Purgatory Creek Read online

  PURGATORY CREEK

  By

  C. E. NELSON

  Cover by Dusan Arsenic

  Purgatory Creek. Copyright ©2019 by Charles E. Nelson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner or format without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts for review.

  Prologue

  Pressure. Across her eyes and around her head. Like when her mother had tied a scarf around her head at her birthday party before she tried to break open the piñata. But this felt different, tighter. She couldn’t lift her eyelids at all.

  She wanted to see, to take off the scarf or whatever it was over her eyes, but she couldn’t lift her arms. Strange. She could move her hands and wiggle her fingers, but her arms would not move. Something was holding them down, pressing them to a hard surface.

  She was cold too, chilled. A damp chill. Like in her grandmother’s basement. The same smell too. Her grandmother did her laundry in the basement, and the odors of bleach and detergent mixed with other smells. Mice. There were mice in her grandmother’s basement. She didn’t like mice.

  And now she realized her legs wouldn’t move either. She could wiggle her toes inside her shoes, but her legs were locked in place. She could move her head and twist her shoulders some, but that was it. Maybe she was paralyzed, or this was just a bad dream? She’d had bad dreams before. Her mother told her everyone has bad dreams now and then, but that didn’t help. She still didn’t like them. But she did remember that if she yelled in her bad dream, her mother would come and wake her up. And then she would feel better.

  She yelled.

  Nothing happened. Maybe her mother didn’t hear her. She shouted again.

  “Mom!”

  Now there was a sound. Above her. A creaking. Something, someone moving above. A door opened somewhere and now steps, descending, getting closer. Another door opened, behind her, and very close.

  “Mom?”

  “Mom?” a strange voice mocked. “No, not mom.”

  The voice was on her right, and she turned her head in that direction. “Who are you?”

  She was rewarded with a hard slap, and then she began to cry.

  “Shut up! You will only speak after you have been spoken to. You must learn respect.”

  She gulped air as she cried. “I want –"

  Slapped again, the girl cried louder.

  “I want, I want,” said the voice, gravelly and mechanical. “That is the way you self-centered children have been brought up. Well, we’ll see if we can’t change that.”

  The voice was behind her now. Fingers in her hair, sliding like snakes through grass up the back of her head. She shook her head, bending forward, but the fingers remained on her scalp, moving higher. Abruptly the fingers closed into a fist, holding her hair tight, jerking her head back.

  “Do you hear me?”

  The voice was next to her ear. The breath was warm on the side of her face, a stale smell reaching her nose, and she tried to pull away. The hand clenching her hair held firm, slamming her head into the chair back. She screamed in pain.

  Purgatory Creek

  Chapter 1

  Five years later

  It started in the early afternoon, misting, with heavy fog. It didn’t seem like much, kid’s ball games were still going on, but the people at the beach were packing it in. You could just feel there was more to come, the low clouds solid, pressing down, soaking up any light trying to get through like a sponge. In half an hour the raindrops began, big drops, scattered, echoes inside the cars as they hit, people watching their hoods, afraid it was hail. But the hail never came, or the wind, just a steady pounding rain.

  By rush hour the roads were parking lots, low areas flooding, vehicles stalling. A low-pressure system had stalled over Minneapolis, the weather reporters offering little hope it would move east any time soon. After sunset a black veil over the Twin Cities, the lights from the buildings and homes and the cars still stuck in traffic doing little to penetrate.

  It was the third week of June, the summer solstice a day away. Spring had been dry, yards already turning a crunchy brown, everyone saying water was needed. The dry ground was hard, more like August, and it shed the water like a stone. Rain continued through most of the night. The official total would be a little over ten inches in less than a day. As the sun tried to bring hope through the remaining clouds in the early morning, generators roared, powering pumps trying to move the water out of basements. Some people used wet vacuums, while others simply swept the water out of the door, trying not to think of the cost of the damage that would not be covered by insurance.

  The Mississippi was a tsunami south of the Twin Cities, a surge of water that would be slowed by dams downstream, spreading into backwaters until the river could handle the flow. The Minnesota River was overflowing, washing out fields and a few roads, adding to the flow of the Mississippi downstream.

  Purgatory Creek runs east from its Christmas Lake source in Minnetonka, an outer-loop western suburb of Minneapolis, turning south, finally reaching the Minnesota River not far from the Valley Fair Amusement Park. It passes through parks and runs in and out of small lakes on its way through mostly residential areas. The creek carries little water, even when the snow melts in the spring, but has a healthy buffer of low, marshy, wooded areas on both sides, a swamp in places, creating an ideal habitat for breeding mosquitoes and other bugs. Early settlers from the east in the 1850s found themselves stuck in the bug-infested lowlands one evening, one person claiming the area to be hell, the other saying it was only Purgatory.

  Like the other streams and creeks and rivers in the area, Purgatory had flooded, the water a silent menace, creeping through the woods and into the yards, and finally into the homes along its route. The water sought anything without an anchor – logs, branches, shrubs, old tires, and garbage – much of which had not moved in years. It clawed away at the banks of the creek, gouging the soft earth and peat, carving new avenues for its flow.

  By noon the next day, the sun had dispatched the clouds and was cooking the rainwater, creating a giant sauna. Crews of sweating men moved through the area, trying to restore power, the smell of overflowed sewers greeting them at each stop. The water kept moving, called to the south, the initial surge past, the current now only visible where it met obstructions that could no longer be moved by its force.

  The waters of Purgatory Creek had rolled under West 62nd Street on the southern boundary of Minnetonka, the basin there wide and the bridge over it no impediment to water filled with debris. But almost two miles downstream, the creek’s desire to shuttle its flow further south had been hampered by the much smaller bridge for Eden Prairie Road. This resulted not only from the size of the bridge but the fact that the heaviest rains had been slightly to the north and the area it traveled more unimpeded, allowing every sort and size of debris to be carried downstream. A lattice-work of trees and branches formed, catching the smaller offerings behind – sod and smaller branches and plastic and grass and leaves – creating a beaver home in a matter of hours. The water leaked through, rising behind the dam, and onto the road.

  Their supervisor dispatched Larry Close and Bob Deavers to open up the blockage under the bridge on Eden Prairie Road. Close pulled a crane on a flatbed while Deavers drove a dump truck. The bridge was under water when they arrived. Crews had put up barriers to stop cowboys from trying to run the bridge, stalling out, and potentially being swept away. They had detoured traffic around the area in either direction. After a lengthy discussion and a smoke, the men decided to leave the crane on the trailer, backing into the water on the bridge as far as they could, removing the debris from the outside and working in as the water level dropped.

  Close cl
imbed into the cab of the crane, and Deavers backed the trailer into the water as far as he dared. Deavers then backed the dump truck as close to the truck pulling the trailer as possible. They had both agreed that it would have been better to have the dump truck on the opposite side, but Deavers didn’t feel like driving way back to 62nd , so they decided just to do it this way. Close fired up the crane and went to work, its giant jaws reaching over the side of the bridge and into the water, looking like some metal dinosaur trying to catch a fish with its mouth. The trees and everything else came up in the jaws of the machine, Close swinging it to the west and dropping the load in the back of the truck.

  Deavers stood by the driver’s door of the truck, smoking, watching. After the third load the truck was nearly full, and he considered telling Close it was enough, but decided to let him drop in another load. He was a little concerned about his decision, the bed was pretty full, and he couldn’t have any of the load coming out as he drove. After Close released the load, Deavers signaled him to stop and climbed up on the side of the bed to make certain the load would be secure. The load looked fine, and he lowered his head to look for his foothold when he spotted something, branches a little way down in the load, an odd color, and something red. Deavers climbed back up and got on top of the pile, moving a big branch aside to get a better look, when Close walked up.

  “What you got? Buried treasure?”

  The branches were slimy, with sharp ends, and heavy from the water. Deavers grunted as he locked his fingers under the trunk of a small dead tree and lifted. The tree didn’t go far; it was now part of an intertwined sculpture, difficult to move on its own. He dragged it to the side as far as it would go, only a foot or two, but it was enough. “Oh jeez!”

  Chapter 2

  Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA) agent Pete Seton stood looking back at the barrier on Eden Prairie Road. An Eden Prairie police officer was pulling it to the side so that a silver Lexus could drive through. The water had receded enough that the bridge was no longer under water. Seton had his foot up on the railing of the bridge. A man stepped out of the Lexus. He was tall, a little over six feet, but he looked bigger than that, like he played football, with a broad neck and shoulders. The man’s dark brown hair was cut close, not shaved, a buzz-cut, and he had a goatee on his round face. He started to put on his suit coat when he got out but thought better of it when the cool air inside his car was lost, and tossed it back in the car. His shirt would soon be stained with sweat, permeated with the odor of decay and death.

  Eden Prairie detective Jack Bolton was standing next to Seton. “He’s not going to like this.”

  “No, he’s not,” said Seton.

  “Pike. Bolton. What have you got this time?” asked Don Trask, Special Agent in charge of investigations for the BCA. Pike was the nickname he gave Seton because Trask liked to fish and because Seton kind of had a pointy face like a pike.

  Seton nodded towards the back of the trailer where Deavers and Close stood together, each smoking. “They got here a couple of hours ago to clear the debris from the water in front of the bridge. The shorter guy was up on the dump truck checking the load when he spotted it.”

  “You get statements?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You take a look?”

  “Yep. You better see for yourself,” said Seton.

  Trask loosened his tie and walked towards the men, pulling his identification from his pocket as he did. “I’m Special Agent Don Trask of the BCA. And you are?”

  The men identified themselves and explained what had happened. Trask thanked them for calling, and staying, and promised to get them on their way as soon as he could. He walked toward the dump truck, nearly losing a shoe in the sticky mud deposited on the bridge as he did. Scraping the mud off his shoes with his finger as he leaned on the truck, Trask swore, thinking his two-hundred-dollar shoes were ruined. Shaking his head, he looked up, and then started to climb.

  Rusty mud streaked his thighs by the time Trask was over the side. The branches were still wet and slippery, the soles of his shoes not meant for his activity, and he ended up on all fours as he crossed the pile. His swearing was easy for any of the men to hear. He saw the arm first and then what looked to be a rib cage. They were small and some kind of cloth was draped over some of the ribs. Straightening his legs, he duck-walked a little further over the pile before stopping, on his knees again, bending down, putting his face between two logs. The smell made him close his eyes and recoil, and he lifted his head, taking a breath, before bending down again. A small skull stared up at him.

  Trask returned to the two officers, his white shirt, red silk tie, blue pants, and shoes mostly the same copper color, a tear in his pants leg. “Crime scene unit coming?”

  “Yeah, should be here soon. Traffic still sucks. ME should be coming too,” said Seton.

  “We’ll need a boat to get a better look down there. I don’t suppose Eden Prairie has a boat?” said Trask to Bolton. Bolton and Trask had crossed paths when both worked for the Minneapolis PD. Neither cared too much for the other.

  “Not what you need, but I called Minnetonka, and they should have one here any time.” Bolton surveyed Trask. “You might want to put on old clothes before you get in the boat. You might get dirty.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Seton cracked a smile that disappeared at Trask’s look. Trask looked back to Bolton. “I’m allergic to boats unless I’m fishing so you and Pike here will have to take a ride.”

  Bolton’s smile evaporated. “The chief said this was a BCA show now.”

  “Sorry, but we’ll need the expertise of the local constable to assist us with any questions we may have. I’ll give your chief a call just so he knows.”

  “Fuck you, Trask.”

  Trask walked to the railing and looked down at the creek. The water was muddy, churning as it reached the blockage below, leaves and sticks from upstream finding their joyrides coming to an end. The red cloth. He remembered the red.

  Chapter 3

  The Minnetonka police arrived with an inflatable with a five-horse motor thirty minutes after Trask left. They positioned it on a grassy bank on the west side of the creek, just out of the water. With the bank being wet and muddy from the flooding, they assumed there would be no problem getting it to slip into the water, and they were right. As soon as Seton stepped in, the boat slid and he ended up on his seat just inside the boat. The boat was tied to a nylon rope that the two Minnetonka officers that came with it immediately grabbed. Seton stood and moved toward the back of the boat while Bolton half slid down the bank into the side of the boat and climbed in.

  “You know how to run the motor?” asked one of the Minnetonka police.

  “I was born in Minnesota. They required it before they let me into first grade,” replied Seton.

  “Yeah, well, in case you forget, we’re going to leave the rope on. You can just push yourselves along the snag or use the motor to pull away from it if you need to.”

  “Snag? You fish for cats?”

  “Oh yeah. Got a flathead over twenty on the Minnesota last summer.”

  Seton looked at Bolton who was looking a little green. “You ready?”

  He was staring at the water behind the boat and then reached down to see that his lifejacket was secured. “Yeah.”

  “OK. Let us in.”

  The Minnetonka officers let the rope out. The water rose against the stern as it entered the water. Seton thought it might come over the back. The boat leveled off once fully in the water, but the side of the boat was immediately up against a log. Seton leaned over and tried to push them away, to move them farther into the stream. Bolton had not moved. “Hey! A little help here.” Bolton still did not move, his color now a sickly pale. “You going to be sick?”

  Bolton looked at Seton standing behind him, then at the water moving past, before leaning over the side and emptying his stomach.

  “Oh jeez!” said Seton, stepping towards the front of the bo
at to grab a large branch and then push the boat into the current. Almost two hours later Seton was drenched in sweat but had found nothing more than a dead cat and a raccoon, a sock, a glove, and a cap. The Minnetonka police pulled them back to shore. Bolton climbed out. He had been sick one other time and said nothing but headed to the road, got in his car, and left. Seton told the Minnetonka guys to stick around, that he may need the boat again and climbed back to the road.

  Willy Ackers, the Hennepin County Medical Examiner, and his assistant were just closing the back doors on their truck when Seton walked up.

  “Pike,” said Ackers. “You been swimming?’

  Seton looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt. “No, but that sounds like a good idea. Anything you can tell me?”

  “Besides the fact that I am way too old to be climbing in and out of dump trucks?” Ackers looked nearly as warm as Seton, his thin gray hair stuck to the top of his head.

  “Yeah, besides that.”

  “Well, I’d say we have a juvenile female, maybe five to ten. There are some hairs with the body that are blonde, long. No idea how long she has been dead or buried.”

  “Buried?”

  “Yeah. I’m guessing. Bones had not been exposed to light for any period of time, and the appearance of at least a few of the joints were consistent with a body that had been underground for some time. Hard to tell with the water pushing through it, but I’ll know more after I get her back to the lab.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She was probably wearing red pants or a red dress. Could have been caught on her when the water brought it by, but the fabric appears to have been too molded to the bones for that.”

  “OK, thanks, Willy. I’ll probably send a lab guy over to get a sample of the cloth and anything else later.”

  “Whitey?”