beneath the pile of burning paper, she wasn't 

in the room.  A stack of photographs near the bottles caught 

fire, curling rapidly against the emulsion.  The liquid in the 

bottles began to bubble.  I ran.

     The explosion made a loud thump behind me and hot air pushed 

me out the door.  The plate-glass window cracked and slid out 

onto the sidewalk.  I stumbled blindly to my car.

     A big guy in an Air Force parka stepped out from a van 

parked in front of my car.

     "Mr. Evans!" he called, grabbing my arm.  He held a gun out 

for me to look at.  "Come with me!"  He had to shout against the 

rising fury of the storm.  The gun wasn't pointed at me but at 

the ground.  That was his mistake.

     I twisted and brought my knee up hard into his crotch.  He 

sucked in air and held himself with both hands, the gun still in 

the right one.  I grabbed both sides of the hood on his parka and 

pulled his head down toward my ascending knee.  Blood splattered 

my hands when his face made contact.  He dropped the gun and 

slipped to his knees on the street.  I stepped back and slammed 

the side of foot against his head, and he crumpled silently as I 

landed on my tailbone on the icy street.  He didn't move.

     The building behind me burned brightly and back-lit the 

gusting snow like dust in the sun.  A siren stared up in the 

distance.  I pulled open the van doors.  Empty.  Picking up Mr. 

Parka's gun, I squeezed into my car and took off.  I didn't feel 

a bump, so I must not have driven over his sprawled body.

     "Is the sheriff back yet?"  I stumbled into the police 

station, my face flushed and hands bloodied.  "Is he here?" I 

panted.

     "Ten, fifteen minutes yet in this weather.  What happened to 

you?"

     "Get him on the radio.  Hurry!"

     She mumbled some cop-talk into the mike and got him on the 

line.

     "What is it?"  Static blurred his voice.

     "Mr. Evans for you, Sheriff."

     "Put him on."

     "Sheriff," I said into the mike.  "How fast can you get out 

to the old Hamilton barn south of town."


     "In this storm?  I'd say about twenty minutes."

     "Meet me there.  Have your gun ready because I think we've 

found our murderer."

     "The hell!"

     "I don't know how many there are, but if I'm right they're 

holding Dale Crary there, too."

     "I'll come running.  Don't shoot anyone before I get there.  

It would be a hell of a mess of paperwork."

     I broke the connection.  Putting my dancing partner's gun on 

the desk, I said: "There's a guy lying in the street in front of 

the newspaper.  He assaulted me with this, and I'm pretty sure he 

started the fire there.  You better have somebody pick him up."

     I ran out to my car and headed south.

     The snow was coming down hard by then, but the wind was with 

me till the turn so I made good time.  Once I headed east on the 

gravel road it was all but impossible to see, and the wind sifted 

snow in past the windows and covered my shoulders with it.  The 

snow formed a solid white cloud around my vehicle, reflecting my 

headlights back at me and moving across the road in a vertiginous 

blur.  I crawled forward at ten miles and hour, then five, and 

finally slowing beyond the lower limit of the speedometer.  For 

all I could tell, I wasn't moving forward at all but sliding 

sideways across a white wall at about eighty miles an hour.  

Then, what seemed like hours later, I saw the dim glow of 

flashing red lights grow in the void behind me.  I pulled over 

and stopped, turning my flashers on, and got my thirty-eight 

from the glove compartment.



     "Rough going in that runt car?" the sheriff asked as I got 

into his sedan.  My knees were shaking against the shotgun in its 

holder as I held my hands over the defrost vent below the 

windshield.  "Now what the hell is happening?"

     "Damned if I know, but there's something going on at the 

Hamilton barn and Frank must have stumbled onto it.  He took a 

picture of that old barn when there was a car parked beside it.  

It turns out that the car was stolen.  They could be running hot 

cars into Canada, but I doubt it.  The car was too old for that.  

I do know that they set fire to the Reporter office and some bozo 

tried to haul me off at gun-point.  I'm damn sure they've got 

Dale.  I only hope I'm right about where they're holding her."

     "We're at the turn for the old Hamilton place," he said.  

"Least, I think we.  Can't walk in this weather, so we'll have to 

drive in and hope they've got the yard light going to guide us 

when we get there.  As I recall, the light is on a pole right off 

the corner of the barn."

     The car moved slowly along the overgrown road and I leaned 

forward straining to see where we were.  As soon as a light 

showed through the snow, he stopped.

     "All right, looks like about fifteen yards to the barn.  

Walk straight at the light.  Don't try to sneak around to the 

back or anything like that.  In this storm, if you lose sight of 

that light you'll get lost and freeze to death.  I'll leave the 

car running with the lights on, too.  That'll help."

     The wind caught our doors and kicked them hard against the 

hinges as we opened them.  We half ran, half crawled through the 

drifted snow as the wind slammed into our backs and pushed us 

forward.

     Reaching the barn, we pressed up against the rough wood by 

the doors.  The padlock and chain had been removed and the large 

doors jiggled in the wind.

     "How do you want to do this?" I shouted into his ear.

     "I don't know, but we'd better get in there before we freeze 

against this damn wall!"

     He edged along and grabbed the door handle with his left 

hand while pulling out his revolver with his right.  I slipped 

around to his other side with my gun ready.  "Here goes!"  He 

pulled the door open about two feet and I went through rolling 

and landed in a crouch.

     Three men stood huddled around a kerosene heater in the 

center of the barn.  A gasoline generator chugged away somewhere 

in the rear.  I saw Dale Crary sitting on a bale of hay near the 

white Olds.

     "Hi, boys."  The sheriff's matter-of-fact baritone rumbled 

in the empty space, rivaling even the howl of the storm.  

"Surprise," he said, smiling.

     They stared stupidly for a second and then scattered.  One 

brave idiot came up behind a wooden partition with a shotgun.  

Peterson fired first, and the scatter-gun roared uselessly up 

into the rafters as the man jerked back into the straw.  Ronny 

Hamilton froze half crouched with his hands up in the air.  

"Don't shoot me!" he cried.

     I ran back where I'd seen the third man go.  A barn door 

hung open, flapping in the wind.  I ran out.  The wind drove snow 

like icy bullets down the neck of my coat and up my pants legs.  

It sucked the breath from my lungs and drove me to my knees.  I 

felt my face freeze in a puckered grimace.  I didn't have the 

strength to shout or run.  I couldn't see anyone out there, and I

no longer gave a damn.

     I turned back into the wind.  The barn had vanished without 

trace in the void of swirling snow, and I was alone in a world 

with no sky and no horizons, just the black feeling of movement 

and cold to give it definition.  It was impossible to hold my 

eyes open against the icy wind that roared unchecked down the 

prairie from Canada.  I crawled on my hands and knees squinting 

at the ground till I found my footprints in the thin layer of 

snow the wind had allowed to catch in the bent grass.  Following 

my tracks back to the flapping door, I collapsed on the scattered 

straw on the barn floor.

     "Come on, boy."  Sheriff Peterson hoisted me off the ground 

and dragged me over to the heater.  "Ya lost him, huh?  Well, I 

guess somebody will find him in the spring."

                                #

     It took nearly two hours to make it back to town that night 

having to creep along a road that was so obscured that we could 

rarely see more than a foot before the bumper.  There were four 

of us in the car.  The kid with the shotgun wasn't in any hurry 

to travel.  We left him.  I rode in the back seat behind the wire 

grill with Ronny Hamilton.  He had his hands cuffed behind his 

back and didn't look any too comfortable.

     My street buddy called his lawyer the next day and clammed 

up tight, but with a busted jaw he didn't talk too well anyway.  

Ronny waved his rights and talked himself right into prison.  He 

took a lot of others with him.

     They had a pretty good business running drugs down from 

Canada and spreading them around northern Minnesota.  Shipments 

were flown in at night, landing on a field by the old farm.  The 

car in the photograph had been appropriated by a runner from 

Minneapolis who came around to pick up the shipments.  His 

partner had come up in another car and they'd left the hot 

vehicle behind to rust.

     Frank Crary made the innocent mistake of getting the car on 

film and asking Ronny about it.  When Ronny said, rather 

stupidly, that he didn't know anything about the car, Frank 

insisted that he go to the sheriff about it.  Ronny didn't have 

the brains to lie his way out of it, so he called his bosses and 

they sent a man up to take care of things.  They met Frank at the 

pistol range and overpowered him, then shot him with his own gun.  

If they hadn't made the mistake of leaving his gloves on, they 

might have gotten away with it.

     Twenty-three men were hauled in on drug charges that 

weekend, mostly in Minneapolis.  Sheriff Peterson got his smiling 

face printed in every major paper in the state.  The big guy in 

the uniform on the front page of the Sunday Star-Tribune is 

Peterson.  The curly headed turkey grinning at his right is me.  

I got honorable mention in the story.  I wouldn't doubt that 

Peterson gets Cop of the Year.  It couldn't happen to a nicer 

guy.

                                #



     They towed my car back to town the next afternoon and I 

spent the weekend watching the snow swirl around the streets of 

Harrison, Minnesota.  Dale and I talked, but we didn't have 

anything to say.  It was all too long ago.

     I left on Monday morning, after getting Dale to agree on 

paying my usual fee rather than a percentage of the insurance, as 

she had wanted to.  After all, what are old friends for?

     I headed south in my rattling old MG with her check in my 

pocket.  The heater worked about as well as usual, so my feet 

were numb and my fingers burned with the remembrance of that 

night in the storm.  The snow receded and the landscape grew 

more rolling and forested as I continued south.  Winter hadn't 

set in yet back at home.  It was still early, and I wasn't 

looking forward to more snow.






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