Mill Creek Malice

By Clark Haberman

The animal stench triggers Dawn’s gag reflex. The constant grinding of stone on stone irritably attacks her frayed nerves, and then it abruptly stops. Odd scratching sounds echo in her half-conscious state. She pulls herself into a sitting position and stares at a cage door. She gasps at the thing peering into her eyes.
A year before the CJ Hand arrives as the new instructor at Loess Hills Community College, the former instructor disappears. Local law enforcement seeks help from the Department of Justice. The Federal investigators run into problems and ask CJ to lend his expertise with the strange case involving native plants. On finding the miraculous plant in question, he launches into the geocaching world at meteoric speed. The geocache note, written in riddles, places him in the grip of matching wits with a killer.
Complicating the case is his summer class which begins in two weeks. The new dean, Dr. Dearth, adds to his mental and physical stability by suggesting CJ is in violation of his teaching contract.
Time is against him and his cohorts working the missing person case, Tom Thies and Dr. Trisha Baker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clark Haberman
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476155340

Clark Haberman

C. G. Haberman retired in Nebraska after teaching twenty years with twenty years of professional environmental work sandwiched in between. His science-teaching experience covered secondary, community college, and four-year liberal arts institutions. His environmental work spanned three States over twenty years and involved enforcement work.

Book preview

WHERE AM I? Christ, I wish I could tell you. Right now, I can’t see ten yards down the Interstate.

An 18-wheeler blew past, throwing a tidal wave of water over the driver’s side of his Jeep.

Holy shit!

The gray Jeep bucked from the wash of air and water. CJ Hand slowed the Jeep to a crawl. Through the sheets of water slamming against his windshield, he could barely make out an I-29 overpass. The rain had started outside Vermillion, South Dakota, beginning like many spring showers—a gentle patter—and rapidly turned torrential, flooding the grassed Interstate median. The half-full roadside ditches violently flowed toward Brule Creek, a tributary to the Big Sioux River.

Hang on, Dee. I’ll be back in a second. He tossed the cell phone on the passenger seat and eased the trailer-towing Jeep onto the asphalt shoulder, coasting to a stop behind a Cadillac sedan. The overpass protected his Jeep and trailer from the nasty weather. Another semi roared by, leaving a wake of water sloshing against cars and pickups waiting out the storm that washed over the Interstate.

Truckers, he exclaimed and picked up the cell phone. I’m here, I think, he said, half laughing. He turned on the warning flashers. Wow, I made it just in time; hail is starting to pound down. He turned the windshield wipers to low and watched quarter-sized ice lumps bounce and skitter on the pavement beyond the overpass. The Sioux Falls radio played a country song; the wipers swept the windshield in time with the country music beat.

Are you okay? Dee Brown asked. She watched the weather radar from her office.

I’m fine if I quickly grow fins. If this keeps up much longer, I might float into the Big Sioux.

Where are you?

Best guess … ten, maybe twelve, miles south of Beresford, why?

There’s a confirmed tornado on the ground northeast of Jefferson.

Oh, good.

The hail cloud rapidly moved on, pummeling crops along a northeasterly path. The rainstorm subsided to a gentle downpour.

Guess I need to tune to something other than George Strait. Through the weak connection, he could hear her laugh.

You’re fading. I’ll call when I get to the Iowa line. He barely heard her. I love you. I’ll see you on Sunday. A blinding lightning bolt struck a fence-line cottonwood, igniting the upper third in a shower of sparks and a fiery plume. The thunderclap hit the Jeep with a shuddering force. Damn, I love the prairie. He clicked off and drove from the overpass protection.

South of his planned Beresford exit flashing lights bathed I-29. Two state troopers and three county sheriff automobiles blocked the northbound lanes. CJ once again flipped on the warning flashers and eased to a stop behind a Dodge Ram pickup; traffic began to pile up behind him. The second semi that earlier drenched him sat jackknifed across both northbound lanes. An overturned minivan lay in the median, the driver’s side damaged. Ahead, two ambulances, and a tow truck wheeled their way onto the Interstate via the exit ramp.

It took nearly thirty minutes to clear the semi blocking the lanes. When the time came, CJ cautiously steered past the patrol cars and flaggers and glanced at the minivan, where several rescue personnel used the jaws-of-life. He sped up to sixty-five, and within minutes he reached the South Dakota Route 46 exit. At the west edge of Beresford, CJ pulled into a truck plaza, swung around to the rear of the business, and parked. He sat for a few minutes gathering his wits, pondering what the hell he’d started for himself.

Butterflies flitted in his acidic gut. He had become nervous about the teaching job. The storm and his vague conversation with Tom Thies didn’t help his confidence level. He’d never been an instructor in a formal college setting; his teaching experience consisted of workshops and lectures for a consulting firm in Lincoln, Nebraska. CJ’s college teaching consisted of one enforcement class for a small liberal arts college in Washington. Last year he helped David with hands-on fieldwork at Webster Central High School.

The community college Dean, Associate Dean, and three faculty members interviewed him last spring. After the interview, he used the latest teaching technology to present a short lesson. His lesson was a true-life experience he developed into a problem-based learning exercise.

After the rain stopped, he strolled toward the truck plaza. The sound of country music, the smell of fried food, and the flicker of faint fluorescent lights assaulted his senses when he opened the entrance door. He found the men’s restrooms to the left. Behind a sizeable counter to his right cashiers calmly helped harried and tired truckers. Three women and a young lad—their fingers flashing over computer keyboards—waited on truckers lined up to pay for fuel and food.

Beyond the restrooms, he found crowded aisles of snack foods, magazines, paperbacks, and overpriced knickknacks. On the right, immediately across from the quick shop, loomed a noisy restaurant. A large U-shaped, wood-grained counter dominated the entryway. Beyond there stood booths and tables, which included an area with the sign: Truck Drivers Only. Two middle-aged women worked in that area, while three young women served the restaurant area. CJ watched the truckers watch the young women dressed in gaping white blouses and tight blue slacks.

A buffet occupied the middle of the dining area. The selection of food included: salads, piles of meat, umpteen potato preparations, bread, and many desserts that would assure a thirty-pound weight gain.

What can I get for ya, honey, the older waitress asked. She carried an extra twenty pounds on her five-foot, four-inch frame, wore heavy red lipstick, dark eyeliner, and used layers of pale powder to cover acne scars. But she did have great cleavage.

Coffee and ice water, CJ replied.

We got some good pie and cake. It looks like you could use some meat on those bones. She gave him a toothy grin.

No, thanks, he said and grimaced.

Passing through or stayin’ the night? She poured his coffee. If you’re lookin’ to stay overnight, we can fix you up with a nice Sioux Falls woman.

Really. I’m just passing through on my way to Iowa.

You’re gonna become an Iwegian. Sad, sad, you know what I.O.W.A. stands for, don’t ya? She howled and walked away.

CJ watched her make rounds, refilling coffee mugs, and chatting with several truckers, perhaps arranging for a young Sioux Falls woman or two. Hell, maybe a threesome. His cell phone vibrated; the sensation raised a chuckle. He scanned the screen.

Hello, David, he said, his voice carrying a hint of humor.

What’s so funny? David asked.

I had set my cell phone on vibrate, CJ chuckled, I had the opportunity to lose my virginity.

Where the hell are you? David said. And, I damn well know you’re no virgin.

Beresford, South Dakota.

That small town offers prostitution?

Hey, what does size have to do with— he abruptly stopped when David guffawed. Not what I meant.

We’re joining you at your new home on Sunday. I’ve got the rest of your belongings stored in our van.

You don’t know how much I appreciate your help. CJ eyed the waitress, still making rounds. Your positive influence with the dean at the community college made this move possible.

Not a problem, we’ll be staying with Dee Saturday night. Julie’s looking forward to catching up on Dee’s work and business classes.

A loud laugh broke out to CJ’s left.

What the heck’s going on? David said.

A trucker got a pair of panties pulled over his head.

Maybe I should teach in Beresford, David chuckled.

What time on Sunday?

After lunch, likely around two, but you never know with our women, David said. we’re looking forward to visiting your bachelor pad. Take care.

The waitress brought his check. You sure we can’t help you, honey?

No, thanks, no dessert. He winked and took the check.

CJ slid into the Jeep and unfolded the Iowa and South Dakota maps. It was twenty miles to the Iowa border and another thirty miles to Drumlin.

As he pulled onto Route 46, a small ray of sunlight glinted from a water puddle on the asphalt highway. He hoped this was a good omen for the work with his old friend. Tom Thies needed CJ’s immediate help with plant biology on a missing person case. When CJ asked what plants had to do with the missing person, he met an awkward silence followed by a vague answer.

Chapter 2

HE CROSSED OVER the Big Sioux River into Iowa as the disgusting weather rapidly moved to the east. CJ slowed for the S-curve connecting the un-numbered road to Iowa County Road B48, the two-lane, farm-to-market concrete ribbon leading him to Drumlin. His cell phone, resting on the passenger seat, chirped. The call screen display: T2.

CJ plucked the small phone from an upholstered crevice. Hey, Tom.

What’s your whereabouts? Tom asked.

Just entered Iowa, preparing to turn onto county road B48, CJ answered.

What’s your ETA?

About an hour, CJ said, after glancing at the dash clock and speedometer. It was nearing four o’clock.

We’ll meet you and help unload before your new career begins.

You mean I won’t have to sleep on my air mattress tonight?

If you want, but that means we’ll have to drink beer without you.

I’ll be there in an hour. CJ speeded out of the valley. Looking forward to a cold one, after we unload. He smiled when he heard Tom chuckle.

CJ pressed a single key. Hey.

You survived the storm?

Yep. He slowed for a pickup pulling onto the two-lane road. A waitress took care of my evening.

Dee’s voice was clear but held a hint of exhaustion. What do you mean … took care of?

He told me about his experience at the truck plaza.

Mister Hand, if you can’t wait forty-eight hours … I’ll stay in Yankton.

No sense of humor today?

Rough day, Dee sighed, we had a tragedy with a young aide. She wasn’t more than sixteen; she took her life.

I’m sorry, I—

I’ll fill you in on Sunday. He heard the sigh. Julie called; she wanted me to know they plan to stay over in Drumlin. You know a good place other than your apartment?

He hesitated. There’s a motel in town, but they can stay with us.

That might interfere with my plans. She stifled her giggle.

I’ll get a motel room, he said, but I’ll probably have little energy.

CJ, I’ve never known you to be too exhausted for a frolic.

The pickup he trailed slowed and turned north onto a gravel road. Perhaps you should come over this evening.

Dee said, It’ll be better if you have to wait. She tapped on the phone. I can’t wait to get you nude. Bye. A chuckle, a click, and the phone went quiet.

Wow.

***

The sky was cloudless when he arrived at the fourplex. It was five minutes before five. Tom Thies leaned against the front fender of an older, white Ford Explorer. Next to him stood a familiar figure: Dr. Trisha Baker wore a scant summer dress, revealing a toned and tanned body.

Two parking pads, separated by three trimmed yews, fronted the red-brick fourplex. A mowed bluegrass lawn covered the space between the parking area and the white-trimmed complex. Flowering forsythia shrubs and four small oak trees spanned the front yard.

He waved to Tom and Trisha as he pulled the Jeep past them, stopped, shifted to reverse, and effortlessly backed the trailer into the vacant parking pad.

Show-off, Trisha said as he stepped from the Jeep. She gave him a big hug. You’re getting skinny, she stepped back, too much extracurricular action?

Tom smirked. I’d believe it. He shook CJ’s outreached hand. Hey, old man, how be ya?

A Honda slowed on the approach to the fourplex; an older woman with blue hair gave them the evil eye. She drove around his Jeep that protruded onto the street.

Best get the Jeep unhooked. He sauntered to the rear, disconnected the lights, and unhitched. He pulled a small keyring from his trousers and tossed it to Trisha. Would you care to unlock my new home?

Is that a question or command? She wrinkled her nicely shaped nose at him. Trisha’s good looks—highlighted by beautiful pecan-brown eyes set above slightly prominent cheekbones, full lips, and sun-bleached brown hair—attracted many second glances.

Which one do I unlock?

Lower level, CJ replied.

After parking the Jeep next to the trailer, he unlocked the trailer doors. A mattress separated a card table packed by the left door and four matching chairs by the right door. Let’s do it.

Tom carried four chairs to the apartment; Trisha slipped by him to help.

Just like a man, unpack the mattress first. She swatted him on the rump.

Tom called from the doorway, Would you two quit the hanky-panky. I’m starting to build a thirst, and we haven’t even begun unloading.

By six-thirty, they sat around the small card table, devouring pizza. Tom downed his beer and took another.

You do like your Bud, CJ said and tipped the long neck beer bottle at Tom.

Tom swallowed a bite of sausage pizza. I don’t hear you complaining.

Trisha sipped from a plastic cup filled with Cabernet wine. You guys and your beer banter, sheesh.

The apartment consisted of a living room, a small kitchen, with an eating counter for two, and a bath with shower and tub. Past the living area were two bedrooms on the left separated by the bathroom. Across from the back bedroom, a laundry area, equipped with a washer and dryer. A small hallway, with storage closets, led to a patio. The view out the back door consisted of two single-family homes with lush bluegrass backyards.

They finished the meal in silence. After opening the box marked kitchen, CJ removed a small carton of plastic garbage bags, liquid dish soap, and three mugs. Next to the cups, he placed a bag of coffee beans. He tore into the box marked appliances and carefully hoisted the bean grinder and coffeemaker from the carton.

Trisha cleared the trash and headed for the dumpster in the alley. She returned to the burbling coffeemaker, mugs sitting out, and a small radio playing classical music.

Trisha said, Tom, let’s unload the back of the jeep. What’s in there, CJ?

He pondered the question. Mostly den and bedroom goods, I think.

C’mon, Tom, she said while bouncing out the door.

Gawd, that woman has more energy than a pack of fifth graders. He dragged himself out the door to help. Trisha hurried by on the way back with two boxes. Jesus, woman …

The Jeep unloading went smoothly.

Two boxes left, Tom said. Damn, I forgot the great coffee you brew. Let’s finish, Trisha. She was out the door as he spoke.

Looks a little bare in here, Tom offered as Trisha blew by.

Trisha barreled through the living room to the den. She came back with a huge smile. I have just the solution if you have time tomorrow. She rubbed her hands together.

And …?, he responded.

There’s a great second-hand store on the other side of town. What you need is a desk and chair for the den, a small dining table with chairs, lamp tables, and something to match your rocker.

Whoa, who’s buying? Tom?

Wait a minute. I’m not bankrolling you, yet. Tom glanced at his watch. Let’s talk over a cuppa joe. We’ll see if you want to help.

After he poured the fresh-ground peaberry coffee, he searched through the kitchen box and found a package of peanut butter cookies.

Cookies? He held out the packet.

No, Tom and Trisha answered.

After we talk, we’re going to a bar outside of town. It has great music and a wonderful musician.

Dirty old man, Trisha jested.

As I had mentioned, Tom said, I need your help with plant biology.

Trisha paid close attention. She remained quiet, resisting the urge to speak.

Recall our phone conversation about four weeks ago; here’s what we know. Tom opened his backpack and pulled out a worn logbook, much like the one CJ carried in the field.

Tom flipped to the page with a small red tab. The Iowa Crime Bureau drew a blank on the missing person, so here we are. You know it's the professor you’re replacing.

What? No way. I’m replacing a young woman. I received an email from her.

Sorry, I meant the one before her. Tom looked at Trisha.

She tilted the chair back. I’m under contract for this case.

Quiet, rural America calls once again, CJ lamented.

Dr. Rebecca Grost—the former professor—disappeared a year ago, after retiring.

A thought ricocheted around in his head. I wonder why nobody mentioned it to me. Guess it wasn’t relevant to the position. He stood to fetch the coffeepot. What drew Trisha into this?

Trisha responded, An odd feeling by the two county sheriff offices—

Two offices, CJ interrupted, why two?

Dr. Grost worked with Dr. Gerrit Van de Lueve at Mill Creek State University on a health project, Trisha offered. They were researching plants for use as alternative medicine. The day she disappeared, Dr. Van de Lueve died in his lab.

Tom spoke up, And that’s why we want you with us. You have a great background and a passion for native plants. Plus, you’re one hell of an investigator.

So, he said, what’s the plan?

The plan for right now is to finish our coffee and skedaddle to the bar just outside town, partner.

Chapter 3

THE PRAIRIE INN Restaurant and Bar, found three miles west of Drumlin, covered more than five acres. A concrete drive led from the paved county road to the house. CJ understood why the business was Tom’s choice.

An early 20th-century estate became a restaurant. Musicians played the Prairie Inn bar every night except Sundays. To the west, a lush, green lawn gently sloped to the small spring-fed West Branch of Mill Creek. Walking paths looped over the mowed acreage to the little stream. Beyond there, acres of native grass covered the fertile Iowa soil. The entire peaceful area stretched up and west from the meandering dale.

CJ followed Tom to the Inn’s north lot, where Tom slowed and parked by a Nissan minivan. Trisha emerged from her Nissan like a beautiful butterfly. She stopped for a moment to slip on sandals; freshly brushed hair and a light-lavender scent highlighted her radiance.

Lead the way, Tom, Trisha said and motioned with her hand.

On entering the business, a bosomy hostess dressed in an 1890s style dress politely greeted them. Do you have reservations? the mature hostess asked.

We do, Tom replied, Baker.

CJ peered at Tom.

Tom whispered, Remember, it’s easier pronounced than Thies.

A party of three for the bar, said the fiftyish hostess and whirled around to lead the way. She drifted along a hall tiled with tan-and-brown parquet. The walls, adorned with landscape oil paintings, funneled their vision to the rear glass doors. And on the right was the bar and on the left a large restaurant.

The bar featured a view that rivaled his favorite bar in Olympia, Washington. The attendant’s worked from the front of a large mahogany bar. One bartender busily worked behind the polished wood and brass.

Two college coeds and a young male worked the tables. Several busboys quietly cleaned tables and placed the tips in initialed cups. A small stage, with musical instruments, sat idle; beside the stage stood an oak easel bearing the sign: Anna Van and Prairie Pride.

Large windows framed the view of a reddish-orange sun racing from the valley. A purple haze graced the small stream bottom as the huge fireball slipped below the grassy horizon.

The bar hostess slipped an arm around CJ’s shoulders. Have a pleasant evening. Her hand moved down his back, stopping just above his belt line.

I see nothing has changed, Tom said.

Don’t start that again.

Start what? Trisha asked.

Tom laughed. Best not go there.

The male attendant interrupted their verbal jousting.

"What’ll