Back Again, and so soon! Bit of a cheat, here, mind you, but still… Those who follow regularly will recognize the following, but should also see the differences. As I previously stated, this part was written looooong before I had a clear picture of what this novel was going to be like. At the time written, I viewed Will as more angry than bewildered, more self-absorbed than self-conscious. In the parlance, he started out in my head as a more unsympathetic character. As I started writing with a clearer picture and a better sense of the plot and its development, he became more sympathetic in my eyes. (Is he a sympathetic character? I, as yet, have no real clue, as nobody up to this point has made any f*%@in’ mention of him being at all relatable…) I hope this change is evident in this edit/rewrite.
+ + +
By the time Will heard the car there was no chance of getting back to the house, or hiding, or any chance of escape whatsoever. He’d been so focused on the seemingly endless flight of the last ball he’d hit it bordered on hypnosis. The low growl and rumble of tires over gravel snapped him out of it, but by then it was too late to move. The impulse for flight hit him for an instant, but the car was already even with him and he didn’t want to be seen running naked. He couldn’t imagine anything that could better imply some sort of twisted guilt. That it was a squad car added to his task of attempting to appear nonchalant. It was a good thing cops didn’t make him nervous.
The hope that the patrol car might move to the end of the driveway, thus giving Will a chance to disappear someplace into the windbreak, died when it stopped almost directly across from him. Will could see the driver’s silhouette well enough to determine the he was looking straight at him. Will immediately centered himself, nonchalantly raised his three iron and rested it on his shoulder, and looked straight back. He hoped his pounding heart wasn’t visible through his ribcage.
This car was somehow different than the other department vehicles Will had seen. It had the khaki and white panda pattern paint job, and the Limburg County shield on the doors, but it also had– and what Will hadn’t noticed on the other squads– the word SHERIFF painted across the top edge of the front fender. Will allowed himself to study the car for another few seconds, then broke his stance before things got too absurd. Maybe the guy had made a wrong turn and was just plain stunned at encountering a naked man. Maybe he was only was hanging around long enough to see if someone else was hiding in the windbreak. Will turned, lowered the club, separated another ball from the pile and addressed it.
“Grip it and rip it,” he mumbled through his backswing. It felt good and looked better. The ball rocketed off the clubhead with a sharp click, boring through the air dead center of the gap in the wind break. It rose at a low angle over the rows of corn sprouts for about one hundred seventy five yards before turning up, like an ascending jet liner clearing the runway. It carried the same sharp angle until it was nearly halfway over the field, appeared suspended in space for an instant, then dropped, joining a score of tiny white dots that freckled the field. Will had held his follow-through the entire flight of the ball. He was smiling. It was as a good a three iron shot as he’d ever struck in his life. Maybe he was on to something here…
Will was pulling another ball from the pile when he changed his mind about the club he was using. There was a sudden desire to not embarass himself in front of his audience by following up such a magnificent shot by shanking the next one. He was pulling a short iron from the bag when he heard the car door.
Will glanced toward the squad. The man that emerged was large, but not bulky. There was no need to hike up his pants when he got out of the car, but he did it anyway. He bent and reached for something inside, appeared to consider for a moment, then stood empty-handed and closed the door.
His hat, Will deduced; he’s not sure how official he wants his presence to appear.
Will had noticed immediately that the lawman’s shirt was white, not khaki. The title emblazoned on the fender was now clear. It was the Sheriff of Limburg County himself, trying to look casual as he approached a buck-naked stranger armed with a pitching wedge. He pulled his feet closer together, the ball just ahead of his back heel. He was in the middle of his waggle when he heard: “Good morning.”
Obviously not a golfer, Will thought. He didn’t respond, but completed his swing. Fat, he could feel it. Probably didn’t carry twenty yards. He didn’t bother following the ball. He planted the club head on the ground and rested a hand on the butt of the grip. He turned to the Sheriff. “Do you know there’s not a single golf course in this county?”
The sheriff made a noise in his throat and nodded. He answered, not quite looking at Will. “There aren’t any nudist colonies that I’m aware of, either.”
Will looked at him, squinting. The sun was in his eyes. “Imagine I’ll just have to keep making do on my own, then.”
The Sheriff made the noise again and kept nodding. He looked out over the plowed earth. “That’s an awful lot of golfballs.”
“Water balls, range balls,”– Will lined up another shot– “grin balls and idiot balls.” He waggled his wedge. “I’ve got thousands of them.”
“Are you going to pick them up?”
“Nope,” Will answered. “Do they constitute a hazard to farm machinery?”
The sheriff said, “Not likely.”
“Too bad,” Will said. He pulled the shot left. “Damn.” He turned to the Sheriff, leaning on the club. “It’s my property anyhow.”
The officer shook his head. “That I didn’t know.”
Will nodded and looked out over the sea of black earth. “So it’s a safe assumption that’s not why you’re out here.”
“No,” the Sheriff said, shaking his head. Will snorted and pulled another ball from the pile with the head of his club. The Sheriff grimaced before putting his hands to his hips and pretending to look at something up the driveway, back toward the county road. The Sheriff stood this way for several minutes and Will went on whacking balls into the field. He took another look at Will, who was just following through. The profile he witnessed didn’t seem to agree with him and he turned his attention to the upturned rows of earth. “Uh… how’d you get so many golf balls?”
“Grew up next to a golf course. I’ve been scrounging them since I was four.” He dropped his wedge into the bag and pulled out his driver. Then he squatted, opened a zipper on the bag, and began rummaging for more tees.
Will caught the Sheriff glance at him and quickly avert his eyes. “Would you mind…. putting some shorts on, or something?” he asked, bowing his head at staring at his shoes.
Will stood up and faced him. “I’m not doing anything illegal, am I?”
The Sheriff, keeping his head down, answered, “No.”
Will stood, smirked, then dropped the club into the bag and the tees to the ground. He turned to the house and started walking. He looked over his shoulder. The Sheriff was cautiously peeking up. “Coffee?” Will called back, slowing his gait.
The Sheriff looked up, but had his head turned toward the field. He nodded. “Sure,” he called. “Sure.”
Will was already in sweatshirt and a wrinkled pair of shorts when the Sheriff entered the kitchen. He directed him to the table with a nod and poured some coffee into a Ramsey County mug, one of the pair he’d gotten as farewell gift at his sendoff party. The Sheriff looked around, nodding. He appraised the room, fixed a Will with a curious look and asked, “Ken Maartens?”
Will found the question from the County’s top law enforcement officer more distressing than being caught by him naked. Jesus Christ . . . He felt a sudden flash of empathy for his mother and those times she was trapped in throes of paranoia. For that moment, he knew it wouldn’t be surprised him if the man had video of him taking a shit in the windbreak.
Will’s composure returned somewhat as he filled a cup for himself. “Yeah,” he said, setting both cups on his insipid table, “Ken Maartens.” He motioned to the other chair as he seated himself.
The Sheriff looked at the floor; sanded and sealed, the planks bright except at the joints, where the blackness of age couldn’t be erased. “There’s no mistaking that man’s work,” he said. “Nobody like him within a hundred miles of here. I imagine it’s going to be quite a place, when it’s all done. How long have you been at it?”
“About two months.” Will answered. He decided to push the man a bit. “I’ve got this feeling you already knew that.”
The Sheriff, taking a seat and reaching for the cup, looked up at Will. “Pardon?”
“You know how long I’ve been here.”
The Sheriff offered a slight shrug. “I suppose,” he agreed. He took a sip.
“It’d be a great spot for a meth lab, wouldn’t it?”
Will enjoyed the Sheriff’s sputtering reaction. “That’s not really very funny, Mister Holliday,” the sheriff said, and wiping the table with his palm.
Will left the table and come back with a roll of paper towels. “I suppose, it isn’t.” He wiped the table top, tossed the used wad into the sink and the rest of the roll back onto the counter. He topped off the sheriff’s half-spilled cup before sitting back down. “I can’t recall our making introductions, but you can call me Will.” He extended his hand, “And you are…?” he asked, looking straight at the name stitched over the lawman’s pocket.
“Goosens,” the sheriff answered, “Jan Goosens.” He shook Will’s hand, picked up his cup and added. “I didn’t come out here looking for any illegal activity.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Will took a drink from his cup, keeping his eyes in line with the Sheriff’s. The memory of a squashed young man in a wet ditch appeared in his memory. “A guy all of a sudden moves into an abandoned farmstead out in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere,” Will went on, “doesn’t mingle with the locals, other than to visit the bank or to spend a lot of money on ‘building supplies’, has a nice new truck but no visible means of support…”
“I know what you’re saying, Mister Holliday,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “I also know that’s not the case.”
“Will,” Will reasserted. “You’re sure about that,” he said.
Goosens nodded. “Very sure.”
“Hmm…” Will wished he had a doughnut to offer the man. “So either you’re an overly friendly agent of the law with a lot of time on his hands, or you’re also ‘very sure’ about something else.”
The Sheriff held the eye contact for a moment before taking another drink from his cup. Without looking up, he said, “I’m sure about several things, to be honest with you. I’ll admit I did some checking around– nothing too specific of course, but I’ll confess to being busy on your account. I hope you’re not offended.”
“Not at all,” Will said. “You’re the Sheriff.”
Goosens smiled. “I know this is an old family place of yours. I know you didn’t pick up anything at Blom’s that would raise the eyebrows of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension or the D.E.A.” He paused while Will refilled his cup. “Thanks,” he said, before taking a swallow. “As far as a means of support, well…” He set his cup to the table. “Being less specific in their response than any other inquiries I’d made, the bank let me know that, in your case, that wasn’t going to be much of an issue.
“In fact,” he said, “depending on how much time you spend here, or what your plans are, I’m honestly thrilled to have you as a part of the community.”
“Thanks,” Will said, his tone flat. “That’s great to hear.”
Goosens glanced at his watch, then shifted back in his chair, straightening himself. “There’s something else I discovered,” he said. His voice assumed a more officious tenor. He folded his hands across his waist. “Something that could make a real contribuition around here, and one I hope you give some serious consideration.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “This ‘something’ is what really brought you out here, am I right?”
Goosens took a deep breath. “Yes,” he answered, nodding. “Yes it is. I understand you were an investigator with the Medical Examiner’s Office in Ramsey County.”
His eyes still narrowed, Will said, “Yeah.”
“Would you mind telling me for how long?”
“Fifteen years.”
The Sheriff nodded and cleared his throat. “Do you mind my asking why you stopped?”
“Whatever less-than-specific answers you got from the bank should answer that one for you.” Will got up for a refill for himself. He poured the remains of the pot into his own cup and went to work on brewing another pot.
Goosens sat with pursed lips while Will refilled the coffee maker. “Fifteen years experience in death investigation is quite a thing to have…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Goosens shifted in his chair before leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table, looking straight at Will. “We don’t have a coroner in Limburg County.”
Will finished filling the coffee maker and slapped the lid down. “Elect one,” he said.
“We did,” Goosens said. “Doctor Baehnke up at the clinic in Maastricht. Two years ago. He’s done it on and off for over twenty years. But the man is old, has some health problems of his own, and he just up and retired.”
“It happens,” Will said, without sympathy.
Goosens nodded. “It does, and it did. That leaves us without a coroner. We’ve gotten by the last few months, sort of handling things by committee with another doctor and a few of the funeral directors, but it’s not a very good system. Quite frankly it creates as many problems as it solves.”
“So…” Will said, “elect another one.
“Yes, yes,” Goosens said, nodding again, “the County Board wants to have another election,” he quit bobbing his head, “there really isn’t anybody interested in the job.”
Will pulled the pot from the coffee maker and carried it to the table. He topped the sheriff’s cup without asking. “Come on, Sheriff,” he said on his way back to the counter. “There’s always somebody who wants that job.” He had to force himself not to say there was always some goofball that wanted the job.
The expression on Goosens’ face indicated he understood that already, but he also added, “There might have been a time when the dogcatcher could hold the position, but those times are gone. The statutes have changed considerably over the last several years.”
“Contract it out, then,” Will told him, putting the coffee pot back. “We handled counties outside of Ramsey. Works just fine. Just ask the folks at the BCA, they’ll be more than happy to tell you.” He shrugged. “If you want the number to Ramsey’s M.E. I’ll give it to you. Ask for Phil. He’ll get you set up.”
“We’ve looked into that.” Goosens set his cup down. “The truth is, Mister Holliday, and I’m more than just a little embarrassed to admit this, but you are in a better position to afford that than the county is.”
Will laughed, but it didn’t come from humor. He laughed to cover the reaction he felt when he suddenly realized what the sheriff was asking of him– and it wasn’t for anything as outrageous as money. He had little hope that the next thing out of his mouth would discourage the sheriff from pursuing it any further, but he said it anyway: “I’m not buying you a coroner, Sheriff.”
Goosens didn’t share the laugh, which Will figured it was because it wasn’t funny. “Mister Holliday– Will– I didn’t come out here looking for charity.” He shook his head. “No sir, that’s not the case, although selling cookies or washing cars may be something the County Board might want to give some thought to.” He allowed himself a bemused chuckle. “No, the reason I wanted to talk to you is, given your experience and apparent availability–”
“No,” Will said.
Goosens raised his eyebrows.
Will looked away from the Sheriff and raised his cup to his mouth. “I’m not interested,” he said, before taking a drink.
“I know this is a bit of an imposition,” Goosens said.
“Not at all,” Will said, still not looking at him. “You’ve got a problem here, I can see that, and you’re just trying to solve it.”
“If it’s a matter of time,” Goosens said, “I don’t know that you’d even be putting in more than ten hours a month. Certainly this could just be a temporary thing, a few months, maybe a year. Just enough to give the Board some time to settle down to the matter and work out a better solution. I don’t want to be presumptuous and say that I’m sure money’s not a consideration, but there is a stipend–”
“No,” Will cut him off again. “I don’t want to do it. I’m not a prick, Sheriff, and I don’t want to come off as one, but I did it for fifteen years, and now I don’t have to.” He shook his head. “So, I’m not going to. I’m willing to help you in any other way, but I think I’ve already offered you the best solution to your problem– call Ramsey, or any other county in the state with a big enough operation to cover what you need here.” He shrugged. “If the county budget is the problem, then it’s the County Board’s problem, not yours.”
“Well,” Goosens began, “if it were only that simple…” but he stopped. He put a smile on his face instead and rose from the table. “No harm in asking, right?”
“Nope,” Will said.
Goosens gave Will a nod. “Well, I admit I’m disappointed with your answer, but it was still a pleasure to meet you, Mister Holliday. Long overdue, and I apologize for that. Welcome to Limburg.” He smiled again. “You make one hell of a first impression.”
Will couldn’t help but smile back. “Come back any time, Sheriff,” he said. “Just call ahead, so I can be dressed for the occasion.” The Sheriff’s rose and went to the door, but before leaving, turned and said. “There is a golf course in this county, by the way. The municipal course in Maastricht.”
“It’s a pasture with nine holes in it,” Will answered. The Sheriff shrugged and stepped out.
Will sat for several minutes after Goosens left. The sheriff’s offer kept crowding into his head while he tried to drink his coffee and it took more effort than he even wanted to admit to himself to drive it back out. Several times he set his cup on the counter and started to step out of his shorts, but they’d never get as far as his knees before they were back up around his waist.
“Jerk-off,” he muttered, trying to build some resentment against the man, “wrecked my golfing.” A minute later he was telling himself what an awful mess the Sheriff was in. He’d seen situations like this before and could appreciate what headaches they were.
Will had gotten through the second pot of coffee and was contemplating making a third before he dropped the cup into the sink. He switched to beer. He took one from the fridge, opened it and took several swallows. The coldness of the beverage was received without celebration. If he’d never pulled over on his way back to the casino, he could have spent months here without ever laying eyes on Jan Goosens, much less having the man see him naked and sitting in his kitchen. He worked his way through the can trying to conjure some regret for having done so, but it wasn’t there. He acted on it because he hadn’t the option to do otherwise. He had another beer and didn’t spend half as much time getting through it. This time he spent his time between swallows trying to rekindle the delight he’d had walking into his splendid new kitchen. He drank until a buzz began creeping in, but there was no joy in it. His brand, spanking new kitchen was allowing itself to be seen as anything but ostentatious. Alcohol is not the answer, Willem.
He threw away his third empty can, then went into the campground to search for that bag of weed.
