Dealing with the Devil

Again

About the Author

Wayne Herrgott has written thousands of articles but this is his first novel. His early life is a study in contradictions. He dropped out of grade 9, but completed a BSc in Oceanography and then he worked as an engineer. He bought his first car before he was allowed to drive. He tried to join the Canadian Army when he was fifteen but was rejected because of his age. He joined the RCAF at 17, and although he was often in trouble as a young airman in the ’60s, he retired as a major in the ’80s. He was young enough to take a second career and become a site manager for construction of major power plants in places like Peru, Venezuela, Korea, Dominican Republic, Thailand, Indonesia, almost every state in the USA, but only two jobs in his home of Canada.

He is married with two daughters and three grandsons. He lives in Perth, Ontario.

Dedication

Dedicated to the men, women, and families of the

Ontario Provincial Police and police officers everywhere.

Thank you.

Use caution and return home this day.

Copyright Information ©

Wayne Herrgott (2020)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Herrgott, Wayne

Dealing with the Devil

ISBN 9781643783321 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643783338 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645367482 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917698

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

+1 (646) 5125767

Acknowledgment

A special thank you goes to my neighbor, a retired OPP Sgt., who provided tremendous help with the technicalities of the police procedures. He requested not to be named. I suspect because I depicted so many procedural inaccuracies to which he did not want to be associated. To him and to all law enforcement officers, I apologize and sincerely thank you for doing the job you do.

To Patty, my far better half and an inspiration to everyone she meets, thank you for giving me the freedom to pursue this effort.

This novel emerged from the ramblings of a challenge to write 50,000 words in the 30 days of November. Although the story changed drastically before publishing, it would not have been written without that NaNoWriMo challenge. And, of course, the encouragement of my fellow writers at the Carleton Place Library, with a special thank you to Heidi who kept us all on the right track.

And thanks to my grandson Nick, who advanced my thinking on today’s women.

Chapter 1

Sheep on the Road

It was the fun part of the trip into town. The road twisted and turned between, around, and over the gullies, hills, and cliffs of layered rocks in the rugged Canadian Shield. As usual, Dylan was driving just a little faster than he should. He sensed something move ahead and eased his foot off the accelerator as a flock of sheep came into view. He pumped the brakes and skidded off the blacktop. He stopped. His right front wheel suspended in space. His bumper was only centimeters from an indignant ewe; her lucky lamb scampered out, unscathed from under the old Jeep. Dylan jumped to the ground to chase the animals off the road, but a ram was already at the top of the ditch cut-out and of course, the flock was right behind him.

A normal driver would have carefully backed up and thanked his lucky star when he reached the roadway. A Jeep driver seizes any opportunity to prove his vehicle’s Trail Rated status. Dylan swung back into the driver’s seat and pushed the four-wheel drive shifter forward to low and lock. No need for reverse, the Jeep bounded into and out of the ditch with similar agility to the woolly critters who were now safely in the bush above.

Dylan decided to advise the owners and entered the closest driveway. A photographer for the Farmers’ Almanac couldn’t have arranged a prettier farm scene. A white house with green trim nestled between two large maples claimed the high point of land in the yard. The last whiffs of smoke from a warming, early-morning fire slowly drifted out of the chimney. A pair of Akbash herd dogs, pleased that a human would soon be in their presence, came running out in noisy greeting.

Dylan stepped to the ground. The dogs almost knocked him over as they eagerly brushed against him. He reached out to pat one on the head and noticed a short piece of wire rope dangled around its neck. He checked the other and found it also had a similar piece of wire rope around its neck.

Now that beats all! How did you guys get loose? Dylan asked. Where is your owner?

Something was wrong here and immediately the pleasant scene became suspicious. Dogs, even these brutes, could not have broken the wire. And no owner would leave their dogs like this, at least no owner who could prevent it. With the dogs at his heels, Dylan walked over to the house and knocked on the door. No answer!

The house had aged well. The porch was nearing the point where a coat of paint would help, but everything looked in place. The flowers and plants were cut and cared for, and wet marks on the floor indicated they had been watered earlier in the morning. He knocked again, louder this time. All these farms were maintained by elderly people. Mostly original owners whose children refused to run the farm or retirees who have been flocking to Griffin ever since it was written up as the number one retirement community in Canada several years ago. Dylan stood quiet and listened – nothing. He opened the door. Hell-o, anyone here? No answer. He stepped inside and called again. Nothing! He was tempted to go further but realized that old people could still use guns, and in these parts, they would probably ask questions later. He stepped outside and closed the door.

The untethered dogs raised his suspicions and thinking of elderly people living alone in the country raised his concern. Could be someone sick. His mind began to race. Maybe they fell; heart attacks; dementia. Home invasion! But there is no sign. Well of course not, what would the sign be? A broken lock? Farm people never lock their doors, most don’t even have locks. Besides, I’ve already opened the front door. He walked around to the side of the house. I can’t just go in.

The barn door was slowly swinging in the wind. But someone needs to go in and check. A menagerie of animals grazed in a corral attached to a well-maintained barn. The cows lifted their heads to watch. The corral gate was open, but it appeared that only the sheep were curious enough to go exploring the countryside.

What if there is a problem? He walked through the open door at the back of the house and cautiously entered into a large woodshed. What if someone is really hurt in here? He approached an old table in the center of the room. His eyes gradually adjusted to the shadows. A meat cleaver hung from a hook at the corner of the table. Dried blood on the table and on the floor sent his already suspicious mind reeling. Murder? He’s still in here! Police! They’ll be pointing a finger at me. I have to get out of here.

He stopped at the door, not sure what to do. But I can’t just leave; there really could be someone here in need of help. Recalling that help was always available, I’ll dial 911.

The phone was out of range. He took that as an excuse to leave and rushed to the Jeep, turned it around and drove out to the road. He was surprised that he felt his muscles relax as he reached the end of the driveway.

He checked his phone, it showed one bar. He dialed 911 again. An operator answered.

What is the nature of your emergency? The voice at the other end asked.

Hey, Dylan thought, a real voice that sounds just like a machine.

But he said, I’m at the Newton’s Lock Road and the Fourth Line. I think there’s something wrong at this farmhouse.

Without mentioning the blood and the woodshed, Dylan provided enough details that the operator said, Okay, I’ve got an officer on the move, could you please wait there to provide directions?

No problem, Dylan responded.

Ten minutes later, a police car with its lights flashing pulled up and a young female officer stepped out. She looked impressive in her immaculate uniform and her tight-fitting bulletproof vest, her pants perfectly tailored with knife-edge creases front and back; her boots were spit shined and looked like mirrors. Hi, how are you today? Are you Dylan? Her voice was pleasant and put Dylan at ease.

Yes, I’m fine, thanks.

I’m Jackie Keith. They shook hands. Her grip was firm and sincere. So what’s happening here? You called about some sheep on the road, and you were concerned that someone could be sick or hurt in a house. You also said something about some dogs running loose?

Avoiding any mention of the woodshed, Dylan explained the situation while she took notes. By the time Dylan stopped talking, the sheep had gathered on the opposite side of the road, like a group of spectators anxiously waiting for their turn to be interrogated.

Constable Keith folded her notepad and slipped her pen into a pocket. How about leading me to the farmhouse?

Sure, he responded, but you’ll have to be careful of the dogs. They’re really big and overly friendly. With that, he climbed into his Jeep and drove up the driveway. The dogs came rushing out once again, this time snubbing Dylan’s Jeep, preferring something new. With tails wagging in anticipation, they approached the police car. Recognizing the dogs were harmless, the officer got out of her car and endured their greetings. She checked the wire rope on their necks and surveyed the area much like Dylan had done earlier.

Don’t I know you? she asked as she walked with him toward the farmhouse.

I was thinking the same thing, Dylan responded, Were you in the Bicycle Ride for Cancer last week?

Yes, I was. Hey, you were that guy riding a Trek Madone, the same as my bike.

Ah-ah! Great minds, etcetera. It was a bit hot, but still a great ride. Couldn’t believe that we raised two point three million dollars. That was incredible!

Yeah, but 160 klicks was close to my limit. So tell me, what are the chances of this: me responding to your 911 call, when we were riding side by side with 960 riders, a hundred kilometer away in Ottawa last week?

Probably two point three million to one, he responded with a smile. Are you going to do it again next year? That’s if there is a ride next year, what with that accident and all.

She knocked on the door of the farmhouse. I’m waiting to be registered, sure hope they don’t cancel it. That would really hurt the Ottawa area. They’re doing such good work at the Research Center.

There was no answer to her knock. Together, they walked behind the house and approached the open back door. She knocked on the doorframe. Again, no answer. She motioned for Dylan to stand back as she entered the unlit room.

When she came out, the friendly attitude was gone and she became all business. We have to go back to the car, please walk ahead of me. When they got to the car, she pointed to a place about three feet from the door. Stand there, spread your feet apart, and put your hands on the roof of the car. She frisked him, but found nothing. She had to detain him and opened the right rear door. Have a seat and be careful of your head.

Well, he certainly doesn’t look like a criminal, she thought as she walked around to the driver’s side. Once in the car, she picked up the radio mike and called for backup. Almost immediately, a siren could be heard in the distance.

She backed out to the road and waited. The approaching siren’s undulating wail and its echo overpowered all other noise throughout the forest. Dylan visualized the police car careening down the narrow winding road. Then, like the muffled cymbal crash at the end of a crescendo, the whine came to an abrupt end. Dylan caught a glimpse of the other car just as he was pushed back in the seat by the force of acceleration as Constable Keith ripped up the driveway. Both police cars stopped in a cloud of dust.

The dogs, now a little leery of the commotion, stayed on the grass as the second police officer got out of his car. Although significantly bigger, he was an equally well turned out, athletic looking young man. He stood close to Dylan’s window, his nametag clearly visible, almost demanding that Dylan read it: A. J. Martino. After a short discussion, the police went around the building. Dylan’s eyes focused on the knob where the door handle had been removed. He panicked as he considered his situation. Holy shit! I’m in trouble now. Whatever they find, she’ll think I did it. I should have just left, and not called the police.

Moments later, he heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, and was relieved to see the officers laughing and talking about something that didn’t seem to be about him or the farmhouse. Constable Martino, obviously an animal lover, stopped and wrestled playfully with the dogs, while Constable Keith came over to the car and opened the door for Dylan. As Dylan climbed out, he looked at the woman, not the uniform.

Often when a person first sees a masterpiece, they will sit and stare in awe. Dylan was that person at this moment! The masterpiece looked back at him, a face untouched by makeup, blue eyes crystal clear and shining, lips full and naturally rosy pink, and what a smile! A smile you could feel, one that would stay with you the whole day. Dylan forced his eyes to move, but before he could correct himself, he muttered, I’m sorry.

Her eyes revealed her appreciation, but she carried on as if she hadn’t noticed. We didn’t find anything suspicious, and no one was in the house. We’ll take it from here. Thanks for calling 911; it was the right thing to do.

He smiled and stepped back to leave. As he climbed into the Jeep, he heard her raise her voice, Angelo, you’re going to get hair and mud all over your uniform!

Constable Martino was headed toward the barnyard but having difficulty walking with the dogs brushing against him. The sheep were near the tree line, and he went there to usher them into the corral.

There was an easy familiarity in her voice when she spoke to Constable Martino. Dylan felt his earlier sense of excitement dissipate as he drove out the driveway. Damn, he thought, some people have all the luck. I don’t stand a chance up against a muscle-bound hunk like that. He headed out the driveway and turned toward town. Then as if accusing her of reneging on a promise, he muttered to himself, They’ll probably stay out here for who knows how long. But he concentrated on driving to suppress those thoughts in his mind. He went into town, completed his shopping, and decided to get a coffee before heading back home.

***

Jackie was coming out of Coutts’s drive-thru in her Corolla. She had changed to her civvies after completing her shift. She noticed the blue Jeep at the back of the parking lot and then saw Dylan sitting at a picnic table the restaurant staff had set up. She thought about how he stared at her when he got out of the police car. She normally hated men’s reaction when they first saw her, it made her feel like prey. But he certainly didn’t come across as a beast, his look was genuine, appreciative, and complimentary. She smiled as she thought about him having to submit to her frisking.

She pulled out onto the highway, but instead of going home, she drove back to the farm. Martino’s police car was positioned to provide a clear view of the house and driveway, and to avoid suspicion was set up as a radar trap. It was a sixty-kilometer limit, and he wasn’t surprised at the number of speeders he stopped, but recalling how thrilled he was at negotiating the curves himself, he only handed out warnings.

Jackie held her Coutts’s purchases out the window. Here, I bought you a coffee; the Thermos and the C-bites are for me. Well okay, you can have a couple C-bites.

He smiled and said, You know you were going faster than any of the others?

Oh, officer, I’m so sorry. She pretended to unbutton her blouse.

Hey lady, that’s not going to work on me.

Oh yeah? That works with all you guys. She smiled as she put her car in reverse to turn around.

She drove back to where she had selected a spot to hide her car about five kilometers up the road. She had her bike strapped to the trunk so she could maintain her daily routine of stopping at her favorite ride on the way home from work. She wore her cycling shorts, slipped into her cycling shoes, and rode back to Angelo’s police car. She didn’t want anyone to know her plan, particularly anyone from the detachment. She was convinced someone was watching as they searched the upstairs bedroom. Angelo thought she was nuts, and he was a little angry that she didn’t confide in him while they were in the house. However, he promised he would keep her secret and not tell anyone at the detachment. They had quite an argument about her staying there by herself.

As he was ready to leave, he offered one more time to stay with her. But she insisted, Angelo! You have to go! You’re not missing your brother’s wedding tomorrow because of me, and I know you’ve got a date. I promise to stay concealed in my little hole and not come out no matter what I see. I can’t get into trouble. I don’t have my gun and nothing IDs me as a cop. If someone sees me, I’ll just say I was riding through and found this place to rest. You know it is something I do all the time when I ride long distance. I’ve even got my kit with me. She lifted her backpack in front of her for emphasis and then hugged him like a big sister. Have fun at the wedding. Name it after me if it’s a girl!

JACKIE! I hardly know her. And besides, you know boys can be called Jackie also? He winked, smiled, and left.

After they parted, Jackie hid her bike behind a boulder. Luckily, she was downwind of the house so the dogs couldn’t smell her. She found a rock where she could sit and watch the house without being seen. She set her backpack behind her head as a poor excuse for a pillow. She waited in the dark throughout the night for anything to move. She had to follow up on her hunch. She knew she couldn’t convince her bosses to stake out the place. The meat cleaver and blood would seem to be a good enough reason, until she found fresh meat still unfrozen in the freezer. But it was the wire rope on the dogs that clinched her suspicions.

A mosquito buzzed in her ear and brought her back to the moment. She looked up at the sky. What, she asked herself, would Mom do? She recalled the photos in her grandma’s albums. There were more than just her mother wearing uniforms, there were police in almost every picture. Her family of enforcers emigrated from Northern Scotland and her ancestors stood beside King Malcolm III when the English fled north after the Norman Conquest. She knew they were watching over her. They’re probably laughing at me, she chided herself, sitting here in this mosquito-infested bush waiting for some phantom to show? My stupid suspicious mind working overtime again. Not exactly what a knight in shining armor would be doing. What the heck, they had hunches, right?

She picked out a couple of satellites moving among the stars. It was something she remembered doing with her mother and her twin sister Laurel. With no moon and no clouds to curtain the sky, the stars looked like pinholes of light shining through a giant, all-encompassing black umbrella. Distant frogs sang their love chorus. An owl hooted to let its mate know it was still waiting. The leaves above her stirred in a breeze too light to be noticed. In the distance, the howl of a coyote started a chorus.

But the beauty of the night was spoiled by the incessant hum of the mosquitos. She had experience stopping after dark in Ontario, and she never went anywhere without her super repellant; it smelled terrible, but it worked.

The dogs started barking as the slight orange glow of predawn showed in the eastern sky. Someone yelled, Shut up, ya mangy mutts! The dogs went quiet. Jackie strained her eyes and distinguished a man walking quickly beside the fence behind the house. He stopped and spent some time with the dogs, and then made his way toward the barn. He tripped a couple of times and cursed out loud. Moments later, an engine started. It was a big engine; the rumble propagated through the trees as the mufflers tuned the rhythm of the pistons. Suddenly Jackie realized the noise was quickly getting closer. And it was coming directly at her. Her first thought: He’s trying to run me over! She rolled off her rock and lay flat on the bedrock of the dried-up gully. A sixties style pickup truck whipped past and fishtailed out the drive. Her hunch proved true, but now she didn’t know what to do with the information. Who was going to believe her? Was it enough to convince her bosses to follow up?

***Earlier in the Farm House***

Michael slept for a number of hours after it had turned dark. He had clamored into the loft when he saw the police cruiser following the Jeep to the house. His luck held when the cop reversed out the driveway and waited for backup. That gave him enough time to unload the drones and get them out of sight. By the time the cops came into the house, he was quietly tucked away in the loft.

It was his secret from another lifetime. He had discovered it shortly after his family moved to the farm. The house was originally built with a small porch at the side door. The woodshed was an addition and the porch was converted into a mudroom. There was a space between the sloped roof of the woodshed and the flat roof of the porch. It was used as a storage place, but Michael moved everything to the sides and turned it into his secret place. He was still called Timothy Thomas. He was twelve and discovering his body, finding pleasures by touching himself, but at the same time too young to know how to attain relief.

He decided to spy on his sister, Lillian. Her room was on the other side of the wall, and when he knew she was out in the yard, he climbed into his hideaway and pulled a board away from the wall. The house was old; the insulation had shrunk and the plastered walls were cracked; he found several places where he could see into her room. That night he waited until she