Murder at Troublesome Creek

Coming soon:

Murder at Troublesome Creek

Read the first chapter:

Note: this is a rough draft and is subject to change at my pleasure. 

Chapter 1

I doubt there exists a rational reaction to murder. I mean, what do you do when some madman walks up and stabs your husband to death for a few credit cards and some cash? Yet with time a widow is expected to move forward. And after a few years of little or no progress, friends and family can lose patience with the person bogged down in the past.

So, after three years of stalled forward progress, I needed to do something. I needed to lift myself out of my widow’s inertia. But when I finally acted, those selfsame friends and family members thought me mad. That’s because I’d opted to move myself into my husband’s childhood home.

The objectors saw my choice as tying myself even more closely to the past I intended to shed.

But the house I chose to live in is a pretty place. It exists on a small farm in a quiet county about a five-hours drive from Chicago. I thought living here would bring me peace.

However, on this night, that peace was not making itself felt. Instead, my dog, my dear Elliot, was barking and prancing about in front of my bedroom window, stubbornly sounding an endless alarm.

I forced one eye open.

“Elliot, please.” I pulled the pillow up from beside me and buried my head beneath it.

My dog ignored my plea. He kept up his barking, occasionally tossing in a low, rumbling growl for good measure.

I flipped the pillow off my head, rolled over, and tugged my covers more tightly about me.

Then it hit me: if my dog is going bizerk in front of my bedroom window, maybe I should get up and find out why?

My gaze drifted to the clock on my bedside table. It registered a little past three in the morning.

I stifled a groan.

Looking for a reason to stay tucked up in my warm bed, I told myself that Elliot’s outburst was probably triggered by some wild creature roaming around out there in the night. But that explanation refused to take root.

Elliot was by nature a calm dog. Surely wild creatures had wandered into our back yard before. If they hadn’t sent Elliot into fits before this, why would they now?.

Muttering my displeasure at my dog, I rose from bed and tossed my bathrobe about my shoulders, then shoved my warm feet into cold slippers.

Seconds later, I stood before the bedroom window peering out into the dark night beyond the glass. At my side, Elliot bounded about me. I ignored him, concentrating on the dark scene beyond my window.

Through the densely falling snowflakes, I saw what looked like a pair of headlights down by Troublesome Creek.

From the bedroom it looked as though a pickup truck had gone off the roadway and had slammed nose-first into the big oak tree. I rushed back to my nightstand, picked up the cellphone, and called 9-1-1.

A sheriff’s dispatcher answered almost immediately. I supplied her with what information I could, outlining what I’d seen as well as what I suspected.

“By Troublesome Creek?” she asked.

Her voice was calm and confident. I found it reassuring.

“Yes. I live very near there,” I answered.

“Any injuries?’

“I don’t know. I can’t tell from this distance. But from what I can see I suspect so.”

“County Road 321 North?” she double-checked.

“Yes. I’m Alison Winters. I live in the old Winters’ place.”

“Okay. I know where you mean. Hold tight. I’ll get someone there.”

After we disconnected, I pulled a deep breath. I realized there was more I must do. I lived in the far northeast corner of Jasper County. An ambulance would need to travel more than twenty miles from the hospital in Pleasant Grove to reach my place. I couldn’t let someone lie outside unaided for all of that time.

With an Arctic cold front barreling its way onto the Illinois prairie, time mattered to anyone lying out there no matter what their injuries were.

I crossed to my dresser where I scrambled into an old pair of sweats and followed them up with a pair of wooly socks. Then I headed for the bedroom door straight before me.

Catching wind of my intentions, Elliot nearly knocked me down in his rush for the stairs. He was wired and on his way to the first floor. By the time I reached the top of the stairway, I could already hear Elliot’s nails clattering against the bare wooden floor in the hallway below.

I grimaced and envisioned a future battle. He was going to be one disappointed dog. No way could I let him loose to nose his way through an accident scene.

After reaching the kitchen, I used the soft, green glow from the microwave to see to pull my parka and snow boots from behind the basement door, Then, I grabbed a flashlight and old afghan from the hall closet. I might not recall much of my first aid training, but I knew warmth was important in fighting off shock. Back in the kitchen, I found that thought comforting as I shrugged my way into my winter gear.

Beside me Elliot scratched at the door, eager to be let out into the night.

“No, stay,” I commanded. He looked at me for a second. I swear his face almost registered his disbelief. But I shoved him aside and narrowly opened the large wooden door. Twisting myself around it, I squeezed myself through the small opening I’d created before slamming the door shut behind me.

From inside the house, Elliot protested his fate, scratching on the door and giving forth with a pitiful whine. I mentally shrugged him off and turned to face the glowing headlights down by the creek.

My move pointed me headfirst into the wind. Straight out of the north, the gale stung my nose and pushed cold, sharp snowflakes into my face. I raised a gloved hand in self-defense and started forward.

I don’t know how long my trek through the blowing and drifting snow took me that night, but as I neared the headlights, the rest of the vehicle slowly revealed itself. The pickup truck stood there, its front end rammed tightly into the trunk of the massive, old oak tree.

The truck’s front tire on my side twisted outward at an odd angle. Its hood stood erect, like a soldier during parade review. Below the skyward pointing hood, the engine compartment had been shoved backwards, leaving the truck’s cab crushed in an accordion-like squeeze. The cab’s roof had buckled up into a sharp peek. The engine compartment had penetrated the truck’s cab.

From the sheer mess of twisted metal, I knew whoever was trapped inside that truck was in great peril.

Even worse, I was now close enough to see the color and make of the truck. The pickup looked very like one belonging to Danny Biggs, the son of a dear neighbor.

My heart lurched. My pace quickened.

Please, don’t let it be Danny in there.

I knew it could be the young college student. His mother had told me yesterday morning that Danny was headed home for the weekend. Harriet Biggs had been excited at the thought of spending time with her only son. So, it would be logical for Danny to be driving this road on this night on his way to his parents’ farm.

But why would Danny arrive home this late?

Details could be sorted later. Much more important now was the aid I could give to whomever lay wounded inside that truck.

Finally I reached the crumpled machine. Pulling my flashlight from my coat pocket, I shone its beam upon the inert form sitting upright strapped in behind leather-wrapped steering wheel.

The light revealed just one passenger inside the demolished cab. It was Danny.

A a quick sob escaped from my lips. I quickly stifled the any others. Emotions would do nothing but get in the way of my giving assistance..

I pounded the metal end of my flashlight upon the driver’s side window. “Danny, can you hear me?” I yelled.

No reaction greeted my words. No response came from the mute form.

I pulled on the door handle. Nothing happened. I suspected the force of the collision had jammed the door. I scrambled to the other side of the wreck. Tried the door there. Same deal. Then I returned to the driver’s side door without a clue of what was about to happen.

Later, when people asked me how I could have missed something as important as someone prowling about nearby me, I could not come up with an answer. I only knew that Danny was there before me, horribly injured. I was obsessed with the fear that if I could not do something to help him and do it soon, Danny would die.

Then, in the distance, I heard the wail of a siren. Help was near. It was too soon to be an ambulance crew. It had to be some poor sheriff’s deputy about to arrive.

I felt my relief pour through me. A deputy would be well trained. Danny would receive assistance from better hands than mine.

But I was not to witness the deputy’s arrival.

For utterly without warning, I felt something hard, something heavy crash into my skull..

Staggering from the blow, I flung my hand out to grab the door handle of the truck to support myself, keep me upright. But my hand found no purchase. And I felt myself sliding down the cold, crumpled side of the pickup toward the wet, snowy bank of the creek below me.

I tried shifting my head to the left. I needed to know who had hit me.

Why would someone hit me?

But my effort was wasted. A second blow from my unseen attacker sent my thoughts careening into the black void. My worries over reaching Danny, about ambulance crews arriving, and how best to give aid all melted into a dark, mind-numbing oblivion.