1horns of the avenger

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1HORNS OF THE AVENGER

Keith Sorenson, uncomfortably sweating from the

hot September sun in his rubberized all-weather

camouflaged ‘jungle bunny’ suit, dismounted from his

highchair like hunter’s perch overlooking the west slope

of Arsenal Mound. While clumsily shedding the bulky

overall, he saw a white monster that seemingly stopped,

and stared at him before vanishing in the uphill

undergrowth. It looked very much like a white buffalo,

and a mind boggling trophy in Minnesota, or anywhere in

the modern world. Sorenson, a dedicated hunter always in

search of something rarer or larger than recorded in the

record books, exulted in that opportunity without

questioning the improbability of such a miracle find.As a contracted wildlife hunter for the state of

Minnesota, Keith did not have the need of a hunting

license, or bear any license restrictions. He could easily

say he thought it an albino deer, and deer of any color, he

was hired to shoot.

By time Keith was free of the confining outer

garment, his trophy prey was rustling the woodland brush

that tangled all of the open space between the oaks and

poplars and it appeared to be moving toward him. Keith

dropped to one knee, assuming the classic kneeling

position of competitive shooters. His scope focused on

the patch of bare sand, where a new gravel-test ditch

provided a good shoot, should the buffalo continue

forward. The rustling of undergrowth stopped, and Keith

could see a white blob just barely inside the brush and

less than fifty yards away.

Keith zeroed in and fired twice. The white mass didnot move, so he fired three more times, dead on but

nothing moved. Holding the gun at ready, he started

toward his target; sure the high-powered shells were all

on target and had blown away all chance of life in the

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beast. Ten yards away, Keith saw the white mass quiver,

and then the brush exploded, and Keith was knocked down

and trampled into a bloody mass.

CHAPTER TWO

"..and she goes, like I can't give you, like a coolgrade, you know, because you don't like talk English," so

I=m like, “This is like America and hey, like I speak

American, you know what I’m saying, so then I goes, you

don't need that Shakespeare stuff, you know. So I like

tells her good, you know, so she gives me like a D minus,

So how do I make like an anything college? Like, how

come a D, effing minus, anyway...Right. Like she=s so

friggin bright. Damned straight, she don=t know like fine.Bob Lowe wanted to say, "How charitable, her

grading," but since earlier admitting that he taught

English, Lowe chose to suggest, "Hey like, maybe, she

thought you over-used similes". He knew her next words

would be, "Like, Hey, what's a simile?" So he continued

ruefully, "In Detroit inner city schools on curve grading,

you would probably get an A minus.@

His seat companion babbled on but he shut her

out to concentrate on why he had walked out of his

classroom and embarked on this wild trip to far off

Minnesota precipitated by a wildly provocative story

in a Minnesota weekly newspaper that some unknown

person had clipped and sent his way. Apparently, the

newspaper desperately needed a competent editor,

like himself, and he was certain an intriguing

mystery lurked behind the story.

Bob's callow seat mate, eyes closed, now feigningsleep, was probably insulted by his automatic nods and

half-conscious and likely sarcastic non sequiturs. Good!

He retrieved from his billfold the clipping that had

triggered his sudden, and self-surprising, withdrawal

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from a hard-earned steady job as an English teacher, and

read it again:

Did Dear Do-in Deer Hunter?

Dynamic Powders, publicity-buffeted operator of

the United States Government's Newberg Arsenal,suffered another setback in its controversial deer

eradication program when, Keith Sorenson, Minnesota's

only licensed bounty hunter, was found, apparently

trampled to death, by his fiancée, Fay Comfrey. Fay was

bringing him lunch, early Wednesday forenoon, so he

would not need to pass the gauntlet of angry protestors

who gathered there to protest his cruelty to animals, or

demand an equal opportunity at deer eradication. Arsenal neighbors had counted and recorded his rifle shots and

recognized he either was a very poor shot or was testing

Dynamic’s ammunition =s killing power as he fired five

times more shots than his reported deer destroyed.

The herd of deer, which has grown to over three-

hundred, is not content to browse only the four-hundred

wooded acres of the Arsenal, but are jumping, with ease

to browse on neighboring gardens, over the twelve foot

fence encircling the Newberg Arsenal and Arms plant.

The excluded Twin city deer hunters are seething

and demand to be included in fun and the final solution.

They want a drawing or lottery for the hunting privilege

but Dynamic Powders insists the eradicator must be one

solitary hunter shooting from a fixed location and into a

focused firing area to eliminate the possibility of

accidentally igniting lost and stored rocket and mortar

shells. On that fatal morning, jealous hunters picketed the main gate, competing for attention, with pickets from

several animal rights groups.

Sorenson's body, accompanied by his grieving

fiancee, was hurriedly sent to the country coroner, Dr.

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Hermon Davids, who is baffled as to the cause of his

death. The Coroner reportedly said it appeared, he was

trampled by the tiny hooves of the very animals he

sought to destroy.'

Bob Lowe posted the clipping on the bulletin boardof his journalism classroom with a post-it note stating,

AWho did what to who and when or where@, along with a

challenge that Bob's class conduct a contest to find the

best headline. Bob then set his fourth hour class to

finding and correctly parsing, the two longest sentences

in the column, and while his proctor readied photocopies

for each student, he went, reeled-in by the sloppy

writing, to the library.After a half hour’s research, Bob dismissed his

class for lunch and spent the next hour freshening his

ready resume and, impetuously faxing it along with a job

application to Charles Grimm, Publisher of the Newberg

Bullet cold Minnesota. Stressing his single status coupled

with inexpensive spending habits and reasonable monetary

needs, hiring him would not burden the Bullet=s budget.

Bob=s resume glowingly summarized his experience at a

full complement of journalism tasks, including skillful and

much needed copy editing.

Publisher Grimm, who proved to be impetuous as

Bob Lowe, quickly recognized their mutual need. Two days

later, Bob heard himself paged, and took Grimm's call

during his last class hour. Grimm offered Bob a salary

that finally proved him well paid as a teacher. Money is

not everything to a single man with no debts and

moderate tasks, so Bob accepted.

Lowe’s rash resignation, confirmed Booker

Washington High School Principal=s suspicion he was not

fiercely committed to teaching. Brian Wilson, currently

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the troubled school=s acting Principal, accepted with

alacrity, wasting only a few words in insincere protest.

So here he was, on the first step of his new career

as a writer, on his way to see Fay Comfrey=s tiny hooves.

He folded and returned the clipping to his cash-lean

billfold and sank into a reverie where he as awarded aNobel Prize for his best-selling novel.

"Fasten your seat belts for our on time arrival at

the Minneapolis/Saint Paul International Airport,"

chanted the cheery assuring recording, snapping him out

of his daydream and Bob compliantly fastened his seat

belt. Belt fastened, he clumsily checked his sport coat

pocket to make sure he still had his return ticket to

Detroit for the following weekend. He hoped to driveback to Minnesota with his portable possessions stuffed

in his one luxury, a forty-two year old Packard rescued

from the Detroit Police=s >Seized Property Auction=

and restored fairly well by his schools adjoining Brooks

Technical High School=s auto repair students at just

Aparts@ cost. That benefit was probably his only reward

for three years, in the war-zone of Detroit=s inner city.

He found the ticket and Bob=s mind returned again to

daydreams of his future literary success as the plane

bumped gently to a landing.

Exiting the plane, passing the bulkhead row, he gave

his full tricks-or-treats bag, previously distributed to

passengers by the Halloween-Witch-costumed flight

attendant, to the pretty little girl with withered legs

waiting patiently for the plane to empty enough for

passage of her wheel chair. "Take this now, Honey in case

you don't get to spook my house tonight," he said whilewondering where he would spend the night.

The watching Stewardess enthusiastically

impersonating a pirate if dressed by Frederics of

Hollywood, smiled approvingly, and he regretted not

5



having pushed harder for her telephone number, when she

had helped him stow his overstuffed garment bag. Bob

hoped the flight attendant had her home base in

Minneapolis and that their paths might cross again. Bob

was currently very much unattached, and he had already

thoroughly exhausted his Detroit area dating pool.

CHAPTER THREE

Grimm's self-description was accurate, although

just a bit flattering. Bob was easily able to pick out a

burly and balding ex-football tackle whose muscles had

gentled, so he did not need to see the large >PRESS

PASS= Grimm was so proudly waving, apparently for

everyone's recognition. Reaching out to take Grimm=shand, Grim engulfed drew in his new employee in a bear

like grasp. Grimm, like many communicators needed to bar

the escape of their audience. "Have a good flight, Bob?

Normally, air gets bumpy in October while reaching

around to firmly take possession of Bob's over-packed

two-suiter, then wheezing, "Is this it, or do we wait for

baggage?"

Sensing Grimm to be an impatient man, Bob was glad

to reply, “I travel light and am not much for fashion, so

this duffel bag and briefcase holds everything I will need,

other than that overstuffed garment bag, you are so

kindly carrying. It gave the stewardess a fit trying to

get in the overhead," Bob said, thankful that he had not

checked anything. Grimm propelled him directly out the

front door to his car. Not surprisingly, it sat at the yellow

painted curb, improperly parked motor running, passenger

door and trunk open and waiting. “Did you get me hotel orroom like I so boldly requested?" Bob said, not sure that

he had requested that favor, or had just assumed, Grimm

would.

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"Well, Yes, I did get a small apartment, for you to

try out on the second floor of the drugstore, right next

to the Bullet building. It is cheap and convenient so you

do not need transportation. Fact is, we only have the two

vehicles right now. My Buick, here for show and first

impressions and the Jeep station wagon, you will have toshare with Sue, our only child and only other full time

editorial employee. She does not use it much as she

pretty much editorializes and edits the news. Grew up

right in the shop, learned every thing right on the job.

She does not like reporting too much, as she can=t stand

criticism from readers. She tells most nitpickers off and

I can't afford that with only 6,000 true subscribers, and

she don't make any distinction between advertisers andone time readers," Grimm confessed, and now Bob

understood how the Arsenal story with the garbled

syntax was picked up by the service bureaus.

The offer of dinner at the Grimms was eagerly

accepted, both as recognition of his new need to eat out

less and his great curiosity about his new employer's

family, specially, the self-educated news editor, Sue. Bob

was surprised at the absence of traffic problems as they

sped the thirty miles of belt line encircling the Twin

Cities from the Airport on the south side to their north

side Long Lake Road exit in less than half an hour,

at Grimm=s dangerous seventy-five miles per hour,

punctuated by much lane-swerving adventures. On a

Friday and also Halloween all the other cars were moving

quickly and even politely. This would take some getting

used to.

A short mile north of their Interstate 94 exit,Charlie slowed, to enter a driveway almost hidden from

view by untrimmed hedge and dense shrubbery. "Here's

home", Grimm said proudly, "Homesteaded by my great-

grandfather in 1872 and the second oldest house still on

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the lake. I have nearly eight acres of the old farmyard

here, so I have no problems with neighbors but I have to

fight off the developers. This is the only undeveloped

property on the west side of the lake, There's Sue now!"

They parked directly facing a restored Victorian

house that must have modeled for Charles Adams ghostlymansions. Bob looked right and left, then straight ahead

before finally spotting her. She sat on the middle of the

five wide steps leading up to the broad porch that

wrapped the front of the house. A large, black dog that

could claim Labrador or Saint Bernard ancestry, sprawled

possessively across her lap, hiding most of Sue from view.

What Bob could see was beautiful.

As they exited the car, Sue welcomed her fatherwith kisses of affection, while the dog, apparently named

`Down Blacky, Get Down', tried to perform the same

functions with Bob. "He doesn't bite. Mentally, he is still

a cuddly puppy, starved for affection, show him you like

him and he will love you. You must be the new reporter?"

"Oh Lord! She's so pretty and her Dad has not let

her know I'll be editing her writing," Bob whispered to

the dog that had its face eye to eye with his, and was not

stretching. "Call off your dog, I surrender, and won't

burgle your house, nor bite your dog, even to make news

on a slow day", he said while daring to look her fully in the

face, then, shocked her, adding, "If I had known how

beautiful you were, I would have agreed to work at the

Bullet with you for free".

Much later, as he lay on borrowed sheets in the

"trial" furnished apartment, unable to sleep, he recalled

the night's dinner, with embarrassment. What a sillyfool, he had been, trying to impress Sue and her father

with his erudition and worldly experience. He knew he did

not fool Sue=s mother Irma, who had such piercing eyes

and protective paranoia about her only child, Sue. Irma

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had obviously been a beautiful girl, also, and her genes

had fortunately triumphed over Charlie's, so she had

probably heard every version of his corny lines while

fending off hot-blooded studs wanting to bounce on her

bones. Saving herself for Charlie did not seem an overly

wise investment as Charlie had let his former radiancefade. Yes, Irma could read his mind and her super polite

inquiries, like "Why would you want to give up teaching for

a job with a small time weekly newspaper?"

Bob had not told any of the Grimms of his true

desire to be a novelist, afraid they would suspect his true

motivations, and cancel his position at the BULLET. When

she had queried why he hadn't married yet after learning

he was almost thirty, he could've been more reassuring,had he not bragged, "Like the trial apartment, Charlie

arranged for me, I've always been selected for trial

relationships, never finding the rich, sexy, beautiful girl

with enough brains to recognize what a good catch I

would be." Oh yes, and he had wounded his chances of

Irma ever wanting her only child interested in him with

that inane gag about the dumb farm kid, recruited at

Notre Dame to play tackle, especially after tailoring the

story, to make it Charlie's position and alma mater. After

the third cup of Irma's Coffee and home-made Irish

crème, had he really said, "The reason I'm here for the

first day of November, when Winter really begins, is

because I heard Minnesota people never sleep alone in

the winter, and I'm curious who I'll be assigned to."

The few times Sue had gone to the door to hand

out apples to the tricks or treaters, had he really told

them he would come back to their door, tricks ortreating, wearing the costume Adam wore before he ate

the apple? Grimm’s homemade cordials must have been

pure vodka, and coupled with his limited exposure to

9



liquor because of a new teacher=s fund-deficient budget,

proved Bob Lowe an easily intoxicated fool.

CHAPTER FOUR

Bob woke to persistent rapping, and foggilyconcluded someone was hammering at the door of his new

three-room apartment, and it was still dark outside. "Who

is it, tricks or treats," he said hopefully, wondering which

of his admirers or enemies knew where he was. It could

not be any friend or anyone who knew him well. since they

knew his mental function was severely impaired until the

sun had risen.

"Open up, I am Sue and we've got a bad one going.We probably got a chance for a "stringer" like you were

talking about last night."

Bob, who slept nude, not knowing how cold his

bedroom would be with a window slightly open for fresh

air, hurriedly dressed, stalling Sue with, "Just a second,

Sue. My feet have frozen to the floor, and it will be a

minute until my shivering breaks them loose. Did you

bring Coffee?"

Sue had providentially stopped at McDonalds

bringing coffee, orange juice and egg sausage sandwiches

for them both. She had his complete attention as he

wolfed down his sandwich, realizing that he needed to

inventory his new home's possessions and lay in some

household goods and foods. Hoping this emergency would

not fill the day, he asked, "So, what's new in Newberg?"

"An eight year old boy, out tricks or treating right

here in this neighborhood, disappeared. He was alone, butother kids said they saw him carried off by a werewolf,

dripping pink saliva from his canines. Hey, the kids said

canines and I am a stickler for verbatim quotes, unless I

write a story with garbled syntax and Faulkner sentences

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to attract exposure on the networks", pausing briefly for

air, she added, "and you bought it, didn't you?"

For the first time in twenty-seven years, Bob was

speechless and in love. Horrible visions of sitting in front

of a television, trying to prioritize groceries or rent, with

a checkbook bearing negative balances appeared in hismind. He hated women smarter than himself and he was

almost sure he would be begging such a specimen to share

his bed, maybe even legally. What should he say? Bob

knew his mouth was hanging open and he was sure Sue

knew he was speechless because she had totally

bamboozled him.

Sue did recognize that further conversation would

have to originate from her, and tried putting Bob at easeby displaying weakness. She began with her favorite ploy

of self-denigration, hoping he would not fill in the usual

blanks I am so stupid, Bob, “I get used to thick skinned

Jocks who don't know manipulation from boorish

stimulation. Dad usually picks employees, mostly in his

image, but this time I picked you. I read your piece on

domesticating psychedelic mushrooms in the Michigander

Literary Review and thought it a real hoot. Even used

your bawdy limerick in the Bullet after a bit of

expurgation and paraphrasing. Not that our readers can

not handle a bit of bawdy, but I didn't want to copyright

infringe if you weren't as desirable as I had hoped you'd

be. I am used to getting males thinking my way if...@

Staggered by her candid babble, Bob interrupted,

"How the Hell could you read anything I've done in a that

pay to publish, pretentious little broadsheet with less

than a thousand press run, and for God's sake, WHY?""Look Bobby. I am an investigative reporter, and a

damned good one, just waiting for discovery by big buck

press. I do my digging and I know more about you than

you will ever know--probably enough to have you jailed if

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you ever do a number on me, like that last Bimbo you lived

with. Better be on your best, Bobby or I'll show you what

a bitch only daughters can be!"

Bob, flattered at her interest, wondered how much

she really new about him and why. Did she suspect his real

reason to work on the Bullet? How she find out anythingabout him in such a short time and from whom. He said, “I

will soon know everything you've got on me because I

spend more time listening than talking," he blathered

clumsily, and then slightly recovered, "And because you

talk too much, you'll be so frustrated that I don't ask,

you'll spill your...@

Shushing him with her finger, standing so close he

could smell her shampoo and other tantalizing and tastybut unidentified aromas. Bob, usually so quick with words,

knew not what to say...or do. He was tempted to reach

out and pull her even closer, but was relieved when a

buzzer, apparently coming from her beeper interrupted

the silent spell.

Sue retrieved a black box from her shoulder hung

purse and read aloud, "They=ve found the boy, he's hurt

and in shock, but alive@.

CHAPTER FIVE

While Sue expertly, but recklessly challenged all

traffic enforcement agencies, she intently concentrated,

but privately, on the contents of her call on the car

phone. Bob was puzzled as to why she did not just switch

on the speaker. Was he not privy to all the data, or was

she reluctant to share her source? And why was he

suspicious? Was it jealousy of whoever was her source, or just that she had much better news connections.

The call terminated Sue finally began, AOne of

Sheriff Omar=s deputies, responding to reports of

screams, swung through the Arsenal Gravel parking lot

12



about One AM, this morning and luckily spotted the

missing boy, lying mostly nude under one of the gravel

trucks. He was conscious but shivering and in shock. He

showed signs of sexual molestation, so the deputy

wrapped him in blankets and raced for General Hospital,

almost running over a dead man on the side of thedriveway. Fearful, he had hit him coming in, he stopped

to check as he was calling it in. Said he was a bloody

mess, with all of the wounds seemingly centered in the

seat of his pants. He was wearing a Werewolf costume

fitting the description of the kidnapper@

ASounds a little like someone administered shotgun

justice, but didn=t care enough for the kid, to stick

around or call for help. Did your mole indicate anyevidence of others at the scene?,@ Bob Lowe asked just

a little petulantly.

AMy source is a secret, not because I=m

withholding from you, but to protect the squealer’s butt.

Sure he likes me, but I dangle nothing. You are jealous,

right? I like that. Here=s the Arsenal=s gravel pit

entrance, now.@

Yellow tape stretched across the road, but Sue

swerved down through the weeded ditch, somehow eluding

the festooned warning. Bob saw several squad cars, an

ambulance but so far, no mobile television crews and only

one civilian car, a new Cadillac, probably not a newsman.

First in on a big scoop and how unfortunate he was, not to

have his own mobile phone and some network or news

service contacts yet. What a wasted break.

Sue pulled in next to the ambulance and smiling

broadly at the shocked deputies, and without forfeitingthat facial expression, whispered an aside, AYou

schmooze Ambulance crew and see what you can suck up,

I will charm and pump the deputies.@

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ASound=s good,@ Bob said but knew he didn=t

feel capable or qualified, envying her brashness and self-

confidence. Play it dumb, Bob thought, and then confided,

AMaybe they will appreciate humility, and confuse it with

honesty,@ and Bob walked to the back of an ambulance,

where a civilian, maybe Medical Examiner, was takingover, both paramedics standing back. Sidling close to the

one, medic, he began his first effort at investigative

reporting.

CHAPTER SIX

Bob was loaded with supposition and fact, and

proudly returned to the Jeep, where Sue waited. Connie,

no, Conrad, Senior Paramedic, Unit 38 had shared all that

he knew and even some quotable guesses, willingly as soonas Bob had asked his name for the news. Now to sort out

what was real and what was printable. The Ambulance

was leaving with the dead perpetrator, and Channel

Five=s remote transmitter van was just now, on the

scene. He ventured, ASue, let=s take coffee back to my

digs and compare our interviews for corroborative

duplication.@

He hoped she would say no as there was still

chance he could get something with his byline to some

news service, assuming his phone line was alive. stories of

vengeance told and sold well.

Sue answered somewhat smugly, AWe should both

go home, write up what we know, then read each other=s

copy, taking the one with the most fact and human

interest, then augment that story with supplemental bits

from each other. Where our coalesced versions differ,

we can just attribute to those we can quote, Okay?@ ASounds Good,@ he replied happy to pursue his own

course. She sure did not sound like the bubblehead that

wrote the story on deer eradication. He spoke,AToo bad

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we didn=t have a camera, cause this one seems to be

grist for the checkout counter mags.@

AOh but we do, and I did,@ Sue said proudly,

holding aloft a tiny camera between her thumb and

index finger. The pictures I will use in the Bullet will

cost a few bucks, but those I have taken by the prosthat can get where we can=t. The miniatures are only

for backup or sometimes, a discreet form of

blackmail. Unless I develop them myself, it takes too

long and too much money.@

Gloating and talking little, Sue drove an amazingly

short distance from the lurid murder scene, to the urban

safety of his small apartment. Bob perfunctorily

embraced Sue, and then dashed up the stairs to work uphis version of Crime and Punishment, Lowe style. It read:

Conrad Dippley, Senior Paramedic began his

special Halloween-lengthened twelve-hour stint at the

Newberg Central Fire Station at noon, all Saints day

prepared for any emergency. He had two dozen popcorn

balls for tricks or treaters and his standard EMT

emergency kit, freshly checked and replenished.

Holidays, legal or just popular, usually presented more

challenges than normal workdays, but in twelve years of

duty with the Newberg Fire Station, Conrad had treated

more victims of violent death in the area around Long

Lake than any of his compatriots elsewhere in the state.

Something was different in this North Minneapolis

suburb. At the Fire station, helping hand out treats,

Conrad had served a trio of young goblins, and took

particular interest in the boy garbed as Pirate with

home-made orange and green striped trousers.On his last emergency call of the evening =s shift,

he was saddened to see those trousers again. They lay by

the young unconscious boy, ripped off by a sick and

dangerous psychopath in the parking lot of Arsenal Sand

15



and Gravel. Quickly treating the boy for exposure and

shock, Conrad felt sure that he had escaped the intended

violation only by the intervention of an unknown

mysterious rescuer who had viciously destroyed the

boy =s molester, but then disappeared. The boy,

uncharacteristically taken to Saint Paul General Hospital by Ramsey County deputies, rather than left in his care.

The last words Conrad heard from the boy, were that a

Monster came and saved him from a werewolf.

Conrad switched his attention to the body of the

boy =s abductor, and quickly determined not only that he

was already dead but also that had died slowly and

horribly from internal bleeding. Conrad’s examination was

abruptly taken over with the arrival of Herbert Twinkley,Ramsey County Medical Examiner.

Twinkley confirmed Conrad =s suspicions, telling

Deputies on the scene that the dead man, later identified

as Edgar Horneman, died from massive internal

hemorrhages caused by rupture of almost all internal

organs including both kidneys, large and small intestines,

stomach, liver and even the lungs. No entry wound was

discernable, except anally. Because bleeding was

essentially internal, death was prolonged, explaining the

long duration of screaming, which terminated just

seconds before the first deputy arrived on the scene.

The assailant must have torturously continued the attack

during that time span, using a somewhat blunt instrument,

forcibly impaling the victim despite his heavy denim

pants, much of which were imbedded in the man =s

abdominal cavity.

When the Medical Examiner was appraised by Ramsey County >s Senior Investigating Deputy, Ira

Blackmore, that the deadman matched the identity of a

recently paroled and locally registered child molester,

Police quickly focused on and positively identified as

16



Horneman. Twinkley responded, AWell, he may have

deserved to die, but he suffered horribly for his sins.

With lacerations of all the internal organs except the

heart, it looks like some vigilante deliberately arranged a

lingering and torturously painful death. I sure hope you

catch the bugger before he does someone who does not deserve to die.@

Deputy Blackmore had responded to a 911 call

reporting screams and the sound of a trumpet or horn

that emanated from somewhere on the southwest shore

of Long Lake and that caller said the screaming had gone

on for at least fifteen minutes before he concluded it

was not Halloween revelers. Officer Blackmore reported

hearing the same disturbance while he was coming down the west shore access but that it stopped moments

before he turned into the Arsenal parking lot. He saw

the naked, trembling boy first and only saw the dead man,

wearing the werewolf getup and lying in the nearby ditch,

when he opened his squad car door.

Emergency medical technician Conrad Dippley will

go on duty again about Suppertime, on the first day of

November. He will be alert and concerned; because he

remembers the words of the little rescued Pirate

defining that a monster came to his rescue. If he is

right, there is a vengeful vigilante on the loose in

Newberg who dispenses harsh justice to wrongdoers.

Who will be next?

Bob knew it could stand re-write but he wanted to

get it first to the Checkout Counter Press, and it would

take some heavy phone research to get the rightnumbers. He would start with that publisher in East

Florida that he still had listed in his notebook.

17



CHAPTER SEVEN

Bob smugly handed over his handwritten foolscap

just as he had transcribed it to the Enquirer, except for

the line he had added about this being one of many

examples of strange acts of a mysterious vigilante,

exacting vengeance on deserving villains, in the Newbergarea. That line, intended to build market for a second

story, where justice bloodily triumphs. A story not yet

known but one Lowe felt he could dredge out of

newspaper morgues, starting first with Newberg Bullet

but then, ranging far as need be.

18



AA little lurid, perhaps, but I can lay it all on

second person reports, credited to our hero, Dippley.

Then remembering his newly discovered need for

affection, added, AI hope you can read my hen

scratching, Sue. I will bring my portable PC and printerwhen I bring my car over from Detroit this weekend.

Why don=t you come along and help me drive?@

AMy, my, your libido=s back. I thought that part

of you died when you brushed me off so abruptly.@ she

said, adding teasingly, AI am afraid we would have trouble

deciding who was driving and who was riding. After we

get the small part of our paper that is not advertising

set, I thought you and I could work up something to earn

some bucks from for the supermarket press. I got some

great shots, especially from the coroner=s office.@

Bob realized how Sue would interpret his unilateral

submission and hoped the Enquirer now was so over laden

with off beat material, and lose interest in a wild story

about vengeance on a child molester received

unsubstantiated and over the phone, so his regretted

betrayal would not be revealed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

They spent a pleasant Friday afternoon, Bob on his

best behavior, flattering moderately and agreeing to just

the right amount of Sue=s opinions. Bob tactfully

indulged in some libidinous flirting and some accidental

contacts that hinted at more. He was charming and on his

very best behavior. Sue diligently displayed all the tools

and resources of the Bullet back room, included fifty

years of past editions. Both were surprised to find time

had passed quickly, leaving emptiness in their belly and

longing in their loins. Both began plotting satisfaction of

19



their food needs. Sue was looking up the number of her

favorite restaurant, looking at those where there was a

due bill on advertising, long overdue, when the phone rang

with a foreboding sound, that Bob instinctively

recognized and instantly regretted letting Sue answer.Sue said, AIt=s the National Enquirer, wanting

more on the mutilated pedophile. Take it Asshole, I=m

going to dinner...alone,@ said Sue angrily on her way out

the door.

Bob Lowe penitently realized that again, he got just

what he deserved. No wonder he was unattached, unloved

and maybe unemployed. Not knowing anything better, he

picked up the phone and began, ABob here, can I help

you?

The voice on the phone said, AWe liked your story

so far, Bobby but it needs some fattening. We will

stretch it up a little, here. We would not use it without

pictures, except you claim you got a new twist on serial

killing going there. We can generate some drawings and

pictures that fit better than real, anyway. Now dig me up

another killing by the same vigilante, and we will give it a

big play. I have Federal Expressed you the standardpackage. Read it, cash the advance and sign up a few of

the blank releases. We can use good off beat stuff. Oh

yes, give us the Deer Hunter bit too, if you can tie them

together@

Sad and alone in the editorial office, Bob set about

salvaging something from the wreck of his job. He pulled

open the first of the morgue files, and began a full night

of research, turning his hunger pangs to an unfulfilled and

goading drive. He worked through the night, pulling out

and copying three more stories, which he could attribute

to the mystery avenger.

20



Just ready to surrender to his hunger and leave for

breakfast, although not sure the Rolling Wheels Truck

Stop began breakfast service before Five, Bob struck pay

dirt. In last December=s first week issue, A writer

calling himself, >Animal Lover=, was terribly upsetbecause a fur trapper was illegally operating inside city

limits and also on the Newberg Government Munitions

Reservation and the large Arsenal Sand and Gravel

grounds. Those officials had not responded to his

complaints. He was even more irate because he had

photographic proof, clearly showing the scoundrel bagging

a mink out of season, using an illegal drown-trap.

>Animal Lover= eloquently described how down-traps

worked. Such traps set linked on a slanted one-way stake

driven in the bottom so that any trapped and struggling

animal could only go one way, and that was deeper in the

water to drown before it could free itself by chewing of

its snared leg. The description of that death struggle was

graphic and well written. Bob read it twice enjoying the

well-chosen words and taut but complete portrayal. It

was graphic and emotionally moving. So descriptive,

anyone who, like Bob suffered claustrophobia wouldempathize with the sadly tormented beast and also

struggle to breathe. Bob started a third reading of

the lyrical prose before realizing that the letter arrived

just one week before a story was ran about the unsolved

murder of an illegal fur trapper, drowned because he

broke through ice entangled in weighty mink traps.

Animal Lover had been a frequent writer of letters ATo

the Editor@ and Bob backtracked. In a previous letter

during last August he had wrangled about the bituminous-

mix plant operator, using dioxin-contaminated oil. That

accused polluter, Headron Berkely perished the following

month by supposedly falling into his cooker, late at night

21



when all of his work force had left. Sue=s story on that

story was free of the attention-getting syntax

grammatical errors that had enticed him to Newberg.

A prominent Newberg contractor, Headron Berkely,was found trapped in one of his asphalt cookers, Sunday

morning by Ramsey County Deputies who responded to a

complaint from Lakeshore owners. His death was termed

mysterious by Chief Deputy, Harry Langeman because the

body bore many penetrating but not life threatening

wounds from an unidentified object. Langeman said

Berkely looked like the loser of a bullfight, even before

boiling in the waste oil fired in the cooker. The lid had

been closed and bolted from the outside and there were

some indications that Berkely had intentionally crawled in

the gigantic asphalt melting tank to escape an attacker.

Someone had latched the lid and lit the burners.

Langeman =s theory was supported by evidence that

Berkely had scarred the inside of the lid in futile

attempts to force it open. Nearby neighbors of the plant

described the screams as subdued, as if emanating from

a deep pit or well. Scattered around near the cooker were empty waste barrels of differing noxious chemical

constituents, mostly considered dangerous and requiring

expensive disposal. Analysis of the boiling oil will reveal

whether it came from the unmarked barrels.

Investigation is ongoing.

Tired from his all night stint, Bob Lowe cradled his head

on the desk with ice cold hands and dreamed of cooking in

barrels of boiling chemicals, putrefying each stifling

breath.

CHAPTER NINE

22



Jolted awake by the smell of burning chemicals, he

followed the stench to the rear door, where he

discovered a very new and small fire licking at the on the

corner of the tin shed where the flammable printing

press wash-up chemicals were stored. On his way out, hehad noticed a foam fire extinguisher on the inside of the

Bullet back door, and Bob quickly put it to work. The

surrounding neighborhood was empty. Bob stood sentry

over the extinguished rags, and noticed an old pickup pull

slowly out the Supper club parking lot a block away. The

headlights were off, but as it turned toward the lake and

passed under the streetlight, Bob could see by the truck

was old, and covered with dirt but had once been bright

yellow 1940 International. Was that the fire setter? The

sound seemed familiar, but Bob could not see the license

and regretted he could not follow the truck on foot. Bob

would be watching for that truck.

Bob returned to the Bullet and left a note humbly

describing his heroics, on Sue=s desk. Hopefully, she

would not believe he had set the fire in an effort to

mitigate his guilt. After writing the note, he had

impetuously added a postscript explaining his attempt toearn extra money so he could impress the girl he loved,

was the cause of his treachery. It read well, and maybe

even true.

Surveying the night=s research, bob had a large

bundle of local news highlighted by horrendous accounts

of the past year=s mysterious and unsolved deaths in and

around Newberg. For a small town, there were too many

unsolved murders and most of them seemed to be

somewhat justified. The pressroom crew would be coming

soon, so Bob grabbed three more unstudied back issues of

the Bullet, locked up and left.

23



Back in his cold apartment, Bob could not sleep. Had

he played his cards better, he could have invited Sue to

share his lonely bedroom, but now, he would be lucky if he

still had a job, not run out of town. Bundled in bed, he set

about digesting the night=s accumulation of Newberghistory as recorded by the Bullet.

He picked up the first of the unread back issues,

and saw an intriguing headline, ALocal Banker Freezes@

and the issue was but three weeks ago. People did not

freeze in early October, even in Minnesota. The story

bore Sue=s byline, and he read below the picture of an

almost new but totally battered Cadillac. It was another

story suggesting vengeance at work:

Railroad workers discovered Jonas Weatherless, a

local banker missing since the surprise dismissal of his

Federal indictment last Friday, dead from exposure on

the Newberg Arsenal reservation. Roy Blankenship,

section hand supervisor was investigating a clogged

culvert under the service road that accessed the Rice

Creek railroad crossing, last Monday. A bloated corpse,

wedged in the 16-inch culvert, caused the blockage and resultant impounding of water. Sheriff =s deputy, Ira

Gates who responded to Blankenships 911 call, told

reporters that Weatherless, forcibly stripped of all

clothing, apparently took refuge in the culvert as

evidenced by his kneeling position with rosary beads

clasped in his hands.

Although October temperatures were seldom below

freezing, The Medical Examiner expostulated that death

was likely caused by hypothermia from the near freezing

waters of the drainage ditch. Investigators found the

victim =s torn clothing scattered in a sixty foot, muddied

and trampled trail between the drain opening and the

24



heavily damaged Cadillac owned by the deceased. Every

exterior panel of the year old car was severely battered

and all glass shattered.Foul play seems an inevitable conclusion, reported Sheriff

Chandler. Potential suspects could include any of the thousands

of defrauded investors in Weatherless=s Sheltering Arms

Corporation or reputed mobster cohorts, suspecting Jonas

cooperated with authorities to gain his release.

Bob had to patch things with Sue. She was sexy, shared his love

of writing, and he was apparently in love with her. He found

new energy and returned to the office to retrieve more back

issues of the Bullet to study back in his apartment as his

presence at the paper was, at best, tenuous. He was sure he

would find more stories of mysterious retribution.

CHAPTER TEN

Back in his apartment, sprawled among the half

read newspapers on his still unmade bed, the still

remaining scent of Sue=s AForbidden Fruit@ energizedhis libido and an emotion he had never before

experienced. What it was, he did not know. Forgetting all

formalities, Bob picked up his phone, dialed number, and

demanded,AIs Sue there?@

25



It was Irma who smugly said,ANo, Bob. I think

you=ve fumbled the ball, with her, and the Bullet.@

AI know that. But she doesn=t understand why I

needed the money that story would bring.@ and then a lie

came easily, AI don=t have a pot to pee in and I=m inlove with Sue. I wanted to buy her a diamond ring for

Christmas. I guess the game=s over and I should leave.@

During Irma=s long silence, Bob realized the easy

lie was becoming truth. AActually, she=s taking a week

off, and doesn=t want you to leave, at least for the week

she=s gone.@

From another phone, Charles Grimm joined in. ASue

is majority owner of the paper, and she wants you to stay.

I had to give her majority to keep her from taking a job

offered with the Chicago Tribune, a year ago. I would

have fired you, had you stabbed me in the back as you did

Sue. She left a letter and some things at your desk. Do

not expect me to be too cordial, but our paths shouldn=t

cross much.@

AThis is God=s truth, Charlie. I need the Bullet

much more than it needs me, and I don=t make the same

mistakes twice. I love your daughter, more than anyother girl I have known. Besides, there=s a real mystery

lurking here in Newberg. Maybe, even a series that could

win a Pulitzer prize.@ Bob hated begging forgiveness, a

new and ego shattering experience.

AYours or Sue=s,@ Grim said skeptically.

AIt would be my intention to make it all of ours!

Do I have a free hand, editorially, the week Sue=s gone?

I know I can flush out the secret avenger that=s been

doing in local villains.@

ASue spelled out her terms in the letter she left at

your desk.@

AHow can I reach Sue?@

26



AWell, she will be staying with a friend named Kelly

Kashel, in the Detroit area, while doing some research

there, but do not call her, let her call you.@

Stunned, Lowe turned silent. Kelly Kashel had to be

the >bimbo= Sue had accused him of mistreating. Shewas their mutual contact, and source of Sue=s advance

information. Bob was afraid to remember girls he had

mistreated or disappointed and only dimly remembered a

girl named Kelly. AHow does Sue know Kelly, Mr. Grimm?@

ACollege roommates, I think. She was sort of a

bubblehead. Did not understand blonde jokes, but

inspired them. Sue took her under her wings, trying to

help. Sue brought her here, once. Beautiful but dumb.She was not a good reflection on Waldorf College, even if

she was their Tulip Queen.@

Now he remembered the former Tulip Queen, but

hoped Kelly had forgotten details of their short, shared

history. He ran all the way to the Bullet office, and

exulted that his key still opened the front door, although

his nervous and fumbling efforts almost convinced him

that it was a newly changed lock. On his desk at theBullet, Bob found an awkwardly dumped pile of electronic

gear, books and notepads. Bob pushed aside the portable

fax, printer, pager, a big key ring with labeled keys,

miniature recorder, a very small camera, and underneath

all, he found an envelope addressed to, ABobbv@. Bob

tore open the envelope and read.

I knew you were a dink, when I sent you the deer

slaying story, so I won =t give up on you just yet. Our mutual friend told me you were miscast as anything but a

small town newspaperman, and that your selfishness

made you a lousy lover, but having great potential.

27



I went to your room to give you another chance, but

gave up about four in the morning. I guess I don =t want

to know where you went to heal your wounded ego. I

rummaged around, through your things and found the

keys to your storage unit and your old Packard and took them. Boy, are you a slob. I will pack your clothes and

amorous souvenirs in the old clunk and drive it back.

Don =t worry. I know you love the car and I will be very

careful. For two weeks, while I gather evidence and pack

your stuff, run the Bullet as if it were yours, but when I

get back, you change your ways or move on, unless you

want to end up as dog treats.--Love Sue!

Bob tried to remember more about Kelly so could

call Sue. He could use the reprieve and chase down the

mystery avenger, and earn approval all the Grimms. He

could smell a great story and that was most important.

Then too, Sue did not consider him a complete loss, yet.

Sue had gone to Detroit Ato gather evidence and impound

the personal property of one Robert Lowe@ meant

something. If she were holding his antique Packard

hostage, it could mean she considered him of value, too.Deciding to jog back to his digs, he again saw the

old International pickup, new in 1940, making it one year

older than his treasured and functionally restored

Packard. Parked in front of the city hall/library, the old

truck was clean and pristine, obviously treasured and

superbly maintained. The truck was probably stored in a

dry and temperature controlled environment. It could be

the same truck that he spotted after the attempted burn

of the Bullet.

Crossing the street, he peered in the window to

check the mileage on the odometer. The angle was wrong

from the side window, and his curiosity teased him to

28



jump up in the back, and look through the rear window.

There was nothing in the back, except two bales of hay

and a grainy white cube. While he stood considering the

temptation, one of the Bullet=s two back shop workers

came by and when asked, told him the white cube was asalt block, cattlemen provided their stock as necessary

nutritional supplement. Possibly bait for deer poachers,

but legal and customary in feedlots. Bob copied down the

license plate, noting that the tag was not the collector

version, implying the owner might be a super careful

possessor and fastidious mechanic unaware of the

truck=s antique value. Were he to inquire about buying it,

the owner would not be aware of his real suspicions.

The Department of Motor Vehicles responded to

his phony representation as a interning Aide in the

Ramsey County Attorney=s office and Bob, without guilt,

found the owner of the old yellow pickup to be Allen

Hartmann. Further search of keyed references of Allen

Hartman led him to a several personal interest stories on

Hartmann. Bob found on Hartmann’s retirement as

Probate Judge, with an inordinate and thus frustrated

interest in criminal law and justice. The story boreIrma=s by-line and was written as if straight from

somebody=s society page. He called Irma.

AWho is Judge Hartmann, Irma? I read your neat

story on his retirement seven years ago. Is he a friend?@

AHe was a strange bird, too. Never quite fit in

Newberg society, you know. Crackpot really, but he=s

lived on the family farm for ages. Scandal forced him to

retire and he grows watermelons, on the long-time family

farm over on the East bank of the lake.@

AIrma, How did he become a judge, as a crackpot?@

29



AHe has been a long time resident, and studied law,

graduating with honors at the University. He was a lousy

lawyer, especially if you were guilty. He never would

bargain or plead down, and never successfully defended

someone guilty. I believe grateful prosecutors got himnominated as Judge of probate court, and voters elected

him. In a very short time, he intruded into a sensitive

criminal case, so he ended up shamed impeached. I don=t

remember the details, except he is certifiable, but he is

successful growing potatoes ands watermelons. He owns

the nicest chunk of property there, but he won=t sell it.

Penurious and happy, I think@

AThank you, Irma! I think I can make you proud of

me as newspaperman and son-in-law, and that=s my

goal.@ Bob hung up impolitely, anxious to make his next

call.

He was surprised to see Hartman still listed as

Judge and having a public number. He dialed and waited.

AHey Judge Hartmann, I=m glad I caught you are

home. I followed your International=s antique and

distinctive tire tracks, and found out who tried to burn

down the Bullet.@ Dead silence followed and Bobcontinued, AGot you dead to rights on at least a dozen

other killings, only a little justifiable. Do you want to talk

about your acts of revenge?@

Finally, a response, AYou are that cocky new

reporter at the Bullet, right?@

Having connected, Bob waited to score.

ADo you want the real story? Come to my farm

driveway, and come down to the lakeshore, past the burnt

out barn. Set yourself in the outdoor toilet by the

watermelon patch. If you come alone, I will come talk to

you, but not face to face. Tell you anything you want to

know. Tonight, no cops or witnesses, and be there by ten

30



PM, sharp.@ Then the judge hung up and left the phone

off the cradle.

Bob began preparing for his cloak and dagger

mission immediately, packing his undercover gear.

He debated, finding and borrowing Sue’s mobile cellphone, but then demurred. He did not have anyone around

he wanted to share his story, just yet.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bob entered the outdoor toilet, carefully

closing the surprisingly heavy door so that a slight gap

for illicit observation remained. Checking his canvas

duffel bag, he was reassured that its inventory included

flashlight, two cold cans of soda, his tape recorder and a

flash equipped camera, then began his wait for the

promised informant. Bob found the bench seat

uncomfortable, and the refulgent odors permeating the

closed space, made him aware that the building's function

was definitely toilet, though probably not very recently.

In fact, the odors, while gamy, seemed very old, and

musty.

Thankful for the near full moon he positioned hishead to maximize his field of vision through the gaping

doorway. While he could neither hear or see anything, the

erection of the hairs on the back of his neck signaled a

new presence leaving him unsurprised when an anonymous

raspy and shaking voice began.. "I'm glad you came and

followed my instructions to come alone. Before I start, I

need to first protect my privacy and will adjust this door

a bit..." and the grating sound of a heavy beam rapidly

scraped over the suddenly closed door signaled he should

have immediately lunged for freedom. Bob found himself

trapped inside a suddenly dark, scary and smelly box.

31



"Hey, hey…what the...what is going on here?" Bob

stuttered, disconsolately aware that he could have left a

large stick or stone to block to prevent the door from

completely closing. Bob could smell his fear as his armpits

turned wet with sweat. Let me out, he screamed to theempty farm field.

"Patience, patience my inquisitive friend, the voice,

much stronger now and confident continued, "Answers you

wanted, answers you'll get. But you must understand why

prying into our affairs must stop. Yes, you already know I

am the failed and vilified Judge Hartmann. I knew you

would figure us both out when you saw my truck carrying

the salt block. I watched you. You know the killings are

all justifiable, and there is such a great need for them to

continue... People just can't know who is doing the killing

or why."

Bob realized that his watermelon-raising recluse

had trapped him and was crazy as Irma had warned, but

what was significance of the salt block? He regretted

not coming more prepared, and must encourage and

lengthen his captor's narrative while developing an escape

plan. He heard some strange thumps on his cage, was hiscaptor nailing him in? How long would it take him to

enlarge either of the two holes of the "two-holer" with

his small and dull penknife? In his best conciliatory

manner, he began. "Now look, my defensive friend. if you

and whoever are arranging the accidents that are wiping

out some richly deserving bastards, why would I blow the

whistle. Hey, I believe in Fair Play, too. Just explain to

me, who is doing it and why." Then the floor beneath him

lurched downward and his cage tilted a little forward and

to the left. What was going on outside?

32



The thumping stopped and his dominator drawled,

"Well, now, you want to know the who or the why before I

drop you down into the crap hole?"

Bob, his penknife in his hand, quickly shifted his

focus from the seat holes looking for weak spots in theroof or walls. There was a crescent cutout a foot below

the peak that looked promising. That cutout, almost a

foot in breadth compromised the rigidity of two ten inch

boards. He stood on the bench and peered through the

cut out. There was a dark shape he knew to be his

captor, facial detail was shadowed from the moon, but

the shovel his adversary had been using to under-mine

the foundation of his cage, reflected moonlight. His

captor was leaning to rest or pushing against his toilet

wall. He knew he must keep his tormentor talking, buying

time to solve his predicament. How much time did he

have? How far down in the pit below could he fall. Surely,

he could cut through the roof if the excretion pit was

deep.

Cautiously, Lowe began, "When did it begin, Judge?

Who was first? Was it always here at the lake? How

many bad men have been done-in. Before me, have youever put a good or innocent man down? Have you punished

women?" Still looking through the crescent toward the

moon, he saw the old man lay down his shovel, turn

halfway and lean back against the wall, then the dark

shadow began to talk.

"Almost one hundred years ago, this watermelon

patch was part of a large cattle holding pen where the

grass fed cattle from the West were unloaded from the

box cars on that old siding over by the Asphalt cooker.

The great Northern Packing plant was to the west all the

way to the lakeshore, with the icehouse on pilings out into

Long Lake.

33



The cattle kill ramp went from that far end of the

holding pen over by those two scraggly oaks, where you

could have seen my hay bales, up three stories to the kill

floor. The cows drove up that ramp, where the hammer

man dropped them with a blow to the middle of theirforehead, the throat man, cut the juggler while the three

hide slitters cut the skin from around the head, slit from

the chin to the tail and made encircling cuts around all

four hoofs. The shackle man, placed hooks in sinews of

the rear heels and the unconscious bleeding carcass was

hoisted Twelve feet higher, to be dropped twenty feet to

the beef-dressing floor on the second story. While

shackled at the very top, two hooks at the end of twelve-

foot cables were hooked by the shakeout man to loosened

corners of the cows hide, beneath the jaw on both sides

of the center slit. The cow was let drop, the shorter

shakeout cables snapped taut, the animal dropping

another six feet, neatly shedding its hide for the

tannery.

The hammer man was an artist, called upon to

render the cow unconscious, but not dead. The dead cow

would not bleed as well, nor would the shakeout-fall pulloff the hide cleanly and intact. If the dropped cow were

not unconscious, their outcry would pain anyone within

earshot, and the struggling carcass could hurt its

butchers. A creature skinned alive takes forever to die,

and the hurt from each severed nerve end, gathers in

magnified pain. No one would dare to hear that howl of

agony twice. So fearful co-workers appreciated hammer

men who mastered their technique. Even pain-hardened

packinghouse workers could not witness that agony.

My father was a hammer-man who let only two

conscious cows drop during his eleven years as mercy

giver. The first was an accident, but the second, a Texas

34



bred Longhorn Siring Bull from Wyoming, angered my

father by menacingly swinging his horned head as he

entered narrows at the ramp top, almost spearing him. A

light tap, with a request to his workmate, the throat man,

to make a very light cut, set up the revenge. `Bleed himslow, Jimmy,= he had hollered. The Bull dropped, and a

bellowing, enraged skinned carcass lit in a heap, then

miraculously stood erect, turning from pale white to

bright crimson as a million small capillaries each

blossomed a bead of blood. Maddened with pain, roaring

with rage the skinned bull charged the length of the beef

trim floor and into the passageway to the icehouse,

running with the broken shackles still at his heels,

clattering in counter-point.

Up the ramp the un-dead bull charged. There was a

splash as the ton of bull dove out the Ice-loading ramp

door into the silence of the lake. The bull did not surface

nor did it die.

My father quit or was fired, never telling me which,

even on his death bed when he made me promise to

continue his practice of leaving hay, corn and salt back

there where the willows go down to the point. I neversaw the bull, while my father lived, though he claimed he

saw him daily. The feed we left always disappeared, but

there have always been many deer in the area. The day

father left the packing house, he paid three times real

value for that swampy ten acres up by Rice Creek outlet,

and we've lived somewhere on Long Lake every day of my

life since that bull dove in the lake. Back in 1928, fifteen

years after the packing plant closed, bootleggers set up a

still in the old ice house, and one night a few people

wearing concrete skis slid, screaming for help, down that

old ice loading ramp. Police, responding to reports of

gunfire and screams, broke into the locked icehouse and

35



found four bootlegger's mutilated bodies amid the

shattered wreckage of their boiler and still. Police

concluded that part of the band had beat the dead gang

members to pieces with axes and hammers, then poured

cement boots around their feet and skidded them downthe ice- block-loading ramp. The police did not explain

why the maimed bodies lay, with their emptied guns amid

the exhausted shell casings, yet no one had bullet

wounds."

"My father heard the bellow and knew the cause of

the carnage. You, my unfortunate friend, are trying to

get my vindictive bull, discovered and destroyed. Maybe

that is possible. I am sorry, but I must sink you farther

into the pit and burn my toilet, you and any scribbles of

evidence, you have accumulated. I Really don't want you

to suffer, so I'll use plenty of gasoline."

In panic, Bob watched the old man shuffle off to a

shadowed clump of bushes, and lift out a large red can.

Then he heard a roar, louder than thunder. Bob saw a

ghastly white giant bull facing them, head slowly shaking

side to side, eyes glowing red like embers from Hell, and

then it charged! He watched, amazed by the waltzinggallop of a leg-shackled bull, marveling at its speed,

covering the thirty feet to his equally spellbound

antagonist, before he could take a single step.

Hypnotized, he watched the bull trample the silent

but struggling, vengeance-bent judge, together with his

full gasoline can, to a bloody slurry, ripe for cremation.

Finished, the bull snorted triumphantly, fixing Bob with a

forever-remembered glare, then turned and trotted

placidly past his vantage point, toward Long Lake.

36



Bob asked, “Why was he spared?” The bull had always acted in

retribution. Was he destroying his keeper, or trading his old keeper

for a new one? Would he find himself bringing hay to his new captor?Would he ever write the story of this night of horror exposing the

avenging ghost? Would he try to resurrect his love affair with Sue?

Would he dare to start the novel he had came here to write, ending up

fulfilled only with creation of commercially acceptable words? Would

he risk disbelief and ridicule if that puddle of bloody pulverized flesh,

soaked in gasoline, did not retain the corroborating hoof prints of the

ghostly bull? Or would he ignite that waiting pyre, destroying evidence

of the vengeance-seeking ghost, so it might secretly continue punishing

those escaping justice from the courts? Would he continue feeding

and supporting the rampaging ghost bull or forget everything he knew,

except his longing for a family with Sue?

Bob unfolded the blade of his penknife and set to work carving

away the boards already altered by half-moon ventilator slot. In time,

he could escape from his intended tomb, and choose his destiny.

1horns of the avenger

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