Secrets of Eden's Dam

By K.L. Dempsey

The Secrets of Eden's Dam by K. L. Dempsey might be his finest and most personal novel to date. It's everything you'd expect from the author of The Unholy Vengeance and The Vanishing Pharmacist-richly developed characters that allow the reader to be entertained by a mixture of suspense, action, and education of medical issues.

The novel begins with Doctor Graham Harding returning to his hometown of Eden's Dam. Once a thriving location where the governor of the state would make special trips to purchase the town's twelve different German sausages along with its outstanding pastries, it was now just another of the many ghost towns that made up North Dakota with their local mysteries and oddities. Today Graham looked across the flowing Sheyenne River at the house that still stood, where his best friend's sister Victoria Hanson had been murdered. He had walked inside that house now for the last twenty years, visualizing her last moments as she had fought for her life against a man who had left but a single clue, a man's expensive cologne with its fragrance on her body and clothes. Harding had made a joint promise with his best friend that they would find the killer and bring him to justice. Now his friend, now dead, leaves the promise still unfilled in the hands of Graham. With the redemptive power that comes from determination, Graham intends to keep his promise. Eden's Dam is a story about promises made and promises kept with a blend of love and tenderness mixed in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662433603

Book preview

Chapter One

Sometimes the smallest event can change everything forever, even in a small town such as Eden’s Dam, North Dakota, population zero. It wasn’t always like that, of course, having reached its historical highest population in 1900 when 641 people made up the census of this once-thriving German town with a reputation as having the finest German pastries stores that could be found in the state. Add that to having a popular local butcher shop that could produce twelve different German sausages, from the traditional meat dishes to the wonderful-tasting bratwurst, knackwurst, and frankfurter Buckhurst. The only thing missing in this town had been a fishing area that would bring the tourists in to purchase all that good food. That small problem had been solved when the original namesake of the town Elmer Eden had opened up the only access road to a dam that he had used for watering his livestock. The dam appropriately called Eden’s Dam benefited from nearby Lake Darling in spilling its overflow lake water down through a flowing creek that made its way past the cement dam carrying with it some of the best trophy northern pike fishing in the state.

Doctor Graham Harding now looked hard at the town that he had grown up in when he was born forty years ago and was noticeably sadden by what now existed or in truth didn’t exist. Unlike the days when he walked the surrounding hills eating some German flavored whole wheat muffins, today those Pastry stores that once existed in Eden’s Dam were but a memory, as was everything else in this current ghost town. No longer did people travel hundreds of miles to buy the special sausages created by Henry Franken and his son Otto, nor did the current governor send his private secretary all the way from Bismarck just for those pinkie-finger-sized sausages flavored with marjoram that tasted so good with sauerkraut and potatoes alongside horseradish cream. There were thousands of stories to be told about the town of Eden’s Dam. Those that he grew up with and those told to him by his grandparents, who were buried in the town’s former Catholic cemetery.

Still, only one story mattered to Harding and was the continued reason why every year he made the trip from St. Cloud, Minnesota to a town that by definition wasn’t anymore. Putting his one-year-old Ford 150 in gear, he drove past the original homestead that at one time had been the home of Elmer Eden and his wife, Emma. Somehow they had managed to raise their eight children in the modest five-room farmhouse, and to the bewilderment of the townsfolk, their oldest son, Ernest, had built a home nearby and had sent their two only children to the local college in Minot, North Dakota. Harding smiled as he remembered how Ernest had pulled off this feat despite owning one of the poorest producing farms in the area. Unlike his father, who had allowed free access to the dam, he had decided those who wanted trophy-sized northern pike that swam the shoreline hunting for minnows would be more than willing to pay a small toll for the privilege of passing through the now gated road. Although Ernest never had finished high school, he had been smart enough not to offend his neighbors and those who just wanted to go fishing, so he created a clever plan that almost everyone went along with and gladly participated in. On those days when his two children were not in school, he encouraged them to wait at the dam’s gate with a milk pail that he had painted College Fund, and with their innocent smiles, everyone gave freely just like at church when the plate was passed. On those days when the kids were in school or just not around, he left another pail with the words Honor System for college fund. The system had worked better than Ernest had ever imagined.

Within a ten-minute drive from reminiscing about the old Eden’s homestead, Graham now entered the ghost town of Eden’s Dam and drove slowly past the brick structure that at one time had been the dance hall that he had taken Molly Brown to for their senior prom. He looked out his truck window and shook his head at the now-broken-down building that was but another memory with an empty lot. He knew from past conversations that in later years it was used to store equipment for the town’s volunteer fire department. Continuing through the former downtown section, Graham crossed over the unused Great Northern railroad track and passed by several weather-beaten wood-framed homes that through the years had been undergoing a slow motion of implosion and now were just good enough for kindling or someone’s fireplace. He noted that the one room schoolhouse that hadn’t even been used when he had grown up in the town still had stood the passing of time and was probably now occupied by the local wildlife.

In the distance, somewhat beyond the once-occupied Baptist church he could see the white worn-down house that always brought him back to this town that he had grown up in as he continued his pledge to try in honoring a promise that he had made to his now-deceased friend. It was a promise that had eluded him now for over twenty-three years. The formerly white home that sat near the banks of the Sheyenne River had been one of the few homes in Eden’s Dam that had survived the passage of time and the water level from a river that would often reach the backyard but fall short of flooding the home. On his last visit over a year ago, he had discovered that the new owner of the land had blocked the road leading up to the house with large fieldstones, but today no such devices or no-trespassing signs blocked one from visiting their memories. The once-beautiful home was surrounded by large elm trees that had provided the family many years ago with summertime shade and a breathtaking view of the frost-laden river in the winter.

Even as a child, Graham had found the evening setting sun over the river was a never-to-be-forgotten delight as he thought back to the time that he and his best friend Peter had camped on the ground overnight by the river’s edge, catching bass and bluegills all day and night. They had spent countless hours sleeping on the ground and on occasion swimming the warm water of the Sheyenne River, unafraid of the snapping turtles that were but a few feet away from them. He remembered the summer stars that were glorious to their eyes each night before they fell asleep and the winter when they both would return to the same spot by the river and ice-fish the day away.

They grew up and remained best friends until the day that Peter died from a lightning strike while working a summer job replacing rails for the Great Northern Railroad Company. The company had said that it was the steel grips on his work boots that had unfortunately attracted the lightning, but it was a time unlike now that corporations could dodge corporate responsibility. Peter’s parents had not bothered to question the reasons why the men were working during an electrical storm and instead, as good Christians, just assumed that it was just Peter’s time.

Following the gravel road, he found the grass-covered dirt path that would take him up to the house. Deciding to go no further, he pulled the truck over to the side of the road and got out. As he started to walk toward the house, he couldn’t help but think about the disappearance of these small towns and asked himself as he had often done in the past the reasons why he kept returning. Certainly it had a lot to do with Peter and his promise, but as was always, the case he had to admit there was something more. It was where he was meant to be, and it was as simple as that. He took another step toward the house, stepping carefully to avoid the gopher holes and small mud puddles that still were present despite the area not having rain for days.

Glancing up to the second floor of the house, his eyes traveled to the bedroom facing the river below. It had been Victoria’s room, Peter’s only sibling. Although only a year older than Peter, she looked and acted much older for her nineteen years. Extremely beautiful and full of life, she had been considered by most males as that sought-after diamond hiding in the mine. Again, he couldn’t help smiling, having tried himself to capture Eden’s most precious gem, but she was untouchable because he lacked the necessary qualifications, being he wasn’t Catholic, and Victoria was only allowed to date Catholic boys.

Graham thought back to that last summer before the death of Peter and how they both had discussed the changing conditions in Eden’s Dam and how it wouldn’t be long before their town would meet the same fate as others. The outmigration to the big urban centers for the best sales and purchase of everyday household needs was well underway. Although the railroad company was about to employ his best friend, they both understood that it was the demise of the railroads stopping at each small town when they were growing up to be another big reason for their world changing. No longer was it possible to visit other towns or for that matter just take a train ride to towns fifteen to twenty-five miles away. It was all about money and passengers and both were important to continue a way of life that was vanishing. Then of course, there was the weather, which drove many away who didn’t possess the know-how or the will to endure like their parents for the sake of the little pleasures in life like safety, clean air, and the natural fishing and hunting areas that the state of North Dakota provided.

Stepping over a badger hole, Graham walked the weedy path that led up to the broken-down door and sighed as he contemplated what it must look like inside. Before he pushed the door open, he took one more glance at the water that rested less than fifty feet from the house. Halfway across the flowing river, he spotted the familiar broken-down tree branch that had been there since the days that he had been a kid. He couldn’t help but offer a smile as he spotted the rusty Dardevle lure still there that he had lost so many years ago while casting for that record pike that he had never caught. Gone were the beautiful forest of trees, the chokecherries and gooseberries that once made up the perimeter of the yard. How sad, he thought as he watched two white cranes lift from the shore.

Then he heard the noise of another car in the distance pulling up to what was once the town’s Standard Oil station, which now featured only two remaining broken-down gas pumps and one remaining disregarded old school bus. He watched in curiosity as a woman got out of the minivan and started to size up the gas pumps and then appeared to take a picture of the school bus. She was probably just an antique collector looking for treasures, he thought, which was quite common in deserted old ghost towns.

Ignoring the visitor, he pushed open the door, brushing away one of the many spiderwebs that blocked his entrance, hoping that none of nature’s arachnids were hunting for him today as he cleared the doorway. He immediately walked down to the bedroom and looked at the broken down nouveau vanity over in the corner of the room were Peter’s sister would brush her hair in the mirror. He couldn’t help but wonder if it would still be here the next time he visited should the woman searching the gas station for antiques find her way over here.

It was according to the sheriff’s report somewhere between midnight and two o’clock in the morning some twenty-two years ago that Victoria, apparently just having finished taking a shower, had been surprised and murdered in this very same room. If she had been seeing anyone the evening before, it had never been determined, nor was it ever explained that since she had just bathed apparently soaping off her own perfume, why the smell of a man’s cologne still lingered on her body.

Walking around inside the crumbling remains of what was once his best friend sister’s room, Graham tried to visualize her last moments as she fought for her life against the man who had somehow found his way into the house. Whoever happened to be waiting for Victoria appeared to be aware of the fact that Peter Hanson, his father, Edwin, and mother had all been visiting her sister in Patches Grove.

Graham walked over to the broken window and looked across the flowing Sheyenne River and watched the woman who was now sitting on a metal chair, painting on a canvas supported by a five-foot wooden stand. He could see her as plain as day which meant that anyone on that fateful night could have also seen the bedroom window that he was looking out of, but nothing in any report that he had read over the years had ever reported a witness to the events of that night. Something was just not right about that evening, and he wasn’t any closer to finding out what it was.

He walked around the crumbling remains of what was once the home of the Hanson family with the only signs that people once inhabited this building being a metal matchbox holder on the kitchen wall and an old flat iron that previous collectors apparently had overlooked. Graham leaned against what would at one time been the kitchen counter and, for at least the tenth time in the last twenty-plus years, looked at the copy of the police report that he had kept all these years, with nothing seeming to change no matter how often that he had read it. It started very simply and ended tragic.

The report indicated on that fateful night, Peter and his family had arrived home the very next morning from their visit in Patches Grove, and they immediately sensed that something was wrong.

Things just didn’t seem right, said Peter in his report to the county sheriff. The house was not ransacked… Little things were just off… My sister was always very neat, and the living room’s Sears and Roebuck couch had their end cushions lying on the floor, plus the old plastic church clock given to the family by Peter’s grandmother had been moved from its normal spot.

The report continued indicating that they were so concerned that someone had been in the house that they walked outside together fearful that the intruder might still be waiting for them. That part never had made any sense to him since most people would have immediately checked on the safety of their daughter before doing anything else, yet they had abandoned their house to contact the sheriff first. And he wondered how they did that. Cell phones were still years away from being introduced to society.

Graham had known Victoria very well as someone who couldn’t be easily fooled and was always on the lookout for loonies that might have slipped into town. Yes, the town always had a few of them coming through to fish at Eden’s Dam and would wander the streets, visiting the town’s bakery stores, looking for those special German muffins, zucchini bread, and the best damn brownies before heading back to their homes. Who could it have been that had been her undoing? Someone she had met in town and seeing the temptation that he couldn’t resist. It had to have been an outsider, someone that she had run into before she had come home as she stopped for gas. The police report indicated that they had found a gas receipt from a self-service Mobil station.

Graham left the kitchen and walked into what had been the former small family bathroom, now empty of everything except a broken toilet and rusty bucket that once had probably held magazines. Picking up the bucket, he spotted the coin, only it wasn’t a coin but rather a slug that was usually used by businesses for trade. On one side it said five points, and the other the name of the business, John’s Pharmacy, a store that he had frequent himself over the years before leaving the town to start his new life. Had she tossed it in the bucket to be used later, or had someone just misplaced it while waiting for her?

Putting the slug into his pocket he continued to read the report concentrating on the section where the sheriff had found Peter’s sister lying dead on the floor of her bedroom. The police officer’s report had pointed out that Victoria had died of blunt force trauma probably caused by a tire iron or some other solid object and that she had been raped at least twice. Graham shook his head, trying to visualize her last moments in which she had faced her assailant.

Eden’s Dam had never ever had a single rape, let alone a murder, in its ninety-year-old history before 1991, so it was easy to understand from the many articles written about the crime how each person living in the town had suddenly come under suspicion. Everyone at the time seemed to feel a personal and profound experience about the event, and many overnight became different people more aware of the world, more appreciative of different cultures, and well, to be honest, more curious about what each person was doing.

In the last month that Graham had seen Peter before his death, his friend had talked endlessly about that evening when additional police had arrived and put up those yellow caution tapes around the house. The family had appeared satisfied with the police work and in the end praised the work of the authorities, who had within days charged a recent parolee with whom they referred to as having an extensive criminal record. The man, Howard Finder, forty-nine, was eventually convicted of her murder and sentenced to thirty-eight years with no parole. He had just served four and one half years of that sentence before the prison authorities found him hanged on a rope made out of discarded pillow cases.

Putting the report in his jacket, Graham walked to the front of the house and studied the town. It had become like so many other such ghost towns. A place of vast silent spaces, of lonely stretches of rivers and plains where wild game hid and stared at the infrequent visitors that found their way back to just visit their old memories or scavenger hunt. It was all sad and depressing to witness the land of scattered broken-down buildings that were once homes where children played and wives prepared large meals for their hardworking husbands who remained in the field until eleven, sometimes midnight. Eden’s Dam had once been a town where herds of cattle and reckless riders who were unmoved as they looked in the eyes of life, and yes, maybe even death.

Now turning back to the house, he thought of the times that he had driven across town to visit his friend Peter and would find Victoria Hanson working in the garden with her mother. The gal was as sexy as he’d ever seen, even behind a hoe, he thought, remembering those days when she wore her hair shoulder-length. It always looked a little tangled and windswept, but the sandy-blond hair gave the impression that she was just one step away from Hollywood, and those blue and inviting eyes were something else. Still she was off-limits, and the Hanson family had her programmed to meet and marry one of the towns Catholic men.

Sucking in a breath, he looked down toward the river and listened to the sound of the surf, wondering if anyone really fished these parts anymore. His pulse picked up speed as he remembered that last day with Peter, following the funeral of Victoria. The Hansons had followed the long-standing tradition of their family and had held the viewing in their house. It was their feeling that they wanted their daughter to spend her last days at home rather than in some cold professional funeral home. Graham remembered how unsettling it had been for him as a non-Catholic to kneel in front of the casket, trying to pray, while avoiding looking at the lifeless body of his friend. It had been in the house during the wake that Peter had taken him aside and had declared that in his opinion the police had arrested the wrong man for her murder and that he wanted Graham’s promise to help him find the real killer.

There’s no way that Howard Finder had murdered his sister, he had said. First, the man’s criminal record, once described as extensive, had but a petty record involving nothing worse than stealing meat from the Red Owl store in Eden’s Dam. Christ, the guy never even had so much as a parking ticket during the time he lived with his aunt and uncle. And where was the murderer weapon that the police had had described as a blunt instrument used to kill her? Hell, according to the final police report, there wasn’t even any evidence that Finder had ever used the type of men’s cologne found on her body. Everything seemed to be just based upon circumstantial evidence and the fact that the police department just wanted closure because of the upcoming election, said Peter while breaking down. And then there were her panties that the killer had taken as a trophy. They were never found as was everything else, yelled Peter.

They had both lost something that summer. Peter had lost his sister and Graham had lost the woman that he could never have but had secretly loved. She had been the one woman that he could have lived with forever but who was always off-limits. Graham could still hear Peter’s pleading voice. So then say it, buddy, he had said. His gaze turned serious. For real, Graham. This time, it has to be real. It was clear that day that his friend wasn’t horsing around. And the truth was he was more than willing to join him, so Graham had given Peter his promise that together they would find the killer of Victoria no matter how long it would take.

They had spent the next few days in what Graham remembered as big life discussions about her death and during that time discovered that they both had a shared interest and appreciation toward exploring those abandoned places in the police report before they would ever give up on finding out person who did this to the person they both had loved. As time would have it, Peter had to return to his studies at college and Peter to his new opportunity working for the Great Northern.

In less than two months, his best friend would be dead from a freak accident of a lightning strike. Graham had read that the chances of being killed by lightning were, as the saying goes, one in a million. It wasn’t that simple, however, since statistics on the subject have pointed out that only ten percent of people struck by lightning die. Then there was the matter of what state you lived in which changed the odds considerably, but the end it didn’t matter, since Peter was dead along with Victoria and her parents, who now all rested in an abandoned Catholic cemetery in Eden’s Dam, just west of town.

The sound of the car door slamming caught Graham’s attention as he was about to get in his Ford 150. Turning and looking over his shoulder, he was surprised to find the woman who had had been painting at the old gas station had gotten out of her car and was now walking over to him. She was younger than what he had expected and was wearing a summer garden hat and work clothes, which did little to hide the fact that she exceptionally stunning despite her country attire doing its best to camouflage the best parts. He couldn’t help but wonder who would be spending their time in a town that offered nothing but memories. He decided to end the curiosity, after all this was his town wasn’t it?

Morning, miss, my name’s Graham Harding, and if I made you nervous watching you painting for the last couple of hours, please accept my apology. It’s just that one doesn’t find too many strangers visiting my old hometown.

I’m not nervous at all, Doctor Harding, and to be truthful I spend a lot of time visiting these ghost towns and I’ve learned to be careful.

Graham was caught off guard by her greeting and wondered how she knew so much about him. How did you know that I was a doctor, Miss…?

"The name is Brenda Knox, Doctor, and that ‘MD’ on your Ford plate, along with the plate cover saying ‘Boston University School of Medicine,’ pretty much says it all, wouldn’t you think?’

Graham burst out laughing. Busted, but please call me Graham, and just for the record, I do more freelance writing than treating patients these days, Ms. Knox. In my case this is just a short visit back to my old hometown and to visit the house that my best friend once lived in years ago before he died of an unfortunate accident.

Sorry for your loss, Graham, but wasn’t this also the house where that young woman was murdered years ago?

"You are very good and full of surprises, Brenda, but you seem awful young to remember anything about an event that happened some twenty-three years ago, he said.

You remember a lot when you’re ten years old, Graham, especially something like that happening in the state of North Dakota, when the most excitement usually taking place is a hayride in the fall. I was living with my two grandparents at the time in a developing ghost town called Berwick, North Dakota, when the news came out. My grandfather wanted to retire away from the big city of Minot, and since Berwick had properties that you could buy cheap, well, the rest is history, she said smiling. Besides, as luck would have it, St. Anselm’s Cemetery being located nearby was the reason why my interest in painting developed.

How’s that? asked Graham?"

Because the cemetery is filled with wrought-iron crosses. The architectural style was the creation of Joseph Klein and John Krim, both German-Russian blacksmiths that settled in Pierce County. In fact, it’s listed on the National Register of Historical Places. I’ve sold several of the cemeteries paintings to collectors during the last four years and with the many other ghost towns throughout the state the demand for historical paintings, well, as the saying goes, it pays the rent.

So now you’re in Eden’s Dam, painting old gas stations? he said, laughing.

A gas station here, Graham, an old building in Lincoln Valley, a former farmer’s house in Haley, and a San Haven Sanatorium, and then I return to my day job in Fargo.

Which is? asked Graham.

You go first, Doctor Harding. My guess is that you haven’t just come back to your former home here in Eden’s Dam just visiting sad memories, or would I find that truck of yours full of fishing gear?

He considered her shift to a fishing trip an opportunity to direct her interest away from the need to explain his real reasons, but there was something about her that required honesty. You’re right, of course. Memories are always important to me, but I visit Eden’s Dam in hopes of someday paying my debt to her memory and my promise to her late brother, Peter Hanson, that we would find out who really killed his sister that evening years ago.

Really? asked a surprised Brenda.

That’s the truth and therefore no fishing this trip, said Graham, although I confess to the temptation after failing to find anything once again after all these years. He waited and found her eyes studying his answer, almost as if she had expected some lie and was now trying to deal with the truth. The woman clearly was razor-smart besides being gorgeous and apparently tough as well.

She was killed in the house, right?

Yes, the killer appears to have been waiting for her and knew that she’d be alone, said Graham.

If I remember reading the article correctly, they arrested someone for her murder and he was sent away for several years, said Brenda.

Sometimes the police make mistakes Brenda, and it’s my opinion that they did so in this case. The man they arrested, a Howard Finder, was a petty criminal and not the killing type. He was a low-level thief that at one time was arrested for stealing meat from a local grocery store, while the man that killed her had used a metal object to crush her skull after he raped her at least twice, said Graham. I think it’s highly unlikely that Finder suddenly became the killer that he was accused of being.

That’s horrible, said Brenda.

Yes, it was, and now about that day job in Fargo that you do when you’re not attempting to duplicate the work of Claude Monet, he asked.

At first, she didn’t answer and just looked at Graham trying to gauge what those eyes as blue and inviting as the waters in Bermuda might be actually be up to. I work as a comptroller for a small marketing firm in West Fargo. Not what you would call a glamour job, especially when the economy is in a full meltdown and most publications are shutting down faster than some major food chains. But we have reliable clients, and besides, since my brother is the owner, I get all the free time I need to travel to these ghost towns and meet exciting amateur sleuths like you, she said, smiling.

The woman was a real hoot. The kind you could dive into and ask any question he thought. He noticed that her movements caused the strap on her dress to dangle loosely off her shoulder and for the briefest of moments exposing the shape of her breast. Yet she smiled as only a confident woman could in such a moment, unconcerned yet girl-next-door bashful.

A sleuth is hardly the best way to describe me, having failed miserably over the last twenty-plus years, he said.

Maybe you’re not thinking out of the box and just need to take ten steps backward and go at it from a different angle, Brenda said. Maybe share some of what you’ve learned to an outsider that you trust that might open those locked doors.

Reaching in his jacket pocket, Graham removed the slug and handed it to Brenda without saying a word.

What’s this? she asked while turning it over in her hands and checking the inscriptions.

I found it in the old Hanson bathroom just before you arrived. I’ve been here countless times over the years, checking each of the weather-worn rooms and somehow must have missed it. It’s probably nothing, he said, now checking his watch.

Did this town used to have a pharmacy years ago? she asked.

A pharmacy, drug store, and general all-around one-stop shopping place for most everything that you would need. It closed down three years after I left for college, Graham said.

You know, for what it’s worth, there’s still a John’s Pharmacy located in Patches Grove, and although John’s a common name for a business, it might be the same family chain that was once here, Brenda said. Sometimes that needle in a haystack can actually be found. Not often I will admit, but maybe it will be worth a trip in the future and see if any of the original owners are still alive and can fill in any of the blank spaces as to the purpose of the slug in those days. Maybe, and this is of course the biggest stretch, someone in the current family might remember your friend, she said, handing Graham back the slug. Well I’ve taken up enough of your time, Doctor Harding, and to be honest, I’m about to head over to Deisem. They have an old church that remains along what can be best described as a highway in Lamoure County, northwest of Edgeley. I have a client that lives in South Dakota that has contracted me to do a painting of the church that they once attended, so I need to be on my way. If you’re in the area or passing through Fargo in the future, give me a call, she said, handing him her business card.

Graham felt the light touch of her hand on his as he received the card. It had been now over five years since he had felt the touch of any woman that had left the impression that she had.

He took one last look at the house as he slowly made it back to his truck through the uncut grass that felt like twine as it brushed over his black boots against his skin. Overhead he heard sounds of black birds flying to a local farmer’s field.

Chapter Two

Henry felt his mouth go dry and his stomach churn as he watched the scene unfold that he witnessed so often before. He could still hear the rebuke that would have come from his deceased wife, Charlotte. Patience, Henry. Remember when we were younger, we did the same thing. If that had been true, Henry had lost the memory of those times, and all he wanted to do now was read his paper and have a little quiet.

Today the Patches Grove Café was crowded with teenage girls. It rang with squeals and shouts and hysterical laughter. Some of them giggled as they were obviously rating the boys outside who walked past the window. Henry Glover took this all in as he sat in the corner and tried to ignore the noise and occasional vulgarity that came from the screaming teenagers. He was about to get up and leave when the door opened up, and Sheriff Leon Walsh came in and suddenly the room went quiet.

Walsh was the type of elected sheriff that took no crap from anyone and who would as soon slap you across the head as look at you. Everyone that met Walsh said the same thing. Your nightmare began with a quick handshake and a friendly smile but soon changed the minute that you failed to genuflect to his version of respect for the law, his law in particular. Walsh didn’t give warning tickets—he gave real tickets—and there was no such thing as going just five miles over the speed limit or failing to stop for a changing light. Walsh enjoyed the power that the badge gave him and exercised that power with the assistance of fear.

He had grown up in the central part of North Dakota, attended a junior college in Valley City, North Dakota, and had received his first police job the old-fashioned way, through the assistance of a hunting buddy’s father, who saw the potential others hadn’t. Walsh hadn’t been a star athlete of any kind, and the rumor had been that he had dedicated himself to getting even with those that had never allowed him into their circle. While most of his classmates had continued to seek out degrees or enlist into the armed services, he simply looked for the opportunities that was presented to those that just hung around—local law enforcement.

Walking past the loud teenage girls, he sat down at one of the café’s bar stools and waited.

How’s it going, Leon? asked Whitney Hargrove, the owner of Patches Grove’s only café, comfortable in the knowledge that he was one of the few and only people who could call Walsh by his first name and not the more formal Sheriff.

It’s going just fine, Whit, with the exception of those horseshit speeders coming through from the Twin Cities. They all think that they can drive eighty miles per hour through these small towns and the law will be sleeping, said Leon.

That’s their first mistake, said Hargrove, playing to Walsh’s ego. It might work over in Grundy County but not here with you on the job, buddy.

You’ve got that right, Whit, he said watching Henry moved toward the front door and leave. I see that Glover still hangs out here telling his old war stories, or is he hoping to get lucky with some of those underage little dollies up front? he said, looking in the direction of the teenage girls.

Nah, he keeps to himself. He just comes in here and buys a paper, maybe has a cup of coffee and a sweet roll, and leaves. Since he lost his wife, Charlotte, a couple of years ago, the man has been real lonely and besides riding his bicycle around town and visiting her grave. There’s apparently not much for him to do with the exception of once in a while going garbage picking in some of the surrounding old ghost towns. Word has it that his trailer house is full of old antiques that he’s picked up at many of these abandoned farmhouses and old barns. Nothing that I can see that what he’s doing is against the law, provided these places don’t carry a no-trespassing sign. While you’re thinking about that, Leon, have a fresh cup of coffee on the house, said Whit.

He’s all right just so long no one lays claims to anything that he’s taken. Then we may have a problem, but for now, my main interest is in any strangers that come looking for him, like say some stranger who says she’s an artist or that guy that keeps visiting the Hanson house over in Eden’s Dam.

Why would those two interest you, Leon? Eden’s Dam has been a dead town for years now, and from what I’ve been told, the woman just shows up at different places painting pictures of churches, old farmhouses, and various other broken down buildings, nothing more. The guy is from Minnesota and at one time lived in Eden’s Dam, and just comes back every year to visit the grave of his best friend and sometimes maybe do a little fishing.

The question seemed to amuse Leon as he got up from his stool and walked closer to the café owner and smiled in a way that made Whitney tremble. Now he knew the feeling that a mouse had when the cat clamped its jaw around its body. "We’ve been friends for some time, haven’t we? asked Leon.

Ever since grade school, Leon. We’ve hunted, fished even had our eyes on the same girl at times. I remember when the principal caught us stealing the test scores for the final exam in the eighth grade and tried to have one of us admit that the other was the one that broke into the school administrative room where the test papers were kept. Neither of us broke down. Yes, we’ve been friends a long time, he said, now fearing the man who was standing in front of him for the first time in his life.

Then don’t ask too many questions, and that will continue. Sometimes in life, innocent bystanders get caught in the thresher, and for your sake, don’t let that happen, he said. Just keep me advised if you see any strangers that remind you of this conversation, and everything will be all right. Getting up, Walsh laid a dollar on the on the counter, turned, and walked toward the teenagers who had been observing the conversation.

Hello, Melody, he said to the young black-haired teenager with the voluptuous bosom. I have a piece of health advice for you and your coven of girlfriends. Things will be better for each of you if you forget everything that you might have heard between Mr. Hargrove and me. That was police business, if you understand what I mean, sweetheart. And should you feel brain dead at my comment, I will be forced to have a conversation with your parents about that time recently when I caught you in the back seat with Jimmy Dickens. As I recall, he didn’t have his dick in the crème anglaise that night, he said, letting his warm breath reach her exposed shoulders. Backing away, he watched the girl turning pale as he continued to walk out the door toward his county police vehicle.

Henry Glover had been sitting on a bench near John’s Pharmacy Store and now put his paper down as he finished watching the conversation that had taken place between Leon Walsh and the teenage girl inside the café. Although unable to hear what had been said, it had been like watching a little rat dog that could do no more than skitter and yap when confronted by a junkyard dog looking for a meal. Clearly the girl had looked scared and had appeared to be on the verge of tears. The confrontation was typical, Walsh using the power of his office to frighten the kid for whatever purpose, then leaving her to think about what might lay ahead the next time that they meet.

He had watched him enter his squad car and pull away before he had got up and walked down the street to the city park where he located his favorite park bench near the World War II memorial that honored the cities first casualty—Seaman First Class Oswald Wolfe. As was his custom, Henry bowed his head and said a short prayer to the memory of the young Patches Grove resident before he sat down to close his eyes for the short nap that had become part of his daily ritual.

The second that he had laid his eyes on his future wife back in the early fifties, he had remembered thinking, There’s the woman I’ve been waiting for. The one and only that he could live with all his life, and these were the thoughts of someone just turning seventeen. It wasn’t long before the dream engulfed him one more time. It was always the same—he watched her coming over the hill, wearing his favorite cream-colored dress, and then they would together stumble down across the sand dunes with him, lugging the bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which he had saved up for all year. She would bring the picnic basket, and together they would celebrate their new life together. The reoccurring dream was reaching the point as it always did when he and Charlotte would begin their experiment with physical love, when a loud pounding began to give him a sudden forbidding of intrusion.

Opening his eyes, he now observed that Walsh’s squad car had pulled up ten feet from where he was sitting. Smirking, Walsh had rolled down his window and continued to beat his nightstick against the side of his car.

Funny, Henry, I didn’t know that this is where you hung around, waiting for those young girls that I saw you looking at in Whitney’s café, he said with a sneering glance.

It took a few seconds before Henry could clear his mind of the dream, and then he got angry.

I’m minding my own business, Sheriff, and just for the record, I don’t scare easy like some of the folks that you bother under the protection of that tin star. I’ve fought for my country back in the days of the Korean War alongside General McArthur moving across that 38th parallel, unlike you, who never put on a uniform.

Be careful old man, or I’ll issue you a citation for loitering or suspicion of child endangerment, and you know what I’m capable of, said Walsh, his face now turning red.

What I know, Sheriff, is that you’re overplaying your hand with me, and it’s you who best walk carefully. Please remember that Senator Eugene Radcliff is a personal friend of mine, and all it would take is a simple phone call from me to return you to working side by side with our Indian friends over in Spirit Lake or Fort Berthold. That’s of course assuming that you would meet their qualifications, said Henry. Now if you would excuse me, I’d like to finish today’s paper while allowing you the opportunity to find other victims to terrify.

Walsh’s heart tightened as he considered going face to face with the Henry and just issuing him a ticket for loitering and being done with it, but he had heard before that the senator and Glover had served together in the Korean War, and touching that third rail might have to be put off. Look, Henry, I’ll give you a break today, but help yourself and go home, he said, closing his car window and pulling away before the old man could respond.

An hour later, with the first sign of early afternoon darkness setting in, Henry continued his walk to the other side of town, past the now-empty creamery and what at one time had been the Patches Grove lumberyard. The real old-timers had once said that when the lumberyard closed it would then be only a matter of time before the town died, and it was clear that they knew what they were talking about thought Henry. It wouldn’t be much longer before Patches Grove would become that ghost town and would only be found by those that were used to driving off the beaten path.

Shortly he made his way across the street and headed down the hill that would take him to the Weeping Willow Trailer Court, where his white-and-green triple-wide stood at the end of Cherry Lane Drive, just thirty feet from the entrance to a large forest. The five-bedroom colonial-style trailer house was the talk of the trailer court families with its American flag and the four-foot Third Armored Division’s plaque on proud display. He had asked Charlotte more than once if she felt uncomfortable with the plaque, and her answer had always been that he had earned it. When asked about it, he would simply say that it was just a reminder that he had been part of Patton’s Third Armored Division and nothing more. Henry would not talk about the silver and bronze metals locked away in his safe awarded in another lifetime or the bodies that were part of the story.

It had been a time since he had served his country. A time when his hair was dark and he could still fit in his uniform. He knew everything about risking, and if Sheriff Leon Walsh pushed it much further, he would learn about risk and losing it all himself.

Entering the trailer court, he started to hurry, hoping that he could still make the five o’clock news and learn what the weather was expected to be tomorrow before he traveled to Fargo to make his appointment with his internal medicine doctor and his annual checkup. Reaching the house, he walked to the back and started to put his key into the doorknob when the door opened before he could turn the lock. Surprised and somewhat shocked since he always locked the door, he looked around before he entered the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place, but Henry knew someone had been in the house, but for what?

Chapter Three

Graham had decided to take a short drive over to Patches Grove and check on the pharmacy that Brenda had mentioned before he headed back to Minnesota. He had just started his turn onto the main highway toward Patches Grove when he felt the vibration on his cell phone. Looking at his call identifier, he failed to recognize the number before suddenly realized it was her. Hello this is Graham. What a nice surprise, he said, trying not to sound over eager.

I thought that I’d try to catch you in case that you intended to visit Patches Grove in the near future, she said. I had forgotten to mention that if you run out of things to do while trying to investigate the murder of your friend, you might want to talk to a man by the name of Henry Glover, who lives in the town. I’ve met him on rare occasions when visiting some of these old places since he seems to spend some of his spare time looking for antiques. He’s really an interesting guy, and one time I remember that he had mentioned telling me a story about a traveling gospel singer who had been working the area for the last twenty years. He said that he was an endless storyteller and seemed to have some friendship with the Hanson family. Regardless, it may be nothing, Graham, but when you’re looking for that needle in the haystack, well, you know the rest, I’m sure.

Thank you for taking the time, Brenda. Everything helps at this point, said Graham. Oh, by the way, have you ever heard of the saying ‘Show me a person who continues to react rather than act, and I’ll show you someone who can’t control his or her destiny’?

No, but it sounds an awful, like some business type of philosophy, she said.

Well, it is sort of but not today. For the moment, I’m that person and it relates to me, and please don’t laugh. If you’re not involved in any relationship, I’ll be returning to Devil’s Lake in the next week on business and would like to see if you would have any time for lunch or dinner. I have to pass right through Fargo on my way. He waited and held his breath.

I’m not seeing anyone Graham, and if you just give me a day’s notice before you’re on the road, I’ll clear my calendar for whatever time you might have she said. And by the way, don’t worry about me, she said, laughing. May I ask what you’ll be doing in Devil’s Lake that brings you back so soon?

"It’s my second occupation, Brenda. Maybe I didn’t mention it, but I do nonfiction writing, the most recent book being Death Benefits. It’s the true story about how one state paid $12 million in health care for people who were already dead—including one case, for a person who had died in 1989. The state in question paid monthly premiums totaling almost seven million for around six hundred people who had already been dead for an average of two years before they were enrolled in a state-managed care program. It took an audit to bring the issue to light. Until that audit, they had people like the one who had been dead for 663 days being still signed up for managed care—an incredulous example of a system totally out of control."

Well, your work certainly seems more exciting than mine, and I’ll be looking for a copy of that book, Doctor Harding, she said while glancing at her watch. I see that time is moving fast toward noon, and I’ve got to get going or I’ll never make it over to Kief. They have a couple of old churches that I want to revisit and see if maybe I can develop a painting or two. Believe it or not, they still have a few people and a bar where I can get a sandwich, she said.

Ah yes, I remember the town very well from the days as a kid when Peter and I would travel over there for some good duck hunting. At one time I can remember the population being around sixty to seventy people. I believe that the city was named by Ukrainian settlers after a city by the same name in Ukraine. And thanks for the tip about Henry Glover, and when we meet again, please call me Graham. This doctor business I reserve for my patients Brenda.

It’s a deal, Graham, so be careful until we have that lunch or dinner, she said.

After she hung up Graham pulled over to the side road and checked his map to determine how far he was from downtown Patches Grove. Discovering that he was within about forty minutes, he picked up his cell phone and made a call to his office back in St. Cloud, Minnesota. As luck would have it, he reached his partner Lew Anderson, who’d been with him for the last five years.

Graham, what’s up? How’s the fishing out there in no man’s land?

No fishing this trip Lew, but I need a huge favor if you can handle it, he said. When I left last Monday morning, I forgot that I had scheduled one of my rare psychiatry sessions with a former client, a Mrs. Lynn Westchester. She’s been working with me almost ten years now, so I couldn’t very well turn her down, and I’d appreciate it if you can cover for me. It’s really a routine session that just covers her past divorce and it’s all in the file. Should she not be willing, just have Marlene reschedule her sometime later next week. I wouldn’t worry about it except she just happens to be the daughter of a friend of mine from my college days. I give you my word that it’s a layup, and I’ll owe you one, pal.

Let me check my schedule next week, Graham. After a few seconds, he was back on the line, indicating that he was free.

Thanks, Lew. I hope that I’ll be back maybe on Tuesday, no later than Wednesday for sure, he said.

Take your time, boss. I’m marketing you on my calendar to remind you of this around Thanksgiving, he said laughing.

After the call, Graham pulled back on the highway and started to look for the next cutoff that would shorten his drive over to Patches Grove. Having traveled these roads over the years he knew that the next upcoming dirt road should take him past the two large working farmhouses and an unguarded rail crossing and then on to Patches Grove."

Brenda Knox had a strong feeling about Doctor Harding, and she liked the fact that he appeared interested in her. What else could it be? After all, the man did ask to see her again in the next few days. Yes, this had been a good day, she thought, moving through the country while singing a line from a Bruce Springsteen recording.

Is a dream a lie if it doesn’t come true, or is it something worse? She sang the verse to herself while approaching the crisscross warning sign, which she remembered was the only warning before reaching the rugged railroad tracks. It was the way it was in the country. No flashing rotating signals to warn you of an oncoming train, and you were damn lucky to even have the train’s engineer blow the whistle as he approached the crossing. Looking to her left and then right again, she carefully crossed the tracks and continued her drive to Kief.

When she had started out, she had anticipated that the 106-mile drive could be done in about an hour and a half, and from all indications, nothing had changed that. Brenda enjoyed visiting vanishing North Dakota towns all over the state. Sometimes the opportunity only presented several rusted vehicles sitting in an abandoned farmyard, while other times, like possibly today, she might probably run into countless deserted farmhouses, old sheds, maybe a standalone country church, or still yet, a working windmill.

What was the title of that damn song? she asked out loud as she started to sing the line again. It was something about water, a lake, or an ocean. No, it was the river; that’s it—the song was called The River, Brenda said to herself, now feeling much better that her mind was not starting to let her down.

Then it came into view. It was a massive rock situated in the middle of a farm field, where the majority of the land was used for raising sunflowers. It seemed like the rock overlooked the entire area. Continuing for another one-eighth mile she found a tractor road and turned in while following the road parallel to the massive rock until she reached a chain-link fence that prevented her from going any further. On the other side of the fence, she noted that there was a narrow path that followed itself up to the front of the massive rock, but because of haystacks, it was impossible to see the other side. Her heart pounded with curiosity as she shut the engine down and got out of the car and walked to the front of the chain-link fence and opened up the small unlocked metal gate and walked through. You have to be crazy, she thought. The land might be posted for all you know. Yet she walked the remaining seventy-five yards until she reached the base of the rock and looked up.

The top she estimated was around 150 feet high, just enough to give brave teenagers enough of a challenge to impress their girlfriends but not enough height to make the landmark anything more than what it was—a marker for those traveling down the road. Walking around the rock, she found nothing special that would make it interesting enough to spend time painting. It was clearly just a rock and nothing else, she thought. Maybe it’s time to get the hell out of here and finish the trip to Kief before someone knows that I’m here, she thought while looking around.

She started to turn toward her car and then made the last-minute decision to walk over to the haystacks and see what they were shielding. As she cleared what appeared to be an endless row upon row of haystacks, she found herself looking down into an empty open field. Her long hair whipped by the wind almost prevented her from seeing it. It was a mansion, or was it a house almost a mile away, sheltered by large oak trees and protected by what appeared to be soldiers and a tall satellite dish?

Racing back down the tractor road, Brenda knew that she had to get the hell out of this farm fast. The satellite dish should have been all that she needed to tell her that visitors were not welcome, but by now, they probably had locked onto her being in the area. She had to be more careful as she looked for opportunities to take her artistry into the next level for financial gains. It had been only last month when she had located an abandoned drive-in theater in which everything remained except the screen, which she had assumed had blown down in a windstorm. She had sold ten paintings titled End of an Era. When it came to nostalgic customers, the market was endless, she thought, as she continued her drive putting distance between her and the rock.

Brenda drove another five miles before realizing what she should had understood at least three miles back. She was lost, and when you’re lost on a country road in North Dakota, you were really lost, she thought. Seeing the mailbox by the side of the road, she pulled alongside it and read the name: Ernest White and family. Then the sudden loud barking of the White family dog caught her attention, along with the dog now wagging its tail and jumping up on her car. She rolled down the window giving the animal a friendly pat