Death in the Heartland

Her first trip to the heartland had been a revelation. The land had been covered with a coating of white snow. The sight of farms that stretched for miles with views uninterrupted by trees or hills had been oddly comforting. She had felt a pull, a tug to step toward the horizon and walk until a mountain or river forced her to stop. She got the same goose bumps from being dwarfed by the wide-open spaces that she got when looking at the mountain views at home in Virginia. She had always wanted to return to the area to try to understand its often underappreciated beauty and the peace it brought her. It was so different from the rolling hills in Virginia, where the topography hid a surprise around every corner or hill. There was a feeling of safety, a certainty about the landscape in the Midwest. It had motivated her to pull out an old copy of Carl Sandburg’s poems. Reading them as a young student, she had not appreciated the veracity of his writing. The long grasses, rows of corn, and meeting of fields and sky he described had come to life for her when she saw the countryside with her own eyes. Sandburg’s words “I know I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart” came back to her. Then she remembered the man in the back of the trailer who had found a gruesome peace in the heart of the prairie. Planning her route to Indiana for Sonny’s funeral, she found that the guidebooks on the Midwest were dedicated to major cities like Chicago and St. Louis. They ignored the charms of the small towns. Her Luddite soul made her reluctant to start an online search, but that was what turned up an article on things to see and do in the heartland. Cycling, highlighted as one of the top things to do in Illinois, caught her attention. At the time, she thought exploring an often-overlooked part of the country would be fun. An advantage of people underestimating its interest was that she wouldn’t have to deal with tourist crowds. The average sightseer was probably looking for dinosaur parks or shriek-inducing roller coasters. A safe, flat bike trail was worth a detour to Deana. It looked like Urbana had great bike trails, museums, parks, and a historic downtown with good restaurants. The opportunity to appreciate the area’s beauty had come to an abrupt halt when she discovered the dead man. So much for a peaceful bike ride. Deana blinked at her selfishness. She was feeling sorry for herself at missing out on being a tourist when a man had been ripped apart by birds. Her phone pinged. It was a relief to see Jean’s name as the caller. “Hey,” Deana answered. “Shelly and I were wondering how your trip through flyover country was going. Anything exciting going on in the cornfields?” Jean was trying to be funny, but Deana wondered if she had a little ESP going on with Jean and her wife, Shelly. She had been thinking about the last bike ride she had led them on and how they had screamed like little kids as they picked up speed going down a hill. They shared her love of the rapidly changing scenery and rush of air as you pedaled down country roads. Jean and Shelly would have loved the ride along the trail in Urbana¬—except for the dead man. Jean and Shelly had two homes. They were Deana’s neighbors in Alexandria, Virginia, and owned a getaway home close to the Shenandoah Mountains. The three of them took a weekly ride along country roads in Madison, Virginia, or next to the Potomac River in Alexandria. Cycling had become an important part of their lives. They were city girls who had become enamored with the Virginia skyline and country air. They laughed when the honeysuckle scent in bloom was replaced with the redolence of steaming cow patties. In the Midwest, it was fields of mint instead of honeysuckle that provided relief from the earthy smells. “Jean, don’t worry. I’m fine. However, I did find a dead man next to a bike trail.” “You’re kidding, right?” “Unfortunately, I’m not. I reported it to the local police. They’ve started an investigation.” “Does Greg know?” “Yes, he vouched for me with the local authorities. I’m taking off for Indiana in a few minutes. I’ll come back through here on my way home. I might be able to help the police.” “Shelly and I are coming out there,” Jean said quickly. “No, that’s not necessary.” Jean harrumphed. “Greg was right. Trouble finds you.” Deana promised to let her friends know when she arrived safely in Indiana. She shook her head, trying to forget Jean’s reminder about trouble finding her. Looking around the hotel room, she decided it would be a good idea to find a nicer place to stay on the return trip. This room was like every other chain hotel room: dull off-white paint on the walls, dark-brown cotton coverlet on the bed, a faint high-pitched buzzing sound, lighting that made it difficult to read. The insufficient lighting was probably deliberate. It hid imperfections in the furniture, carpet, drapes. The same musty smell she thought of as eau d’hotel was probably created by a combination of the cleaning products the hotels used and no fresh air ever entering the rooms. It brought back memories of her first trip to Indiana and the hotel room that had echoed with feelings of loneliness. Best not to even think about it. As she brushed her teeth, she thought about how wonderful it would be to get to Knox. A glance in the mirror made her realize her face relaxed when she recalled the conversation with Dorothy in which she had generously offered to let her stay “as long as you like” with her and her husband, Sam.