The Devil's bed

As he looked up the number of the St. Croix Regional Medical Center, he heard the chopper lift off from the pad on the hospital roof. He glanced up and saw it zip away over the hills to the south. He dialed the hospital operator, gave his name as Doctor Lingenfelter, and asked to be connected to the nurses’ station in Trauma ICU. When he was connected, he asked if Maria Rivera was on duty. She was. He asked to speak with her.

“Hello, this is Nurse Rivera.”

He pictured her clean, white uniform, her kind eyes.

“Maria, it’s Bo Thorsen.”

She was quiet.

“I need a favor, Maria.”

“What?” she asked carefully.

“Just tell me if they’ve put additional security on Tom Jorgenson.”

She didn’t answer.

“It’s important, Maria. His life may be in danger.”

“He’s not here,” she finally answered. “A helicopter just picked him up and took him to Wildwood.”

“Thank God,” Bo whispered into the receiver.

“Bo, what can I do to help you?”

“You’ve done it, Maria. Thank you.”

“Be careful, Bo.”

He hung up. He looked back through the glass of the convenience store and saw the clerk on the phone. Calling the police, no doubt. Bo beat a hasty retreat.

Otter was still in the van, the engine idling.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bo said. “But slowly and carefully.” He crouched on the floor of the van so that he couldn’t be seen.

“How’d it go?” Otter said, signaling to pull away from the curb.

“If they thought I was crazy before, they’ll be damn sure of it now.”

By the time they returned to St. Paul, a gray evening light hung over the quiet neighborhood and the church. Otter pulled up to the back entrance and gave Bo a key.

“All the doors are locked. Nobody will disturb you. Go on in and wait for me. I’m going to gas up the van. Then there’s a good Greek place a mile or so up Snelling. How about I grab us a couple of gyros. I don’t know about you, but this spy stuff makes me hungry.”

“I’m starved. Thanks.”

Bo shut the van door, and Otter headed away.

Inside, the church was dark and deserted. Instead of heading to Otter’s room in the basement, Bo went to the sanctuary. He was still tingling from the adrenaline rush of his dash to Stillwater. He wanted to relax for a few minutes. The church sanctuary seemed as good a place as any.

It was a vast room with great stone arches that reminded Bo of a cathedral. There were a dozen stained glass windows set high in the walls along the sides and behind the altar. Probably when morning light streamed through them, they were dazzling. As it was, with the dark of night closing in behind them, they seemed lifeless. Aside from the red glow of the exit signs, there was only one light in the sanctuary, directly above the cross on the altar. Beyond the chancel rail, the light faded quickly so that the sides of the great room and the far back corners lay in a charcoal gloom. Bo walked to a pew near the rear of the church and sat down next to the center aisle. He removed the Sig Sauer that had been stuffed in the waist of his pants and laid it beside him on the pew. For a long time, he stared at the gold cross on the altar.

Until he went to live with Harold and Nell Thorsen, he’d never gone to church. They insisted that every Sunday he accompany them to Valley Lutheran. He went mostly because he grew to like the people who made up the congregation, people like Harold and Nell, farm families. But he never got the God part of things. In all his growing up, he’d never felt safe, protected, watched over, cared for in any but the most careless way. Although he knew she loved him, his mother had failed miserably in giving him any sense of security. Whenever Harold or Nell suggested to him that God’s hand had guided his way to their farm, he was clear in pointing out that it was the hand of the Minnesota justice system that had brought him there, and the judicial shoving of Annie Jorgenson in particular. As grateful as he was to Annie, he’d never been inclined to think of her as an angel of God. What he’d wanted in all those Sundays, demanded silently in church, was something on the order of a miracle. He challenged God, “Give me a sign, something I can’t miss, and I’ll believe.” The miracle never came. For Bo, church remained an experience based on community rather than religion. Eventually, in place of a religious doctrine, he established for himself a credo of his own, three simple dictates that he tried to live by.

1. The world is hard. Be strong.

2. Love is for only a few. Don’t expect it.

3. Life isn’t fair. But some people are. Be one of them.

Over the years, he’ d considered adding others-Laugh when you can; the opportunities are few; andWomen are easy; compliment their shoes-but he’d always kept it limited to the three he formulated in that small country church outside Blue Earth. He had no complaints. He suffered only when he broke one of his commandments.

With his eyes on the dull reflection off the cross he whispered, “The world is hard. Be strong.”