Cold Rain

By John R. Riggs

Cold Rain is the 17th book in the Garth Ryland mystery series. Called an exemplary series hero by Publishers Weekly, Ryland lives and works in the small town of Oakalla, Wisconsin (Lake Woebegone made sinister) where passions run high, scars go deep, and the face of innocence wears a crooked grin.
Rylands morning starts badly on a cold wet December morning and goes downhill from there, as the word comes out that detective Michael Higgins, Rylands friend and surrogate son, is missing in action. Helen Shirer is being stalked. When she sees someone lead her horse from her barn, she calls 911 for help. Michael takes Helens 911 call and then fails to arrive at her house or call in his position. Thats when Danny Palmer calls Garth and they go in search of him. When they find Michaels 4Runner upside down in Owl Creek at the foot of Camp Collier, it plunges them into a dark mystery that is as deadly as it is deep.
Who is Helen Shirers stalker and why is she being stalked? Where was Michael going when he took the call and why did he drive off Owl Creek bridge? Why does Michaels captain, Ross Frazier, threaten and then try to stonewall Ryland? How does a fresh Christmas tree magically appear on the front porch of Michaels widow and why does she now turn to Ryland for comfort after she has spurned him in the past? Why did John White Bear bring a weapon to school to show Helen Shirer, only to then be expelled by his principal? And who is trying to do Ryland great bodily harm, and why? These are only a few of the questions that he must answer if he is ever to get to the truth of Michaels death. To further complicate matters, two of his most able allies, Danny Palmer and Ruth, Rylands housekeeper, are not at their best and have their own demons to slay.
In this, one of his most harrowing journeys to date, Ryland must try to penetrate a heart of darkness that has no seams, only victims. And like the December rain that falls on Michael Higgins lifeless body, is as pure as it is cold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496970039

John R. Riggs

John R. Riggs John R. Riggs is the son of Samuel H. Riggs (1913-2002) and Lucille Ruff Riggs (1918-2000) and the brother of C. A. Riggs, Prescott, Arizona. John was born February 27, 1945 in Beech Grove, Indiana, and in 1949 he and his family moved to Mulberry, Indiana, where they owned and operated Riggs Dairy Bar for a number of years. John attended Mulberry Schools (1951-1961) and graduated from Clinton Prairie High School in 1963. He credits his teachers at Mulberry and Clinton Prairie for their direction and inspiration and for grounding him in the fundamentals of thought and action so necessary for meeting the challenges of life. John then entered Indiana University, Bloomington, where he was a member of Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity and rode in the Little 500. While there he earned a BS in social studies and an MA in creative writing. He later attended the University of Michigan, studying conservation and environmental communications. On September 2, 1967, John married Cynthia Perkins (1945-2002), and their children are Heidi Zimmerman, Mansfield, Ohio and Shawn Riggs, Colorado Springs, Colorado. On July 1, 1988, he married Carole Gossett Anderson and their children are Flint Anderson, Coatesville, Indiana and Susan Shorter, Spencer, Indiana. Since 1971, John has lived in Putnam County, Indiana, currently on a small farm southeast of Greencastle. While in Putnam County, he has worked as an English teacher, football coach, quality control foreman, carpenter, and wood splitter. From 1979-1998 he assisted James R. Gammon of DePauw University with Gammon’s landmark research on the Wabash River. He recently retired from DePauw University Archives, but continues to mix chemicals for Co-Alliance, Bainbridge. John is the author of 18 published books in the Garth Ryland mystery series, and the 2001 Bicentennial History bulletins for the Indiana United Methodist Church. He has also written River Rat, a coming of age novel; Of Boys and Butterflies, his ongoing memoirs; and numerous essays. Me, Darst, and Alley Oop, a travel odyssey and his first extended work of non-fiction, was published in 2016.

Book preview

COLD Rain

D awn went from orange to pink to blood red in the time that it took for me to walk from home to my office. Then the red went to purple, the purple to gray. Within the hour, it began to rain.

Three cups of coffee later it was still raining. I was still sitting at my desk in search of inspiration, or that failing, the wherewithal to get up and go out into the rain for an early lunch at the Corner Bar and Grill.

I am Garth Ryland, owner and editor of the Oakalla Reporter, a weekly newspaper in the small town of Oakalla, Wisconsin. The desk at which I was sitting was solid oak and had come from the boiler room of my father’s dairy in Godfrey, Indiana. So had the walnut captain’s chair in which I sat. Both were reminders of that lifetime ago when life was simple and sweet, the good guys all wore white hats, and nearly everything that I would ever want to do was yet to be done. And my only regret, which I’d kept to this day, was that summer was too short and winter too long.

The phone rang. Ryland here, I said.

Palmer here. You want to take a ride with me?

Where are we going?

Helen Shirer’s place.

Any particular reason?

She made a 911 call about a half hour ago. Michael Higgins took it.

And?

I’ve not heard from him since.

I’ll be here at my office.

I’m on my way.

Helen Shirer taught English at Oakalla High School and had for the past thirty years. Michael Higgins was a detective for the Wisconsin State Police. Married in September, Michael and his bride had moved to Oakalla in October and were renting Hattie Peeler’s old place with the option to buy. It seemed reasonable that he would take the 911 call, particularly if he were off duty, since Adams County was short of police officers. It didn’t seem reasonable that he hadn’t reported back with his position.

Danny Palmer honked as he drove by on Gas Line Road before making the right turn onto Berry Street. I met him in the parking lot on the east side of the building, where I got into a brown Impala police car with a red-and-blue bubble light on top. The police car had formerly belonged to Town Marshal Cecil Hardwick, who, after a long battle with duty and conscience, resigned in favor of conscience. It was now kept parked in front of the City Building, awaiting its new owner, who had yet to be hired by the town council.

Danny and I went east along Gas Line Road and straight into the wind, as the rain pelted the windshield like hard shelled bugs and draped a long gray skirt over everything in sight. November rains were the norm in Wisconsin. Mid-December rains were not. By then you expected snow, followed by bone-chilling cold, followed by more snow—something that put you in the mood for Christmas and made you sing fa la la la la as you climbed into the attic to start hauling down decorations. The last thing you wanted was a cold rain that seeped into your soul and stayed there.

Have you heard anything from Michael yet? I asked.

No.

He say where he was when he took the call?

No. Only that he was in the neighborhood.

Which means what?

Your guess is as good as mine, Garth. But wherever he was, he should have been at Helen Shirer’s by now.

Have you tried to call her?

No.

Why not?

He took a moment before he said, Because I was afraid she wouldn’t answer.

Danny was the owner of the Marathon service station, Oakalla’s volunteer fire chief, past president of the school board, current president of the town board, member of the county council, a deacon in his church, and in my mind, the one person that Oakalla could least do without. But he had gone South to help following hurricane Katrina and come back a changed man. It was like the weight of all of his years of public service had finally caught up to him, and like Atlas, he was sagging under it. I was surprised that he was with me now, since the last thing in which he wanted to be involved was police work.

Do you have your cell phone with you? I said.

Yes. But not Helen’s number.

Call the Marathon. Sniffy could get it for us.

He could, but why bother? By the time he looks it up, we’ll already be there.

__________________

H elen Shirer lived along County Road M, a hill and a hollow west of Camp Collier. Camp Collier was an Army training camp during World War II and then a Boy Scout camp during the 1950s and 1960s, up until the Boy Scouts ran out of money to maintain it. Since then, it had been abandoned, used primarily by hunters, fishermen, and hikers, who went there in search of game and solitude, and to test themselves against its rugged terrain. I had once gone there to fish for trout, but not since that May when the Lost Scout and I had our rendezvous there.

The hill between Camp Collier and Helen Shirer’s house started at Owl Creek, rose on a steep climb with a stand of aspens on its north face and jack pine on its south, and then began its long slide down into the hollow where Helen’s house stood. The house was a two-story white frame farmhouse with a black shingled roof covering its two gables and a black tar roof over its front porch. A hipped white barn with a new black tin roof stood at the end of an oval limestone drive about fifty yards from the house, and a small creek ran south to north along the east side of the yard and then made a hard turn west behind the barn and disappeared into a woods. My glance went from house to barn to yard to creek. I hoped to see Michael’s patrol car parked somewhere on the property, but it was nowhere in sight.

I got out of the car. Danny stayed where he was. Aren’t you coming? I asked.

He shook his head no.

Helen must have been watching from the window because she hurried out of the house into the rain to greet me. Thank God, she said. Someone finally came.

I was now more worried than ever. Michael Higgins never came by? I said.

Who is Michael Higgins?

The state cop who lives in Hattie Peeler’s old place. The last we heard, he was on his way here.

Well, she said, as she swept her arm in a wide arc, as you can see, he never made it. I was starting to think nobody was coming. She began to shiver. I helped her onto her front porch where we’d be dry at least. I’m sorry, she said.

It’s okay. But as I surveyed the empty barnyard, I already knew that it wasn’t.

A couple of minutes later she stopped shivering. A few seconds after that she pulled away from me and sat down heavily on the porch swing, giving the chains a jolt.

Sit, she said, patting the swing beside her.

I sat. Wherever Michael was, I had to go through Helen to find him.

What’s the matter with Danny? she said. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

I glanced at the car, where Danny sat stone-faced, staring straight ahead. A lot of them, I’m thinking.

Welcome to the club. But when I looked at her for an explanation, she shook her head and looked away.

Helen Shirer was one of those rare people who never seem to age. With her large brown eyes, willowy frame, flawless skin, and short dark Paul McCartney hair, little did it matter whom she saw in the mirror before she put on her makeup. What the world at large saw, men in particular, was not Helen Shirer herself, but her vulnerability—those passionate waif-like eyes asking you for your protection. Never mind that she neither wanted nor needed it, that she might freeze you with a stare the moment it was offered. The illusion was what persisted—the illusion of need that flattered your manhood and kept Helen Shirer forever young.

So what’s going on? I said.

Helen smoothed the leg of her jeans, folded her arms against her denim jacket and hugged herself. I wish I knew. But somebody’s stalking me.

You’re sure? What I mean is, how do you know that’s what’s going on?

Phone calls, but nobody’s there. Nobody who ever speaks anyway. Visits in the night. Visits in the day when nobody’s home. A visit today when someone was home.

Someone came here today?

Yes. That’s why I called 911.

Did you see him?

Yes and no. I saw someone slip into the barn. A moment later I saw Buttermilk come out of the barn and head for the road. I ran out of the house and caught her before she could get there.

Is Buttermilk a cow?

No. She’s my riding mare. And it’s not the first time lately that someone has let her out of the barn.

Did you recognize the person?

No.

Then what did the person look like?

An apparition.

I studied her face to see if she was serious. She seemed to be.

Do you mind explaining that?

Look at the barn. What do you see?

Rain mostly. Wisps of fog here and there.

Now imagine someone dressed all in gray, who seems to float from place to place as if upon the wind. What comes to mind, Garth?

A double martini on an empty stomach.

Maybe later today, but not at ten in the morning.

Sometimes our eyes play tricks on us and see just what we want them to.

Not in this case. What I saw was the last thing I wanted to see. But you’re going to have to take my word on that.

Do you have any idea who this person is?

No. Not really.

She said it like she meant it. So why didn’t I believe her?

No secret admirers or old or new enemies?

None that I know of, but as a teacher you never really know.

About admirers or enemies?

Both. One can easily become the other.

And often does.

So I’m told.

I glanced at Danny who remained in the car. He too looked like an apparition, as if he had assumed the spirit of the day.

I stood. It was past time to move on. Do you have any idea how this person got here? I said.

No. A car drove by earlier, but it didn’t stop.

Did you get a look at it?

No. I heard it. That was all.

What direction was it going?

East.

Which was in the direction of Camp Collier.

Thanks. We’ll check it out.

You won’t find anything. She seemed certain.

You never know.

CHAPTER 2

I wasn’t aware of being cold until I got back in the Impala. Then I felt myself shiver.

I’m sorry, Garth, Danny said. But when I told my legs to move, they wouldn’t. It was if someone had put his hard cold hand against my chest.

Don’t worry about it, I said.

But he was worried about it. It showed on his normally smiling face. It’s funny, Garth. You answer the call a thousand times, and you think you always will. Then one day you give your legs a simple command, and they refuse to obey.

Is this the first time it’s happened?

The first time here. A couple times in New Orleans I had to wonder. After the second time, I decided to come home.

Maybe one too many missions, I said.

Or one too many bodies. Motionless until then, he started the car and put it in gear. What did you find out? he said.

Someone is stalking her.

She know who?

She says she doesn’t.

You don’t believe her?

Hard to say at this point. But if I had to guess, she was holding out on me.

People, he said, letting me draw my own conclusion.

What do you mean by that?

If she didn’t want our help, why bother to call 911?

Reassurance, I suppose.

Danny turned the car around in Helen’s drive and then stopped when we got to the road. Where to from here?

East. At least as far as Camp Collier. Helen said she heard a car drive by headed in that direction. Maybe her stalker was in it.

That’s a long shot, Garth.

Better than none at all. You heard anything from Michael?

Not a peep. I had the radio on the whole time I was in the car.

Doesn’t he have a transponder? I would think that all state police cars would have.

If he does, it’s not operational. That’s the first thing I checked when he didn’t report back.

So the state police know he’s missing.

Yes. But it might be no big deal since he’s off duty.

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