Mary Logue - Bone Harvest

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have owned a house in Pepin County for going on fourteen years, and I must acknowledge and thank all my neighbors and friends who have made my time there so satisfying. Also, thanks to Pepin County Sheriffs Department for their excellent job of safeguarding the citizenry.

Two writing groups must be mentioned for all the good advice theyve given me. In Arizona: Elizabeth Gunn, Sheila Cottrell, Earl McGill, J. M. Hayes, and Margaret Falk. In Minnesota: thanks to Becky Bohan, Joan Petroff, Tom Rucker, Margaret Shryer, Jean Ward, and Deborah Woodworth.

Then therere my usual supporters: Ray DiPrima, Robin LaFortune, Dodie Logue, Mary Anne Svoboda, and the great man by my side, Pete Hautman.

NOTE: The two pesticides I mentioned throughout this book are not real, but are based on research I did on existing products.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MARY LOGUE, an award-winning poet, lives with writer Pete Hautman in the Wisconsin bluffs country that is the setting for her Claire Watkins series.

CHAPTER 1

Rich fingered the small package in his pocket as he walked down the hill with Claire to the farmers market in the parkhis mothers diamond engagement ring. His mother had given it to him a few days ago with her blessings.

Meg ran ahead of them, skipping and leaping over imaginary boulders in the road. Her legs looked as long as the rest of her body. She was shooting up. Eleven years old. Not the little girl he had first met almost three years ago.

Claire held his other hand and carried a big colorful plastic satchel that she claimed was her shopping bag. At the bottom of the bag was her cell phone. Claire was on call to the sheriffs department this weekend.

Meg was going to a friends house for a sleepover tonightand Rich had invited Claire to his house for a romantic dinner. He had it all planned out. He would ask her tonight.

He was slightly nervous because they hadnt really discussed marriage. But, he assured himself, their lives were intermingling as easily as the St. Croix flowed into the Mississippi, twenty miles to the north. They had been seeing each other for long enough. He knew he wanted to live with Claire.

He squeezed her hand. She turned and smiled at him. She had let her dark hair grow and today was wearing it loosely braided. A thread or two of silver hinted at her age. She was wearing cutoff jeans, yellow flip-flops, and a big T-shirt that she and Meg had tie-dyed yellow and blue. He wanted to be connected to her in a tangible way. He never wanted to lose her.

The farmers market was held in the park every Saturday morning during the summer months. It was organized by a few of the local farmers who grew transitional or totally organic crops. Ted Wallis brought his honey to sell. Penny Swenson and her husband Louie brought their brick-oven-baked bread. Other farmers showed up occasionally with strawberries, or asparagus, or morels when they were in season.

The mainstay of the market was the produce from the Daniels farm. They were a couple in their late thirties who had immigrated to Pepin County from the Twin Cities about ten years ago. They had moved down to start an organic farm. At first they just sold produce from a stand. But they were now bringing vegetables into Red Wing to sell at an organic outlet, and they had also been instrumental in setting up the farmers market.

As he approached the stands, Rich saw a flash of red. Nine months he had been waiting. A pile of red fruits. The first of the tomatoes. He walked right to them and picked up a couple. If he had a salt shaker he would have stood right there and eaten one. His mouth watered just thinking about the first bite. His mother used to tell him that his grandfather had called them love apples and had eaten them with sugar and cream.

A plate of sliced tomatoes with a little salt and pepper, oil and vinegar, and freshly cut basil would be the perfect side dish to his meal tonight. A good sign of what the evening might bring.

Two per customer, Celia Daniels told him. Were trying to spread them out so everyone can take a couple home.

Sounds fair. How do you manage to get ripe tomatoes this early?

The greenhouse makes it all possible. This is the earliest Ive ever had them. July first. Well before the Fourth of July. Can you imagine?

He carefully selected the most perfect two he could find. Round, ripe, and red. Claire was busy picking through the large selections of greens and lettuces. Meg had run off with the two Daniels kids to play on the swings.

Then he heard a distressing sound. If he hadnt known what it was, he might have thought it was a mother bird fending off an attack on its young. But he recognized the strident beep. Claires phone was ringing. She glanced over at him and reluctantly reached into her bag.

Watkins, she said, and then turned her back to him and listened.

His hands shook lightly on the steering wheel, but he just repeated the phrase over and over again: First step done, first step done.

He parked down the old field road that no one used anymore. Most people didnt even know it was there. He drove the road ten times a year in order to keep it from growing over completelyonce in April, once in May, twice the next three months, then back to once in September, and once in October. Then the snow came and he didnt have to worry about the road until the next year.

This was the start of his plan. So far it was working. He didnt feel too nervous. Just a little excited. It was so inevitable. It had to be done. He had thought it through for many years and he was ready. What he had done today was the first step. There would be many more. He hoped they would all go as smoothly as this one.

And in the end, he might get what he wanted.

He got out of his truck, went around to the back, and opened the topper. He reached into the bed of the truck and grabbed the two-gallon jug. He put that into the backpack he had brought with him. Then he wrapped his arms around the two boxes. It was a lot to carry, but he didnt want to make two trips. He had been away from home for too long already. He wanted to get this stuff safely stowed away.

He knew the number of steps it took to get to the hiding place. He counted them as he went. Each step had a number, and if he thought that number he would get there. It was a way of holding on to the world.

The world was out of balance. It had been so for nearly fifty years. Only he could see it. Only he could change it. He had lived with this knowledge most of his life. It was time to rectify it.

He walked down the hill and into the shade of an old oak. He stopped for a few moments to catch his breath and to cool off. The day was a hot one. But he didnt relinquish his burden. He couldnt put it down until he got to where he would store it. It was the way it had to be. When you decided on a plan, you had to keep to it. There was only one way to do most things.

Not far now. The steps counted off in his mind as he came up to the indentation in the earth. He wondered if anyone in the county even knew this was here anymore. Gone out of use many years ago. A wooden cover over what looked to be an old pump. He knew what it was. He had been there when it had been dug.

Now he could set the boxes down. He put them right next to where his feet would go. He bent over and lifted the hasp on a slanted wooden door. He raised it up and propped it open with a stick.

When he looked down into the hole, he saw a long, thick bull snake slither across the rock wall of the hole. Just so it wasnt a rattler, he didnt care. Regular snakes didnt bother him. He liked to see them around. They ate other critters. He had only seen one rattler this year, three bull snakes, and fourteen garter snakes. Slow year.

The ladder was in place. He grabbed the boxes and carefully stepped down the ladder into the damp coolness. He had put a plastic tarp on the floor of the hole for the boxes. He set them down and then took off his backpack and put the jug on top of the boxes.