another first draft installment of, The Devil's Kettle.

“Please walk to the end of your chain.”

She had almost forgotten about the chain on her ankle, but did as he told her.

He attached the collar around her neck and activated it; He also placed handcuffs around her wrists before he unlocked the ankle clamp. She made no aggressive moves.

“Forgive me, but I’m going to demonstrate what this collar can do if you resist or try to escape.” 

Cassie steeled herself.

The pain was brief, but excruciating, dropping her to her knees. 

“I’m so sorry, but I wanted you to feel it so you don’t attempt anything. It will never happen again if you remain compliant.”

It took a few moments for her breathing to return to normal. Cassie put a hand to her throat and rubbed it as she stood. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Karonen’s face seemed to soften in recognition of what she said.

“All right. I’ll take you to her.” They turned left after they left the cell and followed the serpentine shaft. Cassie felt hopeless and curious. They encountered the opening to Karonen’s house  where he pulled a lever and opened the door to the living room. When they were through the opening, he closed the fireplace surround, led her through another doorway and down a short hallway. 

The freshly oiled hinges eased the opening of Methodist’s door. Karonen motioned Cassie inside. He followed close behind. The dim light forced Cassie to move haltingly toward the bed. She could discern a shape under the covers that moved up and down to the whirring sound of a ventilator. She could hear the oxygen forced into Methodist’s lungs and then released as the inexorable whirring rose and fell. 

Cassie’s eyes adjusted to the dim light and she noticed an IV tube attached to Methodist’s left arm. She watched the slow drip, drip as it made it’s way through the tube and into the young woman’s arm. 

Karonen encouraged her to move closer to Methodist. When Cassie did she was surprised to see the woman’s eyes were open and her pupils were twitching minutely from side to side. Cassie inhaled a deep breath and touched the young woman’s forehead with the back of her hand. As she did so, Methodist blinked. Startled, Cassie jerked her hand back. 

Karonen leaned forward, eyes intense. “She moved, my god, she moved.”

Cassie stood speechless, moving her mouth, but no words emerged. 

Karonen looked at Cassie. A broad smile stretched across his face and he said, “I knew it, I knew you would do it.” He squeezed Cassie’s shoulder and patted her lightly on the back.

Cassie recovered. “She moved her eyes when I touched her.”

Karonen removed the ventilator mask from Methodist’s face and turned the machine off.

Surprised, Cassie looked on. The woman continued breathing, although shallower and more labored.

“It’s all right,” he said to Cassie. “I’ve done this before. The ventilator only assists her. It makes her breathing easier.” He hung the tube around a hook on the IV stand and returned his gaze to Methodist. “Talk to her,” he said to Cassie.

“What do I say?”

“Tell her who you are, what you’ve done, where you’re from—everything you can think of. She’ll hear you, I’m sure of it.” He touched Methodist’s forearm near the IV.

Cassie spoke, telling Methodist everything about her life. The words flowed from her lips in strokes of bold sincerity. Karonen listened to her story, even more assured he had chosen the right person to awaken Methodist. His interest intensified when she mentioned a man she had arranged to meet at the North Star motel and help her find family members. She explained how he had disappeared before meeting with her. 

Karonen noted the timeline and posited the man she described was the fisherman he had abducted and killed. The anguish he felt at that time returned and he ended the session with Methodist, explaining that she was tiring and needed to rest.

Cassie was disappointed in the interruption. Relieving herself of the pain in her life had been a cathartic experience, one that she had no idea would be so consoling. She said goodbye to Methodist and was escorted to her cell, where Karonen removed the shock collar and left.

Every morning following breakfast, during the next thirty days, Karonen attached the collar around Cassie’s neck and escorted her to Methodist’s bedside. Cassie talked about losing her parents and growing up in foster homes. She spoke of the depths of her pain because of her loss, and the void it continued to leave in her life. She spoke of the difficulty  of finding any living relatives and the hopes she had of establishing family relationships. And every time she mentioned Tom Hecimovich, Karonen stirred.

Karonen stayed and listened to everything. At times, without showing it, he found himself weeping for Cassie, empathizing with her situation and hoping everything would end well for all three individuals present in that room. 

At the beginning of Cassie’s second month in ‘therapy,’ a significant event took place.

Another first draft section of The Devil's Kettle.

As the man opened his car door he was bathed in the dome light. Bald, tattoos on his neck and piercings in his lower lip helped distinguish him from what they would have considered to be a ‘normal’ visitor to the bridge at this time of night. He clutched a plastic bag when he emerged from the vehicle and covered the short distance separating them. He stood eight feet away.

The man gestured to a bench overlooking the Lester River. It was located twenty-feet to their left. In unison, all three bodies ambled to it.

He spoke. “I have it all. Show me the money.”

Hodges, held the briefcase he had bought at the Duluth Pack store earlier. He placed it on the bench. The dealer alarmed them at first when he reached inside of his jacket. They relaxed when he pulled out a tiny flashlight and flicked it on. When he reached down, unlatched the briefcase and raised the lid, shining the light inside to reveal the contents, Hodges acted. He withdrew the small caliber automatic and pointed it at the dealer who backed away a step with his hands raised.

“Shoulda known you weren’t for real. Stick me up for this?” He held the bag high. “You want it, you’re gonna have to swim for it.” He wound up to toss it in the river.

“We don’t want it,” Hodges said. The dealer stopped, confused. 

He looked at them. “What the hell do you want?”

“Information. Tell us what you know about Tom Hecimovich and the last time you saw or talked to him,” Hodges said.

“So this really does have something to do with Tom, huh? I was beginning to think it was just bullshit.”

Hodges gestured with the gun, a gesture that said, ‘just tell us about Tom, asshole’.

Mancoat and Hodges heard the unmistakable noise of a pump-action shotgun being readied for firing behind them.

“How dumb you fellas think I am that I’d come out here without backup. That sound you heard was Freddy with a sawed-off, twelve gauge shotgun a fixin’ to blow a hole the size of Rhode Island through you two.” The emerging moonlight shone in his eyes, giving an otherworldly look to an already strange looking human being.

Hodges betrayed no emotion while Mancoat’s body trembled. “It would appear that we have a standoff,” he said.

“A Mexican standoff, I’d say.  Ain’t that somethin’? Freddy, keep your gun on ‘em till we figure out what we’re gonna do.” He stood by  the bench, keeping his eyes on Mancoat and Hodges.

“We have a conundrum,” Hodges said. “May I propose a solution?”

“Got a few solutions myself, but you go first. I’m curious.” The dealer, flipped the brief case off the bench and sat down.

Hodges kept the automatic trained on him as he moved. “All right, why doesn’t…Freddy, come into view and we both lower our weapons, then, like civilized men, we can converse. Since we brought you out here on false pretenses we will reimburse you an appropriate amount of cash, after you answer our questions. In the end, everyone goes their separate ways.”

The dealer rubbed his lower back. “Sorry, I got a bad disc. The doctor says I might need surgery at some point, but, all I got is Obamacare, high deductibles, copays, you know the story. Anyway, I digress. What kind of reimbursement you talking about?”

“It depends upon the information you provide,” Hodges said. Mancoat tried not to reveal his nervousness.

“About Tom!”

“Yes, everything you know would be very appreciated.”

“Freddy,” the dealer yelled. “Get over here!” Freddy turned out to be female. In the partial light of the moon, she looked about thirty, fine figure with short, black hair. 

“Okay with you if we lower the guns on three?” 

Hodges nodded.

“Okay, one…two…three,” the dealer counted. Freddy and Hodges slowly lowered their weapons.

“Now, Tom was a unique individual. I liked him, but he was a little messed up.” 

That’s like this reprobate calling Al Capone a small time hood, Mancoat thought. 

The dealer continued. “I’ve known him for a long time, and I suspect he may not be with us anymore. I don’t think you guys know Tom. You got my number from somebody else or maybe you got into his paperwork and found my number. I don’t know. Personally, I think Tom’s dead. Doesn’t make any difference anymore. He was a small piece of my business. One thing, you want to know is that he always used the name Richard Gabrielson when he bought from me—kind of a kick at his adoptive parents I think.”

“So you didn’t have anything to do with his disappearance?” Hodges asked.

The dealer looked hurt. “That’s a big negatory; Tom was okay and we had a mutually beneficial relationship, but you learn to move on. Anyway, I’d check with his adoptive parents, maybe they finally got tired of his bullshit act and offed him.”

Change of title from, "Murder on the North Shore", to, "The Devil's Kettle".

Early in the evening at the Inn, Hodges and Mancoat were surprised by a knock at their door. Sheila Cadotte stood at the doorway holding a bottle of red wine and a six-pack of Leinenkugel’s Creamy Dark. 

The grin across Mancoat’s face wouldn’t quit as he opened his arms wide and bowed as he showed her in.

“Ms. Cadotte, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company… and the liquid sustenance?” Hodges asked.

Cadotte giggled as she popped the cork on the bottle of cabernet she had brought for Hodges and twisted off the caps of two beers for her and Mancoat. 

Hodges went to the cupboard, found a cheap wine glass and held it out for Cadotte to pour. She did it with a smile and then showed him the label.

“Ah, Balnaves Cabernet Sauvignon, from Australia. A civilized choice, no doubt,” Hodges said

“Better be, I paid thirty-nine bucks for this stuff, Jasper…before tax.”

Hodges nodded in appreciation. “Well, thank you very much. Shall we sit at the table and discuss what the reason is for our apparent celebration?” He winked and edged himself into a chair.

Mancoat and Cadotte tipped their beers and joined him. 

“This is wonderful, Sheila. Creamy Dark is one of my favorites,” Mancoat said.

“Be truthful, Earl, they’re all you’re favorites,” Hodges quipped.

Cadotte placed her beer on the table and went to her bag. She held several copies of news articles in her hands and spread them on the table evenly. “Read through these, wait, on second thought, that would take too long, I’ll summarize for you. The long and the short of it, god I love that expression, don’t you?” she said. Neither Hodges or Mancoat responded, but only stared at her.

“Well, guess, the feeling is not mutual on the expression,” she said. Hodges sighed and rapped his fingers on the table. She took note and continued. “I started looking into the past articles about the disappearances of all three of the victims, some of which I had written, and looked at possible links between the three people.” 

Mancoat was getting excited, “And you found some! What are they?”

The smile disappeared from Cadotte’s face and her expression changed to a cringe. “Well, not exactly links between the victims where they knew each other,” she said.

“I am confused,” Hodges said as he stopped rapping his knuckles on the table and placed his chin in his hand and rested his elbow on the table. “Was it another person they had in common, that they all knew?”

Cadotte’s smile returned. “Possibly,” she said in a teasing voice.

Mancoat popped in. “Somebody, we ran into as we’ve talked to people?”

Cadotte’s extended her hands and did a wavering motion, palm up, palm down while she tilted her head from side to side.

“Someone we should interview that we haven’t thought of yet?” Hodges guessed, feeling embarrassed that he had been sucked into a twenty-question guessing game. Cadotte hesitated in her response.

A frustrated Mancoat blurted, “Come on, tell us what you got, Sheila. Seth’s out there, maybe still alive.”

Sheila put her hands down and sat on her chair. “Okay, okay.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t resist having a little fun. This is what I’ve got.” She plucked three articles from the pile and placed them separately from the others. “Each of these articles is about one of the victims. So, there’s one about Seth, the most recent, one about Cassie Bandleson, the second person to disappear, and the first one to go missing, Tom Hecimovich.” She looked at Mancoat and Hodges. They both looked back with expressions that said, ‘get on with it’. “Well, it turns out that all three victims, uh, missing persons, might have stayed at the North Star Motel.” She winked and smiled.

Mancoat’s mouth opened and stayed open for several moments until he said, “That’s it, that’s the link? Might have stayed at the North Star Motel? And why do you say might have stayed at the North Star Motel? I don’t understand how you get a might out of your articles, and how a might, helps us!”

Hodges, ignoring Mancoat, leaned back and appeared to contemplate what Cadotte had said. “Explain further, Ms. Cadotte… please.”

Cadotte dug underneath the larger stack of articles and found a topographical map. She pointed. “Here’s the lake in Tettegouch where Hecimovich supposedly fell out of the boat and was swept down to Lake Superior.” Her finger traced a pathway two miles away where Hodges and Mancoat had postulated that Bandleson could have been abducted, but then her finger traced the thirty miles back to Palisade Head where they thought Seth Tryton had been last known to have visited. “And then, look at the location of the North Star Motel, it’s pretty much in the middle of the three disappearances.”

Austin Public Library Event

I'll be attending a Page Turner's event in Austin on April 28. Allen Eskers will be presenting and reading from one of his novels. I recently read his first book, The Life We Bury. It was a terrific read and I'm looking forward to listening, asking questions, and gaining insight about his writing process.

I believe that the writers' group I'm in will be involved in a workshop he will put on the same day.  Looking forward to the entire day.