Ned and Peggy June steal the Caterpillar.

Chapter Five

A Fearful Yellow Eye*

"My case is bad. Lord be my advocate.
My sin is red. I'm under God's arrest."
–Edward Taylor


Ned watched football all day Sunday, sleeping off a hangover during the dead times. Monday, he installed a new toilet for a lady who lived north of Rail City; Tuesday he had the satisfaction of post-mauling that old utility shed, having a hell of a time with the foundation attached to the garage. Best damn cement-finishing job he'd ever seen. Afterwards, he shoveled concrete, rotted wood and rusted-out tin into the back of his truck and hauled it out to the dump. As he worked the two jobs, he tried to think of an excuse to call off the Caterpillar theft. He'd been drunk after all when he'd called Bud to borrow the truck. Somehow, he didn't think Peg would think too much of that particular excuse. He could hurt himself on purpose, miss the foundation with the post-maul and break his foot, but that would probably hurt like a son of a bitch and he just couldn't work up the grit to go through with it. On Wednesday, things began to perk up a bit. The small claims judge threw out the Wolframs' suit that morning "with prejudice" and chewed the Mrs. out for a good ten minutes. Enormous satisfaction for Ned.
#
"This just out," Uncle Art said, his resonant tones filling the room. "Gubernatorial candidate calls for a bill outlawing soft drink sales in Minnesota public schools."
Once again she hadn't heard the chimes. Ned touched her shoulder, causing her to flinch so bad she nearly knocked over her tripod. "Jesus, Asshole!"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "I waited for you at the Pizza Supply for twenty minutes."
Peg rolled her eyes, let loose with a sigh. "Damn it! I knew there was something I forgot." She was barefooted, with her hair down, her blotched dungaree shirt hanging open, exposing a black bra. She'd been working on a painting that reminded him of a spider web, only the strands were different colors, and the little bug-like things stuck in the web looked like people.
She seemed to notice the radio and padded over to silence Uncle Art. "I don't know why that was on. Sometimes I do things I don't know I'm doing. The other day I found myself in Snow's playing pool, and I didn't know how I got there."
"I know Uncle Art is your father, Peg."
"Who the hell told you that?"
"I don't know, maybe Cornelius."
"Blabber mouth. I don't want anybody to know I'm related to that man!"
"You're still mad at me, aren't you?" he said. "Did you go to the doctor?"
"He won't know whether the lump is cancerous until it comes back from the lab. Maybe a week. It's not the lump."
"What is it then?"
"Sometimes you treat me like a slut. I mean, the only reason we're going on this little adventure of yours is because I slept with you that night you brought in your fuckin' Evinrude."
"Well, you know, I was thinking the other day when I was installing a toilet for this lady in Rail City, that this might not be such a good idea . . ."
She punched him on the arm so hard it hurt worse than the times he and Henry would pound each other until one said "Uncle". "Look, I was only eight when Arthur God-frey decided Ma wasn't good enough for him. My grades plummeted; I thought . . . everybody hated me. I ran away from home, made it all the way to the bus station just off Hennepin Ave. in the Cities. A man tried to coax me into his car, but Marie LeDoux came along just in time to run him off. She was a prostitute. Not that I knew what that was at the time. She called my Ma and waited there with me until she came to pick me up. Afterwards, Ma said I should stay away from people like Marie. So I don't want you gettin' down on whores, Jack!"
He poked a Pall Mall out of his pack and offered her one and when she took it, lit them both with his Zippo. They both blew smoke at the ceiling. "That painting," he said. "I like it. It looks like a giant spider web, and the bugs in there are the people we read about in the National Enquirer."
She raised one eyebrow. "That's not how it works. Thanks for trying, though, Big Guy. If you still want to steal that dozer, let's get off the dime, huh?"
He'd parked the semi in the breakdown lane on Highway 55; it took them a good fifteen minutes to walk back to it, shivering all the way as the temp had dropped into the thirties.
Once on the road, she turned to him and said, "If this caper doesn't work out, I may know where to get my hands on some long green. Wasn't gonna tell you about it cause I didn't want you to know me and Art the Fart were related, but as long as you know, maybe you can lend a hand. The stash is in the woods next to Little Plunder, close to Hole in the Day Park where Ma lives. King Arthur buried some loot out there someplace, for a rainy day. Drug money. I guess at first he thought he wouldn't spend it, unless he really needed it. As you know, that changed. Would you believe he told Ma he won it playing poker?"
"What makes you think you can find where he buried it?"
"Pop and I used to hunt arrowheads in those woods. All I gotta do is think like an egomaniac."
"You sure it's really there?"
"Sounds just like him, too chickenshit to spend the money at first, and he was always pretty straight with Ma before Lorna and him hooked up."
Ned down-shifted for a hill up ahead, the semi moaning like an old man trying to raise up out of his recliner. "How much do you think is there?"
"About a hundred thousand. He told her they'd have enough to buy the Robideaux house when the old lady finally kicked off. Ma always wanted to live there."
They passed an open stretch where some flea-bitten beef cattle huddled together under an oak tree that had been struck by lightning, the shards of wood reminding Ned of bone poking through skin.
She lit a Salem, filling the cab with menthol, blew smoke at him when he made a disgusted face. "You and me we make a good pair, don't we? Always chasing pie in the sky, me trying to be an artist and you blowing your kids college money on the fucking Gophers."
"We can always turn around and go back."
"Nah, my horoscope said I shouldn't shrink from a challenge if one presented itself. Tell you what I'm gonna do when we get to the construction site. I just walk right up to the old buzzard like I'm on my nightly stroll. Then I bare my breasts. His eyes bug out and you conk him one."
He shook his head no. "It's fucking freezing out!"
She patted his cheek. "I'm only going to flash him for a second or two, then I'll cover up."
By the time they got to the construction site--a mammoth undertaking intended to bypass the city of Plunder Lake--it was dark out. The Man in the Moon was a mere sliver, but one eye, just barely visible, looked down on them with what Ned thought was scorn. He shivered, then parked the semi in a turn-off a quarter mile from where the dozer would be, spent a few minutes showing her how to shift to save a little time later.
He looked through the binoculars. The construction site was lit up like St. Christopher's on bingo night.
"Sure is bright over there," she said.
"Wasn't counting on him having a generator. Wasn't there the first time I cased the place."
"You aren't gonna let that stop us, are you?"
"Damn it, if they'd go through the expense of a generator, maybe he's got a gun. It's like somebody tipped them off we were coming. You tell anybody?"
"Negatory. Think he'd be able to hit anything if he does have a gun?"
Ned's heart had begun to beat like a fucking hyperactive hummingbird's and the herring sandwich he'd had for dinner threatened to regurgitate on him. "Even a blind squirrel lucks upon an acorn every once in a while."
"He doesn't have a gun. Guess I've got to be the man around here."
"Dammit, didn't say I wasn't gonna do it. I'll cut around behind, through those woods. He's got a little hut where he keeps his coffee and shit. If he's got a gun, you run like hell, okay?"
As they argued, a car approached from the rear with the headlights on bright. An old man and woman doing a good twenty miles an hour. When the car drew alongside, they gave Ned and Peggy the once over, then the old boy rolled down the window. "Need any help?" he said.
"Just stopped to use the rest room," Peggy said.
The old people laughed, then waved as they drove on down the road.
"Fuck," he said. "Eye witnesses. We gotta call this thing off."
"No we don't. They won't even remember they saw us. Besides, I got their license number and if I hear a peep out of them, they'll wish they'd been born deaf and dumb."
"Cripes. What did I get myself into?"
"Big money. Now, how you gonna start that thing, if he doesn't kill us, I mean?"
He grinned. "Universal key. That's so they can send a sub to jockey her when somebody's out sick. They don't really think anybody'd steal a D7R. Where would you put it? How would you get away with it?"
"We'll show them, though, huh?"
"Let's get going if we're gonna do it. It should take me about twenty minutes to get behind him. You time yourself to get there around the same time. You got a watch?"
"Ten to eight."
"Let's roll."
Baby was still parked next to the slag pile; Ned would be able to use her as a shield to scope the place out before he made his move. He had the dish towel in his pocket he'd use as a garrote to subdue Davenport. Just enough until he could gag, blindfold, and handcuff him.
When he peeked around the corner, he couldn't believe his eyes. She was levitating across the torn-up field, head held high, hair streaming in her wake like seaweed, as naked as a Playboy foldout. This was her idea of a flash?
Davenport had seen her all right. He was hypnotized. Didn't even hear the twigs snapping as Ned tiptoed up behind him.
Ned looped the towel around the Davenport's throat, drew it tight, the watchman letting out a pitiful yelp. Ned had been cold before; now he was sweating like a sumo wrestler. Soon he had Davenport hogtied and blindfolded, and he dragged him into the little shed and banged the door shut.
Shivering like a hairless cat in a meat locker, she hopped from foot to foot. "Put something on, will you?" he said. He tossed her his field jacket.
"Look out!" she shrieked. A growl preceded the throbbing pain he felt when the German shepherd clamped onto his hand. He slapped at the animal's head with his off hand, stumbling around in agony, the mutt attached to his hand like a snarling bear trap. With the dog slobbering all over him, flecks of spit stinging his eyes, Ned kicked the plug attached to the generator, and the lights went out.
He heard a twanging sound, saw the flash of steel in the moonlight, Peggy June flailing at the dog with a switchblade knife, which she promptly dropped.
"What the hell are you doing? Stick him in the gut for Chrissake!"
The pitiful moon flickered like a dying flashlight. She got down on her hands and knees, feeling around in the dirt. She found it, went after the animal, two handed this time, her breath hanging on the frigid air, her skin a smoky blue in the dim light, somehow managing to plunge the blade into the animal's jugular, the blood spouting high into the air, smearing her thighs and breasts and his field jacket with gore.
He hadn't known a dog could bleed that much. When he looked up, he could swear there were blood flecks on the sliver of a moon with the fearful yellow eye.
Peggy bound his hand in her underpants, and he got Baby started while Peggy ran back to get the truck.
Baby started like a Rolls Royce, the good smell of oil and grease and deisel fuel as soothing to him as the whiskey smell in the hot toddies his mother fixed him as a kid when he had a cold.
Above the growl of the Cat, he could hear the lurching semi making its way up the road. When she got there, he said, "Are you trying to drop the trannie in that thing?"
"This truck has more gears than a clock."
He lowered the trailer ramp and rolled Baby up into the chocks, then tucked her in like a toddler in its crib.
Peg was still shivering when they got to the abandoned farm.
"That was a stupid stunt," he said. "Why'd you take off all your clothes?!"
"Didn't think a flash would get his attention. The old perv was jerking off, did you see? You could have driven up with a Sherman tank and he wouldn'ta noticed."
He sighed. No use trying to reason with her. When he guided Baby out of the chocks, and out into the yard, he had a nagging feeling he'd screwed up bad, and when they got to the shed, he knew he had. "She's too damn big!" Peggy said.
"I can see, dammit it! I knew I should've brought my tools. Gonna have to detach the rollbars and the cab."
"You ever do that before?"
"Hell no. Why would I want to do that?
She shrugged.
"I'll hide her over there in that windbreak, cover her with the tarp. Nobody'll notice."
"That tarp is royal blue.'
"The tarp was in case of a leaky roof. Well, we better head on out. Looks like I'll have a lot of work to do tonight. Let's see, I'll need my blow torch, a good metal saw, a lug wrench."
"I'm coming along."
"No you're not. You get into a nice hot tub and wait for me and Little Ned."
#
The sun had poked its fiery-red nose above the horizon before he got the hat off Baby and stowed her away under the blue tarp in the shed. Luckily, hardly anyone used County Road 47 anymore and the nearest farm was over a mile away. Wielding the blow torch was especially awkward since his hand had swollen to the size of a catcher's mitt.
Ned drove the semi out onto the county road, then ran back and swept his tracks as well as he could. The switchblade began to nag at him. Had she intended to use it on Davenport? What if he'd gotten there a split second late? What a psycho! He'd almost wet his pants when he'd seen her floating across the field, looking like a stripper who'd just dropped her ostrich feathers.
He hoped he hadn't choked Davenport too hard. Seemed like he was breathing all right when he'd stuffed him in the shed. Should he call somebody just in case no one had found him yet? No, that would be stupid. Damn Caller I.D.
On his way back to town, he switched on the radio for company and to see if anyone had discovered Baby was missing. Uncle Art blathered on about the new ethanol plant scheduled to be built in Rail City. Then there was a beeping sound and Ned flinched in anticipation of that screeching emergency drill. Instead Uncle Art said, "This just in. In response to a citizen's complaint early this morning, Deputy Will Kneebone drove north to Grover Landing on the lake, where he found a body. The body was in a garbage bag, missing its head, hands, and feet."
Ned's first thought was that this had been a drug killing. His second supposition was that Peggy had been right about Art Voigt. Cornelius? Would he waste a childhood friend? Nah, most likely the Bradshaw boy. A little message for anyone else with loose lips.
Going too fast for conditions, Ned hit some black ice and had to fight the wheel of the big rig to stay on the road. He managed to straighten her out, but his heart beat like a tom tom, and his hand felt like a frozen stump. If Voigt would kill the Bradshaw boy for getting caught selling dope, what would he do to a guy who'd stolen a Cat worth a quarter million bucks?
Back at The Gates of Hades, Peg bathed his hand with soap and water, splashed on Iodine that burned like fucking napalm. Then she made him gulp a couple of penicillin tablets.
"What if the dog had rabies?" she said. "And you'll need a tetanus shot."
Ned couldn't help but think of Leonard Peltier, wasting away in a Federal prison, sick with lockjaw. "Fuck. Think about what you're saying, will you? They're gonna find that German shepherd you butchered. I've got a dog bite. That tell you anything?"
"How ‘bout if you say you broke your hand in that fight you had? Just keep it bandaged and nobody'll be any the wiser."
"Doc Benson ought to know the difference."
"There must be a vicious dog out where you live."
"I'll think of something. You hear about the body in the woods?"
"Nope, just got up."
"They found him in a garbage bag. No hands, no feet, decapitated. Think it's the Bradshaw boy?"
"The rapper clone who works at Karnowski's? Why would anyone want . . ."
"Will Kneebone caught him with a shitload of pot. Staked out the bait shop and nailed his supplier. Cornelius, would you believe?"
"No way."
"Yeah way. I think your old man had Bradshaw capped. Cornelius was about to finger Art and this is just his way of sending a message. Lucky thing you're his daughter or we could be in real trouble."
"What's this we shit, Lone Ranger?" She smiled her spooky one-sided smile. "Just kidding. We better get rid of the Cat as soon as possible. I'll call down to Dinkytown and see if I can find a middleman."
"You do that. Kind of hint at what you've got, okay? Those people will sell you down the river faster than an Arab slave trader. While you're at it, I'll contact my contractors in North Dakota."
"Don't bulldozers have serial numbers on them?"
"Way ahead of you. That's one of things that took me so long. They tell you where the serial numbers are in the manual. Baby's clean."
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"How'm I looking at you?"
"Like you're wondering how I escaped from the booby hatch."
"That switchblade you had . . ."
"I needed to have something to defend myself with, just in case the old man was tougher than we gave him credit for."
"I thought I told you ‘no weapons'. If you'd stuck Davenport, I'd do life right alongside you."
"They don't have coed prisons yet."
"You know what I mean."
"Read my lips. I . . . wasn't . . . going . . . to . . . stab . . . Davenport. Besides, without me and my pig sticker, you'd still be trying to get Cujo off you."
"There was so much blood. Could you believe a dog would have that much blood?"
"Speaking of blood, you need a new coat. Want me to visit the Good Will?"
"How'd you know I got it at the Good Will?"
"Just call me Jeanne Dixon."
#
The copper smell of blood pinched at Will's nostrils as he bundled up the dog in a tarp and placed it in his trunk. They'd need to send it to the BCA forensics lab for a thorough going over. The state cops must be wondering what in the hell was going on in White Tail County, what with the body in the garbage bag and everything. They were out there now, scouring the woods.
Back at the scene, Sheriff Tibbetts, one cheek bulging with chewing tobacco, and the Robideaux foreman were whispering together. Old Donovan sat in the Sheriff's cruiser, wrapped in a blanket.
Andy Tell, a part-time deputy and criminalist for White Tail County, and a forensic internist from Bemidji State were taking casts from the tire tracks of what looked like the vehicle that had carted away the D7R.
Will opened the passenger side of the cruiser, shifted over next to Donovan. "Want some coffee?" he said. "I brought my thermos with me."
The old man held his hand to his throat, where a red welt was beginning to bloom. "Don't tink I can swallow." Donovan had a clipped way of talking. German-American heritage. No such thing as a "th" sound.
Will poured himself a cup. He'd been heading home, just off the graveyard shift, when the dispatcher had radioed him. He was so tired there seemed to be two Davenports, one superimposed on the other. He sipped at the metallic tasting coffee, then asked, "Tell me what happened, Ben."
"A nekked woman was comin' ‘cross the field. Taught I must be sleepin'. Den somebody jumped me from behind and tried tuh choke me. Dat's when Butch attacked."
"Butch is the dog?"
"Dey kilt my poor Butch. Had him ten years."
"What did the woman look like?"
"Weren't noticin' her face, but it seems like she had long Injin' hair."
"Anybody you know?"
"Don't know no young girls."
"All right. Fine. How tall would you say she was?"
"Taller'n me, dat's for sure. Seems like she was lookin' down at me."
"Weight?"
"How the hell'm I suppose to know? My neck hurts. Can I see a doc?"
"We want to catch this person, Ben. If you'll bear with me. Was she heavy, thin?"
"Built like a brick shithouse. An' she had tits like dat Jane Russell in dem bra commercials."
Will sneezed and his nose was running. No handkerchief, no Kleenex. He tongued at his runny nose, tasting salt, then wiped it on his sleeve. "That'll help. How about the one who choked you?"
"Couldn't see him. Had rough hands. A workin' man."
"We'll get you to Doc Benson then. I might want to talk to you later."
"You do dat."
Will and the sheriff conferred briefly, the man's breath strong enough to wilt lettuce. "Get anything, Will?" he said.
"A man and a woman, the woman used as a decoy. Old Ben says the guy had rough hands. A working man."
"That's just about half the town of Plunder Lake."
"Maybe not. I think Ben would have noticed if he'd been from the fish processing plant."
Tibbetts grimaced, shifted his chew to the other cheek. "You want me to take Ben to the doc? Gotta check in with Too Tall Bengston and the BCA out there in the Big Woods anyways."
"Yeah, I want to look around a bit. Then I need to get some sleep before I pass out."
The sheriff spit in the weeds, then dug around in his cheek and flung the wad of snoose in the dirt.
Will drove north from the crime scene, trying to think where he'd hide the big Cat if he'd been the one who stole it. An old logging road? No, some hunter would definitely stumble across it. Most likely this was a professional job, and the Cat was already on its way to Canada. What about the naked woman, though? Did she even exist? There'd been a hint of whiskey on old Donovan's breath. Could it be that Donovan was involved in the theft? He'd been put out to pasture after working for Robideaux for forty years. The welt on his throat could have been self-inflicted. He doubted it, though. Donovan couldn't knock over an outhouse in a wind storm.#
Ned spent another sleepless night, this time because his hand wouldn't stop hurting him. On Thursday morning he broke down and drove to Doc Benson's in the new office building next to the German-American National Bank. The waiting room was packed and he had to wait an hour and a half before he could get to see the doctor. He spent the time alternately reading a Sports Illustrated article about Kirby Puckett's glaucoma and rereading Loretta's letter. About the tenth time, he noticed the Minneapolis postmark. Loretta'd been in the Cities when she'd mailed the letter. Was she living there now? If so, why hadn't she told him?
A woman next to him asked him how he hurt his hand. She was old enough to be his mother and he was inclined to tell her to mind her own business, but he just said, "Construction accident."
She then went on to tell him a long, involved story about how her husband Daryl had cut off his little toe chopping wood. Their one-sided conversation was interrupted when he was called into Doctor Benson's office.
He had to wait another half hour before Doc got around to him. Nothing to read. Just staring at the green stucco walls, wondering whether he should call Loretta's number in California to see if she was still there. That line of thought somehow segued to what he would do with the bulldozer. Maybe Bud Allyn's idea about selling the thing for parts wasn't such a bad idea. It had only taken him a few hours to remove the cab. Buddy Boy might even be willing to help. It had been his idea to steal that cow.
Doc Benson appeared in the doorway. "So you finally showed up?" he said, looking at him over the tops of his rimless glasses.
Ned exposed his hand, which he'd been hiding behind his back.
"Holy Yogi Berra!"
"The neighbor's got a pit bull. You know that place across the street from the old Mobil station? All kinds of drug addicts living there."
"I'm going to have to check that dog out for rabies."
"I think they're gone. They packed up and left when I said I was gonna sue."
"You'll need rabies shots, then. Lucky for you, they're not as painful as they used to be."
"He wasn't foaming at the mouth or anything. Just give me something to make the swelling go down."
"You'll need a tetanus booster for sure and the dog doesn't need to be foaming at the mouth in order to have rabies. I'll give you some salve for the hand and you can soak it. If there are no other complications, the swelling should go down in a few days."
"Don't tell anybody about this, okay Doc?"
"Who would I tell?"
"I don't know. Just in case somebody asks."
Doc gave him the over the tops of his glasses look again. He was worse than a Jewish mother. "Are we talking about the Cat that was stolen?"
"I didn't have nothing to do with that."
"Of course not. You'd never cut a dog's throat."
"They had all of that on the newscast? Don't they keep anything to themselves?"
"Yeah, well, it's not a murder case."
"I meant to ask, Doc. Did Peggy June ever show up about that lump on her breast?"
The doc sniggered. "That'll be the day; stubborn as a mule, that one. I'll stop over after office hours."


* In homage to John D. MacDonald 

Honest Thief, Tender Murderer is a work in progress. Comments appreciated. A published novel, SOLDIER'S GAP, is available on Amazon.com.