Read an Excerpt
Wormwood
High Crimes and a Bunch of Misdemeanors
By Robert L. Van Kirk
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Robert L. Van Kirk
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-2810-8
Chapter One
The old man had been fishing from the amphitheater seawall along the Ohio River for an hour or so, starting at first light, when suddenly, his line tightened up as he was reeling it in. It stopped moving. He cranked harder on the reel. Nothing happened. He lifted the tip of his rod to put more pressure on the line. Still nothing. He kept at it, not wanting to give up, to cut the line, and lose his hook and bait to the river. He jerked up again on the rod and the line started to move. His catch broke the surface and he reeled it in.
It looks like an eel, he thought. The man had seen pictures of eels and knew they were rumored to inhabit the river.
This is one ugly fish, he noted, as he held it in one hand and pulled the hook out with the other. He had somehow embedded the hook in the back of the eel.
Not too long, but meaty. Some of his pals at the Sons of Kazakhstan Club had told him that if you can get past the creepy looks of the fish, it tastes pretty good. He dropped it in his five-gallon bucket of water to keep it alive.
When he put his line back in the water, he noticed a cloud of bubbles rising to the river's surface in front of him. The old man peered into the murky water and, for a moment, thought he saw what looked like a hand and an arm waving back and forth. Holy shit, what the hell is that? He looked again and could see the hand and arm moving. The man dropped his pole and stepped back. He turned and looked around, hoping to find a cop. Not seeing anyone, he walked quickly up to the street. There he saw an officer sitting on a bench, listening to a portable radio.
Officer Stills would have usually been patrolling the streets of Wormwood at this hour in his cruiser. But when he was opening the door to get into the patrol car back at the station, the hinges had torn loose and the door had fallen to the ground. Stills got in anyway and headed for the parking lot exit. As he was pulling out into the street, he got a call from the dispatcher.
"The chief spotted you from his window. What the hell were you thinking, taking the cruiser out in that condition? Where's your respect for government property? If it rains, the damn thing will flood and the interior will be ruined. We can't have our squad cars looking like shit. Drop it off at the shop and hit the bricks."
At that moment, Officer Stills was taking a break from his foot patrol and was listening to his favorite talk radio show, "Dr. Laura." Her caller was describing how she needed to have her foot amputated in a few days for reasons her lawyer told her to keep to herself. Her question was whether Dr. Laura approved of her idea of having her foot frozen, and then sewn back on to her body when she died so it could be buried with her. She figured this might improve her chances of meeting the right guy in heaven.
"Of course, you moron," Officer Stills barked at the radio, "everyone keeps a sawed-off foot in their freezer. Why don't you get your head amputated at the same time?"
Dr. Laura was just starting her verbal assault on the caller when the old man came up to the cop and described what he had just seen. The two walked quickly down to the river, with the officer calling for backup as they went. They peered over the wall and saw the waving hand still there. Stills then asked the man what he had in the bucket. The man told him it was an eel he had caught just before discovering the arm in the water.
Within minutes, more cops and an EMS technician arrived. They pulled a man's body out of the water. It was wrapped in what looked like a large red and white nylon banner. The medical examiner soon arrived and began taking pictures and making notes.
The old man watched the cops work. After a while he got tired from all the excitement. He walked back to the seawall to pick up his rod and retrieve his catch. When he got to the bucket, he looked into it. He turned and looked at the body lying on the banner. He saw a large rip in the man's slacks that he hadn't noticed before, and through the rip he could see a ragged flesh wound on the man's thigh. He looked back at his eel and then at the wound again. After a moment the old man bent over the seawall and threw up. He stood back up, wiped his mouth, and began walking to his apartment a few blocks away, leaving his discarded fishing gear behind. He thought, I don't mind snagging a bag of garbage or even a dead animal from time to time. But a human body? This is a new low for even Wormwood.
Chapter Two
A week earlier, Josh Lieberman felt he was at the top of his game as marketing consultant for the city. There were his words, COME TO WORMWOOD, YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD on the nylon banner billowing slowly in the breeze high overhead. The huge red and white banner hung from the towers of the highway bridge over the Ohio River leading into Wormwood, West Virginia.
Wow, it looks good, Josh thought.
And to think I came up with that in no more than five minutes, tops. A small gathering of local dignitaries was standing alongside the highway on a sunny and warm first day of June, to mark the unveiling of the new banner and city marketing campaign that went with it. The mayor had hired Josh to come up with something, anything, to help revitalize the town. The city had been in economic decline for decades. The population hit its peak in the 1930s, and had been in a downward spiral since then. Its leading industry, coal mining, had been shrinking for years. The city had more boarded up buildings than Detroit.
The mayor, various members of the city council, and the police chief were in attendance, along with reporters from the TV station and the newspaper. Josh noticed two friends from his high school years, Ty Svenson and Brad Thomas, were also there.
As the ceremony got under way, Mayor Richard Fleming III launched into one of his four stump speeches that everyone knew by heart, this one on the subject of progress. Beyond the mayor, Josh saw a towboat with a long line of coal barges forcing its way up the river. It must be headed for the steel mill at Weirton, he thought. The droning of the five thousand horsepower towboat engine all but drowned out the mayor, but no one seemed to mind. As the tug receded upriver, the mayor wrapped up his speech and introduced Josh.
"And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the man who came up with the unique and powerful slogan that will allow your fair city to pull ahead of neighboring cities like Wheeling in the race to secure visitors and their precious travel dollars. In fact, I can imagine a time when the Pittsburgh brass will be coming to Wormwood to find out how we stole all of their tourists as well. So Josh, tell us what we have to look forward to."
Just as Josh, who was mid height, stocky, with curly brown hair was walking up to the plywood stage, an eighteen-wheeler roared by and the truck driver lay on the air horn for a good ten seconds. Asshole, Josh thought, as he bounded onto the portable stage to bask in the glory of his marketing genius.
"My fellow Americans," Josh began. He remembered the last time he had heard that line was when Richard Nixon was trying to weasel his way out of the Watergate mess. "We are gathered here today at an historic time for our fair city, our Wormwood, the Wonder by the Water." Just don't look down at the river now folks, or the brown color and floating objects may curb your dinner appetite.
"Yes, I admit, we do have a challenge ahead of us as we strive to turn Wormwood into a tourist Mecca. But is that improbable, you ask? Of course not! Think about Branson, Missouri, a former hick town in the middle of nowhere. Now they have a lively entertainment district with luminaries like Kenny G and Yoko Ono appearing pretty frequently. And what was Disney World before Walt Disney arrived? Nothing but a bunch of farms in central Florida. But, my fellow citizens, we are not starting from a hick town or farmland. We already have Wormwood, with our airport that is open most days of the week, our scenic river, and breathtaking hills and valleys. And, of course, our fairly new amphitheater and yacht club. Need I say more?"
Just then, the mayor stood and said, "Josh, may I add one more thing?"
Josh thought, oh no, the old windbag can't let it be. What now, a closing prayer? Josh replied, "Mayor Fleming, the stage is yours."
The mayor rose from his chair, straightened his truck-blown hair, and said, "It is with great pride that I announce today that we are going to build in downtown Wormwood the Richard Fleming III Memorial Convention Center. Yes, our very own convention venue overlooking the beautiful Ohio River. It will be a stunning piece of architecture. Now wait, I know what you may be thinking: 'But Mayor, you're not dead yet.' True enough, but I want to plan ahead. I think we should spend the money now and have the word MEMORIAL chiseled into the marble so we don't have to redo it later. Anything to save money for the taxpayers. That's what your mayor is all about."
As Josh wrapped up the program, Ty and Brad were sitting in the last row of folding chairs listening to their friend. Ty leaned over toward Brad and asked, "Have you ever heard of this convention center?"
Brad said, "News to me. But then, almost everything the mayor says is out of left field. I wonder if Josh knew about it before today? It would be a big deal, though, for two reasons: Nobody that I know of has any money to build a convention center. The city is broke. And despite the nice new banner, why would anyone want to hold a convention in this town? How depressing would that be?"
* * *
That evening a homeless man was reclining on a bench with his backpack under his head and a plastic poncho over him to keep off the night moisture. He was sipping a cup of his two-dollar-a-gallon merlot and lighting his last cigarette of the day. Suddenly flames ignited the back of the bench and set his poncho on fire. Screaming, he jumped up, threw off the poncho, and stomped out the fire. Smoke was still coming from behind the bench.
He grabbed his backpack and took off down the street. I need to find another bench fast, before they are all filled by the competition, he thought. What the hell is that all about? Fire coming out of nowhere. Maybe it's time to switch to a young chardonnay? No, that can't be it, or I would have burned up years ago. No, it's got to be this town. That's it. They're buying such cheap benches these days they're going up in—what's that called?—oh yeah, spontaneous confusion. That's it. I may have to go back to sleeping on the ground.
The next morning a police officer in his yellow squad car drove by and noticed the burnt ruin of the bench. "Goddamn vagrants," he muttered. "No respect for city property. Now they're using our benches to grill out."
Chapter Three
Ty sat at the dining table in his mobile home, waiting for the phone to ring. He was a shade over six feet tall with light brown hair and was wearing his usual attire—a polo shirt, jeans, and boat shoes. He needed a client to call and ask him to go to work on a case, to solve a mystery, investigate a crime. He was a crime-fighter now. And he needed the money. Unfortunately, no one was calling.
Well, that might be a little melodramatic, Ty thought,
since I only decided to become a private detective a week ago. And he had not advertised his services yet because he was broke. He had come back to town at the age of forty-four with $298.24 in his pocket, and the first month's rent on his home and office had eaten up $150 of that.
The mobile home wasn't exactly his preference. When he lived in Kansas City, he had owned a nice two-bedroom house with a garage on a large lot. But that was then. The first night back in Wormwood he slept in his 1998 Toyota Corolla at a highway rest stop. The next morning, after lying on the pavement trying to straighten out his back, he checked the Yellow Pages in the phone booth next to the restrooms for alternatives. In the listings for trailer parks, an ad caught his eye: "Waters Edge Mobile Home Park on the Banks of Beautiful Wormwood Creek. National Park-Like Setting. View Lots and Homes Available. Rent by the Hour, Day, Week, or Month."
Ty called from his cell phone. "Is this the Waters Edge Mobile Home Park?"
"Yeah."
"Who is this?" Ty asked.
"Grunion. What do you want?"
"My name is Tyrone Svenson and I need a place to rent. Your ad sounds great. Does your facility also happen to have a gym and swimming pool?"
Grunion said, "You know, the last thing I need at eight in the morning is some smart-ass busting my chops about my park."
Ty said, "I am sorry, Grunion. I was just checking out the amenities. I read an article recently about how fantastic manufactured homes are these days. And many are situated in really beautiful settings. Do you have a home available with a water view?"
Grunion said, "Of course. They all have water views. Why don't you hustle over and take a look-see?"
Ty asked, "Where are you located?"
"Just east of downtown on Fleming Parkway, make a right on Carp Lane, and go over the wooden bridge over Wormwood Creek."
"I know just where it is," Ty said.
Ty took off in the Corolla. Minutes later he was working his way down a rutted gravel road. On the right was an old sign nailed to a tree. It read
WATE S E GE MO ILE H ME ARK
Postmodern use of the alphabet. Clever product positioning.
As he pulled down the rock-strewn drive to the mobile home marked OFFICE, Ty took in the view. The office was a single-wide, with faded and dented yellow vinyl siding. A metal TV antenna sprouted from the roof. The home was up on cinder blocks, all of which leaned in different directions. It looked like it could roll over at any moment. The other mobile homes beyond the office were parked at an angle to the creek. They also looked old and tired. Most were surrounded by tall weeds and all were on uneven blocks. They looked like dominoes that would only require a strong wind to knock them all down. A couple of oak trees provided some shade, but most of the trailers sat out in the weather, deteriorating.
The manager came out of the office door. He was wearing boxers, a formerly white tank top, slippers featuring major duct tape repair, and was sporting a week-old beard.
"Svenson, I'm Grunion. Call me Bill. Let's walk down to number five. It's the nicest one I got. As an added benefit, number six is also occupied. You can't beat having neighbors."
They walked down the gravel path, up the wooden steps to the door at the center of the trailer, and stepped inside. To the right was a living room, dinette, and galley kitchen. Synthetic materials were the dominant decorating theme, all in varying shades of green—the walls, the drapes, the furniture, the table and chairs, and the countertop. The floor was vintage linoleum, also in green, except where it had worn through to expose the plywood subfloor, adding to the ambiance. To Ty's left was a short hallway, with a small bedroom on one side and a bathroom on the other. At the end of the hall was a larger bedroom.
What a shit hole, Ty thought. What am I doing here? Oh, yeah, that's right, mister Hyatt Regency, you have less than three hundred dollars in this world and you can't sleep another night in the Corolla without becoming a cripple for life.
"How nice," Ty said, smiling at Bill. "What do you call the green covering that seems to be everywhere?"
"Virgin Vinyl. The real thing," Bill responded. "Good looking and durable. It's easy to wipe down after a major event."
What's he mean by a major event? Whoa, on second thought, I don't believe I'll follow up on that.
While standing there Ty got the distinct feeling he was falling to the left. "So Bill, why does this place feel like it is leaning to the left ... a lot?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Wormwood by Robert L. Van Kirk Copyright © 2011 by Robert L. Van Kirk. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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