The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [106]
I was surprised. No doubt. I was even more surprised about a minute later, when they both turned as a group, lined up side by side, and began to slowly traverse the valley about a quarter mile above the house. As I watched, they went about 100 yards, turned, and went back. What the hell?
They did the whole routine again. And again. And I became aware that they were slowly working their way back to the Grossmans’, combing the field as they went. It took quite a while, but when they finally got back to Grossman’s yard, they both turned around and went right back up to where they’d started the back and forth trips. Were they looking for something?
Then, they turned again, and this time made about fifty trips up and down the valley. Not moving over ten miles per hour.
Then it occurred to me that the sons of bitches were obliterating all the snowmobile tracks between Grossman’s and Borglan’s. That had to be it. And that meant that we had missed something really important in those tracks. Damn.
It took them about an hour and a half. Then, they returned to Grossman’s, packed up their sleds, and left. Just like that. Two minutes after they had gone, everything looked absolutely normal.
I finally got turned around, and got back down to the road. I turned south, to avoid Grossman’s place.
I saw headlights in front of me, approaching. They were about half a mile off. Crap. I was about to be discovered by a neighbor. Although theoretically unmarked, my car was pretty easily recognizable as a cop car without decals or top lights.
Nothing for it but to get moving, and pretend I was just passing by. Whoever I met would just assume I’d been traveling all along. I hoped.
We met when I was about half a mile south of Grossman’s drive. Red pickup, towing a snowmobile trailer with two snowmobiles on it. BHK 234. Minnesota. Red pickup.
I waited until it was out of sight in the rearview mirror, then spun around and followed it north. I had to know.
It turned into Grossman’s drive. Damn. I hastily tore off my glove, and reached inside my vest for a pen. Guiding the car with my knee under the steering wheel, I hastily scribbled the plate on the back of my hand. Damn. A late arrival?
A few minutes later, I called dispatch. “Comm, Three, I’ll be ten-forty-two. Mileage 31566.” That meant I was done with my shift, and the mileage was to make sure I wasn’t using the car to vacation in Florida. Department rules. I’d give the mileage again when I went to work. Of course, having written it on my log, I could easily fake it. But, then, most county rules were like that.
As soon as I got to the house, I phoned Dispatch, and ran that plate. “Yeah, it’s Houseman. Could you give me a twenty-eight and twenty-nine on Minnesota Passenger Boy Henry King two three four, run the twenty-seven, get a twenty-nine and Triple I on that.” The registration came back to Timothy Frederick Olson, twenty-two, of Brainerd, Minnesota. No wants. No warrants. The criminal history would come back a little later.
“Would you just leave all of it in my box? I’ll pick it up in the morning.”
“Got it. Sleep tight.”
“Thanks.” Well, that had likely accomplished very little. They used to tell me that you couldn’t ever have too much information. Maybe so. But you sure could have too much to process in the allotted time.
Twenty-one
Saturday, January 17, 1998, 0714
I’d made it out of bed at 0702. Nearly a record. After a quick shower, I’d pulled on sweatpants and a shirt, and made a pot of fresh coffee. The Weather Channel gave me a new shot of my blue and pink worm, coiling through North America. The upward bump was edging closer and closer. Ah, warmth was on the way. Soon.
Sue didn’t flinch when I got up. Still mad about Madison, I guess. I promised myself that I’d make it up to her somehow, but then thoughts of the “five banks” took over. I decided to go see Hester again and get her thoughts before hitting the office. I called George and he agreed to come with me. He must be as addicted to the buffet as I am.
The three of us sat looking out at