Watershed

Chapter 1

The dry heat of late August left tiny beads of perspiration upon the brow of thirty year old Karl Larkin as he entered the air-conditioned coolness of Chesterton Motors. A slight hint of frustration flashed in the cool gray eyes as he vainly searched the contingent of blue coveralled employees for the customer service foreman. Karl had dropped off his dilapidated runabout for brake servicing earlier in the day. The shop manager had assured Larkin his, “Limo,” would be, “ready for the track,” by three o'clock.

Emory Stanton, president and owner of Chesterton Motors, appeared from one of the cubicles that served as offices for his sales personnel. From the flushed complexion of the affluent business man, Larkin surmised that all had not progressed favorably during consultation with one of the salesmen. The white-haired proprietor possessed a dual personality, the darker side of which the general populace of Chesterton --the small prairie town from which the garage acquired its name-- had not witnessed.

As he studied the older man, a faint smile crossed Karl's handsome visage. He mused that the salesman had seen the other side of Stanton.

Upon seeing Larkin, the car dealer quickly masked his anger, flashing a toothy smile of feigned friendliness. The gesture was wasted on the younger man for Karl had suffered the consequence of Emory Stanton's wrath on other occasions. Karl Larkin's employment as a civil servant positioned the young man, in Stanton's esteem, level with a doormat; the businessman treated him accordingly. This condescending attitude rubbed raw the pride of Karl and his co-workers. Silent resignation, like eating crow, left a bitter taste in one's mouth. Emory Stanton was a man of influence in Chesterton, albeit a sardine in a slough. He made no secret of his political “connections,” a whip he often used.

Ignoring his pretense of amity, Larkin asked, “Have you seen Bjorn around this afternoon?”

Irritation flashed like a subliminal advertisement across the ruddy countenance and Emory said, “I'll page him for you.”

The car dealer turned abruptly and strode toward the front desk, grunting an order to the receptionist as he passed.

Seconds later a voice hailed Karl from the shop entrance. Bjorn Johannson, the tall, middle-aged shop foreman, stood in the doorway leaning against the frame as if to support the structure. Johannson did support the business, for his ability as a top notch mechanic had earned Chesterton Motors a great deal of respect and clientèle. Recently though, the Viking descendant had become a manager, leaving the majority of the actual repair work in the hands of the less professional.

“She should be in top form now,” Bjorn said, adding, “I'm afraid to present you with this though,” as he recovered the work order from a folder he had tucked under his arm.

Karl's gray eyes scanned the bill swiftly. The parts were expensive; however, the labor charge bordered on criminal.

“Wow! Thirty-five bucks an hour! I know you're a good mechanic, Bjorn, but this is outrageous.”

Johannson shrugged apologetically. “I agree, Karl. People can't afford it, but Stanton, and Busse over at the Ford garage, have both upped their shop rates. They have you by the short ones, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, Karl. There is one more thing you should know,” the shop foreman said as Larkin turned to leave. “I didn't personally do the job on your vehicle.”

Something in Johannson's tone held a hint of warning. Karl nodded and proceeded to the front desk.

The pretty blond receptionist smiled warmly as Larkin handed her the invoice. Most of the single ladies in Chesterton would have liked to set their cap for this handsome and eligible bachelor. Karl returned her smile with a preoccupied nod of greeting. He paid his bill and strolled out into the sunshine.

Larkin paused briefly on the steps and surveyed the second of Chesterton's two business routes. Several boisterous young men burst from the doorway of the establishment across the street. The ubiquitous Licensed Beverage Room sign above the door explained the vociferous nature of the group. Few vehicles were parked along the avenue, as harvest had been in full swing for a few days. The grain producers were in the fields, making the most of the hot, dry spell. Karl hoped the weather would hold as he glanced up at the incredibly blue western sky.

Larkin's eyes returned to the celebrating trio and followed their unsteady progress until he espied his old car resting almost exactly where it had been parked earlier in the day. Feeling bitter about the injustice of the staggering repair charge, he decided to follow up Bjorn Johannson's suggestion that both of the town's dealerships had conspired to soak the community. Chesterton lay seventy miles from the nearest bigger centre which made the concept of local patronization a necessity. Larkin preferred to shop in Chesterton, believing that the smaller communities were having a tough time in the grip of a prolonged recession. Farmers faced financial hardship and consequently the businesses in the agriculturally based areas suffered directly. Karl did not, however, accept blatant capitalization on the fact that the town remained isolated.

As Karl drove away from Chesterton Motors, he detected a faint shudder of the vehicle when applying the brakes as he approached the main street. He pumped the pedal and, finding nothing irregular, proceeded to Busse's garage. Parallel parking behind the shop truck, Larkin again felt a slight tremor from the car.

Busse sold Ford vehicles while Stanton sold General Motors products. The two garages were in competition in the sales arena; according to Bjorn Johannson, however, they were partners in the repair field. Larkin decided to quiz Hank Busse.

The Ford dealer appeared from his office as Larkin opened the heavy glass entrance door.

“Well, hello, Karl! I haven't seen you since you left that fat cheque here for your new Bronco. It didn't quit on you, did it?”

Larkin grinned, “I haven't scraped up enough money to fill the fuel tank since I drove it home.”

He liked Hank, a fair business man who seemed to ride the economic downturn successfully. Karl wondered at the possibility of this bright and likable gentleman sharing the business bedroom with an arrogant shyster of Emory Stanton's ilk.

Karl Larkin had many personal attributes that won him favor with people. He was… well… tall, dark and handsome. His six foot frame and muscular build complemented the tanned features of a man accustomed to the outdoors. The firm jaw and steady gray eyes suggested an inner strength and when he smiled his whole face participated, from the upturned mouth flashing perfect white teeth, to the tiny crows' feet at the edges of his eyes. There was nothing insincere about Karl Larkin. The outstanding quality that brought him to the fore was his compelling, commanding, and sometimes hypnotic voice. He now used this voice to shift the conversation from the customary prairie platitudes, to the more pertinent topic. Imperceptible to the conscious mind, the tone changed.

“Hank, I want to ask a private question related to your business. That is your business, not any of mine and I do not wish to upset you.”

Busse met Larkin's gaze and said. “Sure, Karl, shoot.”

It was not in Karl's character to leave grain in with the chaff and he did not mince words now. “Did you and Stanton agree to set the shop rates in town?”

Hank could not avoid the direct question, even if he wanted to. “Yes.”

Larkin waited a moment before saying, “How were you able to justify such an outrageous increase?”

Busse shifted his weight and looking down at his shoes like a scolded child, apologized, “Emory figured we had the repair shop business sewed up.” His voice held a bitter edge as he added, “Emory said, and he is correct, nobody is going to drive seventy miles out of their way to avoid a slight increase in labor charges. Not at today's gas prices.”

“Seven dollars per hour is not a slight increase!” Karl said, “You have a good head on your shoulders, Hank, why would you listen to anything Emory Stanton suggested?”

Busse shrugged, “He made it sound pretty easy…” Quickly scanning the showroom he added gravely, “there's a bit more to it than you realize too, Karl.”

Karl met and held Hank's eyes. The bigger man could feel his soul being laid bare. Larkin murmured, “I think I see the picture now, Hank.”

Hank Busse led a respectable life in Chesterton: Pillar of the community, chairman of the Chamber Of Commerce, successful businessman, husband and father. Few people knew about an affair Hank had had with his pretty little secretary, Andrea. Larkin knew because Andrea herself unwittingly intimated to Karl that something was amiss. People, even those of short acquaintance, often trusted Karl though he did not encourage or pry. More often he wished they would save their problems for the confessional.

Apparently Emory Stanton had discovered the situation and Larkin guessed correctly now.

“You knew about me and Andrea?” Hank exploded in a whisper.

“I study people, Hank, I had my suspicions. But that is your business and has nothing to do with me.”

“Come into my office.” Busse put a big hand on Larkin's shoulder and hastily ushered him to the seclusion of the sound proof alcove.

A different Hank Busse from the one who accepted the cheque for a new Bronco a few weeks ago faced Karl Larkin across the big oak desk now. The distraught giant pressed his hands against his face as if trying to push the torment out of his mind.

“I'll spare you the details of my little fling,” he began. “You know the old saying, forty going on twenty, middle age syndrome and all that horse shit. I pulled through without a hitch. Nobody seemed any the wiser. It started. It stopped. Finished. All of a sudden Stanton showed up wearing that wolf's grin of his and before I could think straight he had me agreeing to this twenty percent increase in shop rates.”

“Does it stop there?” Larkin asked without meaning to add to the big fellow's obvious distress.

“Well, I hope so.”

Larkin did not wish to play down the serious nature of the demeanor. Hank's standing in the community would suffer but his home life could be ruined.

“I see where you could be behind the eight ball for a while, Hank,” Karl said.

“I'll be lucky to come out of this with any balls at all!” The garage owner grinned through his grief.

The two men escaped the heavy atmosphere of Busse's office and strolled down the hall. Larkin observed that the people who created blue coveralls had distributed quite a few pairs to the Ford dealership as well. Stepping out into the waning afternoon sunshine Karl noted that the heat had diminished as the sun followed its curve to the west.

Hank said, “My hands are tied as far as lowering those shop rates are concerned. Stanton, in not so many words, threatened to spill the beans if I didn't go along with him.”

Karl said, “Secrets don't last very long in a town where everyone knows the other person's business. There are plenty of gossips only too willing to spread the news to your wife. Maybe it would be best to tell Phyllis. She will handle it better coming from you.”

Larkin walked over to his Chevy and slid in behind the steering column. For a moment, before starting the engine, he considered the unmitigated gall of Emory Stanton: the man seeped evil from every pore; Hell would have to partition off a special area for him when he arrived.

Karl realized he had a choke hold on the steering wheel and released his grip, chastising himself for allowing the dealer to 'push his buttons'. The car thrummed to life and Larkin waited for two pickup trucks to pass before easing out on to the street. As the sedan approached a pedestrian cross-walk, he let off the gas and coasted to allow a lady and her youngster to cross. The child broke from the mother's grasp and dashed in front of the oncoming vehicle. Larkin stepped on the brake. The pedal went to the floor. His foot slammed hard down on the emergency brake.

Nothing.

Horror spread across the lady's features as, momentarily paralyzed, she stared at the imminent disaster. Mindless of her own safety, she dove for the child.

Freeze-frame slow, Larkin watched the pair disappear from sight below the hood of the car. He wrenched the steering wheel and slammed the gearshift into Park. The locking pin held and the vehicle juddered to a swerving halt.

Leaping from the car, Karl rushed round to the front. The lady, whom he recognized as a Mrs. Arnold, was holding tightly to her son with one hand while trying to push herself up with the other. Karl gently swept up the sobbing youngster and helped Mrs. Arnold to her feet.

“Are you all right?” he gasped.

“I…I think so… You didn't hit us… but… wha…what happened?” the dazed woman stammered.

“I just had my brakes repaired…or thought they were repaired. They let go! I couldn't stop!” The voice softened. “I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Arnold.”

She gathered the subdued child into her arms. “I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Karl.”

Larkin assisted the shaken pair to the sidewalk. Returning to the hastily parked vehicle, shock shifted to rage. Emory Stanton continued to 'push his buttons'.

Karl cautiously maneuvered the car back to Chesterton Motors. Coasting into the parking lot, he rolled up to the big overhead door leading into the service bay. “Ahh, Hell no!” he growled and fed the engine more gas. Gravel squirted from the rear tires and the car lurched into the heavy segmented door. The front end of the car buckled and so did the garage door. A resounding combination of screech and crunch rent the quiet afternoon as splinters and parts became projectiles. Door and frame collapsed under the onslaught. Blue coveralls scattered. A mechanic laden creeper shot out from under a nearby vehicle, hurtling its human cargo to more secure surroundings.

Emory Stanton, positioned just beyond the wreckage, stared wild eyed, his bottom jaw quivering on a second chin.

Karl Larkin, gray eyes ablaze, leaped from his demolished vehicle.

Stanton's mouth closed, then opened again. Strained but coherent words came out in gasps. “What… the Hell… are you doing? …Have you lost your… your bloody mind?”

The uncivil servant stopped mid stride. Like tiny ripples on a pond, his anger vanished, to be replaced with a calm serenity. The voice took command.

“Brakes failed,” he said.

<<<Front Matter Chapter 2>>>