Sudden High Pressure
by Brian Lawrence

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George Oakley scowled at veterinarian Pete Peterson.  “You ain’t gonna find nothing wrong with him.”  The strengthening wind whipped George’s greasy black hair.  Dark clouds raced across the afternoon sky.  “Matter of fact, I don’t know why the hell you’re even here.  You ain’t my vet no more.”

The stout veterinarian, whose full head of white hair was also being tossed by the wind, kneeled beside the even stouter prize boar and ignored George as he continued his examination.

Police Chief Tom Petrosky, wishing he had hair for the wind to whip, said, “He’s working for my mother, George.  And Ma’s just being cautious.  Wants to make sure everything’s okay with your boar before breeding to our sow.  That’s all.”

When Tom’s dad died two years earlier, Tom had reluctantly quit the Chicago police force, where he’d been a homicide detective, and even more reluctantly moved back to his home town of Marble Hill, Iowa to help his invalid mother with the farm.  Wheel-chair confined, that is.  She’d have whupped him good if she knew he thought of her as “invalid”.

The scowl deepened on George’s tanned and creased face.

“Is there a problem?” Tom asked.

“No problem,” George mumbled, and turned away from Pete to peer west.

The wind abated and the sky lightened, though Tom thought the color was wrong.  Sort of a yellowish tinge.  He turned his gaze to Pete and let his mind wander.  He’d been back two years, and yet he still wondered if he fit into the small rural town, once dependent on marble mining, now dependent on farmers like George.  At times, like this one, he detected that edge of mistrust in town’s residents toward him that was normally reserved for outsiders.  Maybe he was an outsider, having been away for twenty odd years.

His return had been warmly welcomed.  No doubt about that.  When the mayor had heard Tom was back, he immediately fired Police Chief Arthur Hinton --  “encouraged retirement” is how the mayor referred to it -- then offered the position to Tom.  Though hesitant due to the mishandling of the man who had been police chief since Tom was a child, and unsure he liked the permanence such a position represented, he took the job at the insistence of his mother and the blessing of Hinton.  He still wondered, though, how much his mother had to do with the mayor’s uncharacteristic boldness.

George tapped Tom on the shoulder.  “Will you look at that.”

On the western horizon, probably five miles in the distance, a twister bounced through the shoulder-high green cornfields kicking up billows of brown dust.  The yellowish tinge turned into menacing black clouds.  Pea-sized hail pummeled the fields and the men.

“We better get our butts inside,” George shouted over the strengthening wind.

Pete joined George and Tom at the fence, removing a pair of rubber gloves covered with opaque goo.  “Inside, hell.  We better get everyone in the storm cellar.”

Tom shook his head.  Back in his homicide days in Chicago, on a rare day off, he’d go to a Cubs game or down to the lakefront.  Here, on his day off, he was looking at boars and dodging storms.  Still, it beat, he supposed, looking at dead bodies and dodging rampaging lieutenants and pushy reporters.  Gain a little, lose a little.

The wind howled and the hail stung their faces as the three men sprinted for the house.  By the time they reached it, the hail had stopped and a sickening green pallor stained the sky.  Humidity, thick enough to grab, hung in the eerily silent air.

“Elizabeth, kids, the storm cellar,” George yelled, “Now!”

Elizabeth Oakley, the two children, Ben and Delilah, and Victoria Peterson, Pete’s wife, scampered out of the house.  Elizabeth stopped by George, gestured toward the house, and said something Tom could not catch.

George bellowed, “Now, woman.  Forget the damn cat.”

Elizabeth lowered her head and joined the rest of them and they ran for the closed up storm cellar.  George bent to unlock the padlock.  Tom figured he kept it locked to keep the kids out.

“A tornado!” Ben exclaimed.  His eleven year old eyes grew as wide as Frisbees.

His eight year old sister, Delilah, clung to Elizabeth’s flowered dress, and whimpered, “Hurry, Mommy, let’s get in the cellar.  Please, Mommy, hurry.”

Elizabeth knelt, brushed Delilah’s stringy brown hair from her face, and made comforting sounds, the words indistinguishable to Tom.  She stood and hugged both children against her hips.

George flung the padlock aside, then he and Tom hefted the cellar doors.  The wind renewed its attack.  The temperature plummeted.  Tom smelled ozone and wet dirt.

George grabbed Elizabeth and yanked her toward the yawning cellar, a little harder than Tom thought necessary.  “Come on woman, move!”

Women and children first, then Pete and Tom scooted down the wooden stairs, followed by George, who heaved the doors shut, fighting the fierce wind.  Darkness enveloped them and magnified the frightening noises of the encroaching tornado.  Something brushed by Tom’s cheek, then the overhead light snapped on and draped the occupants in a yellow glow.

George mumbled an apology for nearly clipping Tom’s jaw with his elbow.

The cellar was no more than ten by ten and eight feet deep.  It smelled musty.  On three of the walls were empty shelves.  Tom leaned against the shelf on the left side of the shelter, George in front of him.  Ben wiggled between Tom and Pete, who was to Tom’s right, and clutched Tom’s waist.  He could feel the boy shivering.  Behind them was Victoria, Delilah, then Elizabeth.

No one spoke.  The vibrating rumble intensified.  The sound of a freight train, all right, if he was strapped to the engine of that train, thought Tom.

The light winked out.  The doors to the shelter rattled.  Tom wondered if they’d hold.  He’d seen the movie Twister, had seen how the man had been sucked out of a cellar much like this one.  Could that really happen?  He didn’t know, this being his first close encounter with a tornado.

When the storm was loudest, and the darkness was blackest, Tom saw a bright flash out of the corner of his eye.  He smelled something metallic, but it lasted only a moment as the wind sucked the odor through the cracks in the door.

The rumbling sound retreated.  Tom felt jostled.  George had fallen against him.  Maybe he’d tripped, trying to step back.

“George?” Tom said.  “George?”

No reply.  The wind died and rain hammered the door above them.

“Pete, we need some light,” Tom said, his cop instincts kicking in, sensing something terribly wrong.  “Open the door.”

Pete scrambled up the steps.  Several thuds preceded heavy cursing, but finally, Pete thrust the doors open.
Rain splattered Tom’s face.  One of the women screamed.  Tom eased George to the floor and dragged him further into the shelter out of the rain.  A dark red stain spread over his yellowed T-shirt.  The farmer was unconscious, but still breathing.

Elizabeth squeezed by Victoria and kneeled by her husband’s side.  Pete’s wife, pale and trembling, knelt by George as well.

On the floor, between where Tom and Pete had been, was Tom’s gun.  A snub-nosed .38.  His day-off gun.  He carried it on his right hip.  With the hot weather, he’d left his sports jacket at home, gun exposed for all to see -- and for someone to grab.

Victoria Peterson cradled George’s head in her lap.  The farmer’s breathing came ragged but strong.  The children clung to Pete’s legs, one on each side, staring in fascination at their prone father.

Elizabeth examined the wound.  It was right above the waistline, through his side.  “I think the slug passed clean through.  He should be okay.  But we need to get him inside, out of this rain.  The wound needs antiseptic.”

Tom marveled at the command in Elizabeth’s voice as she assumed the role she played three days a week.  Like night and day, from the meek, obedient pig-farmer’s wife, to the courageous, confident nurse at the Marble Hill Medical Clinic.  But was her composure too clinical, too calm?

*****

The tornado had graciously squeezed between the Oakley’s house and barn, tearing away a few shingles and splintering a wooden fence, but otherwise doing little damage.  Tom stared out the window of George’s bedroom trying to sort out the shooting, while Elizabeth attended to her husband.

The storm had passed twenty minutes ago.  Now, light rain pattered against the window.  The smell of fresh coffee drifted from downstairs and mingled with the odor of peroxide.  The Petersons waited in the kitchen and the two children played in the adjacent bedroom.  The cat, unruffled from the experience, sat on the window sill.  Tom idly scratched the tabby’s back.

“Why’d you go and shoot me, Tommy?” George asked.

Tom turned.  Elizabeth looked up at him.  Her wide eyes danced nervously, while her hands did a washing motion in her lap

She said, “He’s going to be okay,” and abruptly, without even a glance at George, hurried from the room.

Tom stared at the door Elizabeth had just left through for a moment, then turned his attention to George.

“I didn’t shoot you.”

A loud thump came from the kid’s room, followed by giggles.

“Hush up in there,” yelled George, wincing from the pain in his side.  “Can’t you give me peace for once?  Damn, Tommy, who the hell shot me?”

Tom shrugged.  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

He started to leave George’s room, but the farmer shouted, “What kind of a cop are you, letting me get shot standing right by you?  Wait ‘til I talk to the Mayor about this.  You shouldn’t had that gun out in the open.”

Tom stopped.  He clenched both fists and breathed deep to maintain control.

George continued, “You better talk to that damn vet you brought with you. Why’d you bring him out here anyway?  It was probably him.”

Tom turned and took another deep breath.  “Why do you say that?”

George rolled his head away from Tom and mumbled, “Why don’t you ask him?”

Tom stared at George for a moment, but it seemed Tom was not going to get anymore from the farmer.  Not now, anyway.  He left the bedroom and slowly made his way down to the kitchen, pausing on each step to think.  He had three viable suspects, Elizabeth, Pete, and Victoria, but which one of them had a motive?

There was obviously something unpleasant between George and Pete, something he’d have to ask about.  And Pete had been the closest to Tom.

What about Victoria?  What possible motive did she have?  A love tryst?  A woman scorned?  He almost laughed out loud picturing the grizzled, ill-tempered farmer with the portly, yet admittedly attractive vet’s wife.  Nope, that information would have traveled the rumor expressway and reached his mother, and then him.  However, Victoria had the means.  She could have easily reached over Ben and snatched Tom’s gun.

Then there was Elizabeth.  She was afraid of something, or hiding something.  He knew little about the Oakley’s marital relationship.  George had treated her a little rough going into the storm cellar, but that may have been a reaction to the tornado.  There hadn’t been any rumors around town, so the Oakley’s were either tight-lipped or doing okay.  And besides, she had been behind everyone else, hadn’t she?  He thought so.

The Petersons and Elizabeth hushed as Tom entered the kitchen.  He sat at the round, wooden table.  Upstairs he heard the kids playing.  Ben’s voice shouted gleefully.  Elizabeth glanced at the ceiling.  Tom caught her nervous expression.  She lowered her head and looked at him, then quickly turned away.

No one said anything for several minutes.  Pete shifted uncomfortably.  The wood chair creaked under his bulk.  Victoria, her ebony hair pulled into a bun, studied the lace tablecloth, tracing the patterns with a stubby finger.

Finally, Pete said, “Maybe you should call the state police.”

“I don’t think I’ll need them.”

“But if you shot him--”

“I didn’t shoot him, Pete.”

“You might need the state police.”

Tom sighed.  Pete Peterson had become the Petrosky’s veterinarian when Tom was a freshman in college at the University of Iowa, over twenty years ago.  He’d replaced his dad, Morris Peterson, who’d been the vet for thirty-five years before.

“Pete, you’re not listening.  I didn’t shoot him.”

“But it was your gun.  I think you should call the state police.”

“You used to be the Oakley’s vet, right Pete?”

Pete didn’t answer.

“Right, Pete?”

“Why are you asking?  And why won’t you call the state police?”

“Just answer the question.  Were you the Oakley’s vet?”

Pete scowled, but answered, “Yes, up until a year ago.”

“Who ended the relationship?”

“George.”  Pete glanced at his wife.

Tom considered the monetary loss Pete must have suffered being dropped by George.  The Oakley’s pig farm was the largest in the county, well over 300 animals.

“Why’d George drop you?” Tom asked.

“Why?”

“That’s what I asked.  Why?”

“No, I mean why do you want to know?”

“He’s been shot.”

“You think I did that?” Pete rose from his chair.  Victoria put a hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“Just doing my job,” Tom replied.

Pete grimaced, but sat, then shook off his wife’s hand.  He muttered, “Yeah, a job the state police should be doing.”  He shot a look at Elizabeth Oakley standing by the sink.  She was looking down at the floor.

“Why did George fire you, Pete?”

“Two of his sows died within a week.  He blamed me.”

“Why’d they die?”

“Old age, more than likely.  Nothing else I could see.”

Pete picked up a coffee cup and took a sip.

“You’re left handed, aren’t you?” Tom asked.

“Yes.”

“You were on my right.”

Again, Pete stood.  “Goddammit, Tommy, I didn’t shoot him.  Why the hell would I do that?”

“Stop it!”

Both Tom and Pete clamped their mouths shut and looked at Elizabeth.  Her eyes were glazed, close to tears.  Her mouth quivered.  She wrung her hands in a dishtowel, clutched to her chest.

Before Tom could say anything, they heard a loud thump from upstairs, then laughter from the kids.

George bellowed, “Dammit, kids, quiet down.  Elizabeth!  Bring me some coffee.  Now.”

Elizabeth grabbed an empty cup, poured coffee from the metal pot heating on the stove, and rushed upstairs.

“Pete, why don’t you and Victoria wait in the living room.”

Pete looked questioningly at Tom, but Victoria stood and dragged her husband into the other room.

Elizabeth slowly returned to the kitchen where she resumed washing the noon dishes.

Tom stood.  His six foot frame towered over the diminutive Elizabeth Oakley.  She was an attractive woman, or at least was when she tried, like at the clinic in her crisp white uniform.  Here, though, she seemed to wear years of trouble like a smock.  Tom guessed her to be around forty, same as George and himself.  She had stringy cinnamon and sugar hair, golden eyes framed with brush stroked crows feet, and tan skin.

She fidgeted with the dishes at the old iron sink.  A ceiling fan rotated languidly, swirling humid air, having little cooling effect.  A tiny trickle of sweat ran down Elizabeth’s slender neck.

“Why’d you shoot him, Elizabeth?”

She whirled, eyes blazing, but bit off the retort she surely wanted to hurl at him.  Instead, she said meekly, “I didn’t shoot him.  Maybe it was an accident.  But I’m sure Dr. Peterson didn’t either.”

“Tell me about your marriage.  Does George treat you well?”

“He has a bit of a temper, but other than that, fine.”

“Does he hit you?”

She shook her head, but would not meet his gaze.

“Look at me, Elizabeth.”  She raised her head.  “Does George hit you?”

Again, she shook her head, but this time holding his gaze.

A bump, then a child’s shout came from upstairs.  Elizabeth snapped her gaze toward the stairs.  George shouted, calling Ben’s name.  A disturbing thought crossed Tom’s mind.  He turned away from Elizabeth and walked toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Elizabeth asked in a shrill voice.

“Upstairs.”

“Why?”

He turned.  “What are you hiding, Elizabeth?”

She looked down, clutched her small hands in front of her, and muttered, “Nothing.”

Tom went upstairs.

When he reached the top of the steps, Delilah squealed and then shouted at her brother to give back her doll.

George yelled, “Ben, get your scrawny butt in here.”

Tom remained on the last step and watched Ben trudge from his bedroom.  He stopped when he saw Tom.  Their eyes met.  Ben was thin, like his mother.  He had dark hair in a Dutch-boy cut.

“Ben, come here!” George shouted.

The small child broke eye contact with Tom and walked toward his parent’s room, his head held high, like he was marching into battle, or like he’d pulled something over on his old man, and no matter what the consequences to come, it was worth it.

Tom quietly stepped into the hallway.  He could just see inside the bedroom.

Ben slowly approached his father.  George grabbed the boy’s thin arm and yanked hard.  He then shook the boy.

“You stop teasing your sister, you hear.  I want some quiet so I can rest.  Understood?”

The boy grimaced with pain but remained silent.  He nodded, then glanced Tom’s way, determination in his moist eyes.  The boy refused to cry, refused to give his dad that satisfaction.  And again, Tom sensed that one-upsmanship in his expression.

George looked, too.  Seeing Tom, he released his grip.  The boy eased out of the bedroom and walked resolutely to his own room, marching past the police chief without a glance.  He entered his bedroom and quietly closed the door.

Silence, then a footstep.  Tom turned.  At the foot of the stairs stood Elizabeth, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes pleading.

Tom scratched his chin, then wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and softly knocked on Ben’s door.

The door opened a crack and Ben peered out.

“Son, can I come in?”

“Okay.”

Ben stepped aside.  Tom pushed the door open.  Model airplanes hung from the ceiling with clear thread.  A Stealth Fighter was partially assembled on the boy’s desk.  His bed was neatly made, hospital corners, covered with a dark blue spread.  Delilah sat on the floor, a baby doll with painted hair sprawled beside her.  She was coloring in a book.

Tom knelt.  “Delilah, honey, I need to talk with your brother.”

Her sweet brown eyes smiled.  “Sure.  Go ahead.  You won’t bother me.”

“He means go to your own room, dummy,” Ben said.

“Huh uh.  He didn’t say that.”

Tom softly said, “Delilah, it might be best if you did.”

“Oh.”  She grabbed her doll and left the room.

Tom closed the door, then leaned against it.

“Do you know who shot your daddy, Ben?”

“No, sir.”

The gawky child would not meet Tom’s gaze.  His foot did circles on the worn brown carpeting.  The red mark on his arm where George had grabbed him was still visible.  Tom sighed.

“Does your daddy spank you?”

“Sometimes.”

A slow grin spread across the boy’s face.

“What’s so funny?” Tom asked.

“Nothing.”  Ben forced the smile away.

“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

“No, sir.”

Tom approached the boy and knelt in front of him.  “Look at me, Ben.”

The boy did.

“If you did something you weren’t supposed to do, you need to tell me, so I can help you.”

Ben said nothing, but his composure showed cracks.

“Ben, how often does your father spank you?”

The boy’s lips started to quiver.  He stepped back.  “He...he doesn’t spank me.”

“What does he do?”

With a sudden vehemence that startled Tom, the boy said, “He beats me like a damn dog.”

“Come here.”  Tom held out his arms.

Ben hesitated, but then rushed into Tom’s arms.  The police chief felt warm tears on his shoulder.  He put his arm around Ben and patted his back.  The boy winced, and pulled away.

“Turn around, son.  Lift up your shirt.”

Ben did as he was told.

Tom left the boy’s room without another word.  He strode into George’s room and slammed the door behind him.

George looked up, surprised.  Tom reached out and grabbed the farmer by the hair.

George squealed like one of his pigs.

“You beat your boy again, George, and I will shoot you.  Only my shot will be much more accurate.  Understand?”

George’s face melted into shame, but the farmer said nothing.  Tom released him and left.

On the way out the kitchen door, the Petersons in tow, Tom turned to Elizabeth and said, “It’s an unsolvable case.  Probably no physical evidence, what with the rain and all.  George is going to be okay, and I got other things to worry about.”  He walked down the wooden steps, then turned around.  “But if George hits your son again, please call me.  Or better yet, take the kids and leave.”

Tears rolled down Elizabeth’s cheeks.  She nodded vigorously, trying a tentative smile.  Tom doubted he’d hear from her and he doubted she’d leave, at least not until things got worse.

Before they climbed into Tom’s Jeep Cherokee, Pete asked, “Hey, Tommy, aren’t you gonna arrest the boy?”

Victoria smacked her husband on the shoulder and said, “Just get in the car.”

Tom said nothing, but wondered when the people of Marble Hill were going to stop calling him “Tommy”.
 

Copyright 2001, Brian Lawrence