Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  They must have grabbed Cate at the house. That would explain why her phone was in the living room. But how did they know where to find her? Either they tailed her there or—“Fuck,” he said—the fake Helen had seen their home address on the letter Cate had left on the kitchen counter. Ubell was on his own when he attacked Payette and tore the house apart looking for the yellow viol because he had sent the fake Helen to stake out their lakeside home.

  “Bastard,” the sheriff said.

  If the fake Helen had hidden in the surrounding woods, she would have been far enough from the house not to alarm Kipper but close enough to see who came and went and to know when Cate was there on her own. Cubiak had wondered why Ubell hadn’t killed Payette when he had the opportunity. Now he understood. When the German got the call from Helen, he had already found the viol, and rather than spend more time at the estate, he decided it was more important to snatch Cate than to finish off the musician.

  Poor Cate. She must have been terrified.

  Cubiak continued trying to piece together the scenario. Ubell nabbed Cate and then shot Kipper to frighten her even more.

  Why take Cate?

  There was only one explanation. It was to scare him and to force his hand. They wanted him to play their game by their rules, and so far, they were winning.

  Cate’s townhouse overlooked a pristine sand beach along the Lake Michigan shore. The condo was in an upscale development that was popular with tourists, retirees, and second-home buyers. In the off-season most of the units were empty except on weekends, but this was still prime time on the peninsula. When Cubiak reached the driveway, the parking lot was nearly full and lights were on in more than half the units. Through open curtains he saw flashes of cartoons and through another, Humphrey Bogart at the wheel of the African Queen. It was a warm evening and people were out. From the tennis courts across the road, he heard the thwack of the balls hitting the rackets over and again. There were voices coming from the water side of the building, which meant people were still on the beach. Snatches of conversation drifted down from the restaurant at the south end of the complex. Locals tended to eat early. These were tourists sipping cocktails on the patio.

  With so many people around, it seemed odd that Ubell would chance being seen. But the German seemed to enjoy tempting fate, and maybe it made sense to hide in plain sight. No one would notice a little extra noise or a few raised voices in the middle of the summer season. Folks were out to enjoy themselves. Besides, the condos in the complex were well built and soundproofed. Each had a private entrance and was designed for maximum privacy. And thanks to him, these were all features the fake Helen had plenty of time to check out.

  He coasted into the lot and parked at the north end, near the last unit. He pocketed his phone and had a foot on the ground when he stopped and slid his gun and holster under the seat. Unarmed, he felt unnerved, but he knew he couldn’t chance a false step. He couldn’t do anything that would endanger Cate.

  The townhouses backed up to a forest of tall pines, and Cate’s end unit stood in deep shadows, like the deer he had seen earlier that evening. Inside, Ubell would be on the alert, behind the drawn shades and curtains, looking, listening, and poised for action.

  Cubiak followed the brick pathway lit by solar-powered lamps. Five feet from the door, he stopped and waited for the automatic light to switch on, but nothing happened. He tossed a pebble at the doormat. Still nothing. The motion detector had been disabled.

  He ducked around the corner and crept alongside the white brick building. Second-floor windows that were usually open were shut. The front deck was unlit. On the beach, a couple and their three teenage kids folded up towels and packed a large cooler. A sudden gust tumbled an umbrella, and one of the boys ran after it across the sand. When they had their things gathered together, they traipsed toward the middle door. Mom and Dad argued about dinner: she wanted to go out and he wanted to stay in and order pizza. The kids were each glued to their phones. The door slammed after them and the beach went quiet. The dock near the restaurant was empty as well, but the people he had heard when he arrived were still on the patio. Either they were waiting to go in to eat or were lingering over dessert and coffee.

  A sharp wind rustled the trees and pushed large puffs of clouds down from the north. As the restless lake rubbed against the shore, the waves shushed quietly over the sand. From the grass came the chirp of a lone cricket. He tried the patio entrance. The sliding door was locked. Careful not to make any noise, he set a chair in front of it. If Ubell and the fake Helen were inside and tried to run out that way, they would trip over the chair.

  Back on the other side, the sheriff used his key to slip into the downstairs hallway. He had come in through that door dozens of times and took for granted the ordinariness of the surroundings. But tonight, he sensed something unfamiliar and menacing in the house. The usually welcoming silence seemed tense and heavy. There was something else different too: the faint odor of burning tobacco. Cate didn’t smoke. But Ubell did. Cubiak had seen his nicotine-stained fingers.

  He announced his presence. “I’m unarmed. And I’m coming in.” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but in the stillness the words sounded loud and threatening.

  There was no response, and he imagined the German poised and waiting, perhaps in the next room, as he waited in the hall. Why the cat-and-mouse games? he wondered.

  “I know you’re here,” he said.

  Still nothing.

  He took three blind steps into the darkness and bumped into the wooden coat tree that had been left in the middle of the hall. The pine table that normally stood along the wall had been moved as well. He edged past it. Farther along, the surface underfoot changed from tile to hardwood, telling him that he was moving from the hall into the first-floor expanse of living room, dining area, and kitchen. The area had been designed to pull in the outside light, but at night with the drapes pulled tight, it was a dark cave. A little more than forty-eight hours had passed since he and Cate had left the fake Helen standing by the kitchen counter. Was she there now, waiting for him? Was Ubell with her? What had they done with Cate?

  Cubiak continued to move cautiously. He kneed a low table that was out of place, bumped into the sofa that had been pulled from its usual spot, and then nearly tripped on an overturned cane chair. Glass crunched beneath his foot; he guessed it was from one of Cate’s framed photos. He toed a hard object that rolled away and wondered if it was one of the trio of tall candles from the teak sideboard. Had there been a struggle or was this disarray evidence of spite and meanness?

  Slowly, his vision adjusted to the darkness. When he reached the kitchen he could make out the gaping cabinet doors and the contents spilled out on the floor. Stepping around the mess, he came to the alcove where the washer and dryer stood and ran his hand over them. The dryer was warm. The bastards had done laundry!

  There was more havoc in the first-floor guest room, which Cate used as a photo studio, but no sign of her or her captors.

  Cubiak started up the rear stairs. As he climbed, the stench of cigarettes grew stronger. On the second floor, thin ribbons of light filtered through the blinds in the two guest rooms. Both were empty and undisturbed. Nothing had been touched in the utility closet or the guest bathroom either. He crept down the hall toward the front. Had Ubell and the fake Helen trashed the downstairs and then taken Cate and moved on? Was he too late?

  If they weren’t in the front bedroom, he had wasted precious time. Worse, he had no idea where else to look for them.

  The master suite took up the front third of the second floor, on the far side of the main stairwell. The room faced the water, and even with the drapes open it would be dark on a cloudy night. The door was closed but as he got closer he saw a sliver of pale yellow light along the bottom.

  The knob turned easily in his hand. He nudged the door open with his foot. Through a haze of cigarette smoke, he saw three shadowy figures silhouetted against the partially lit back wall. It took h
im a moment to realize that the fan-shaped illumination came from a flashlight propped upright against the baseboard. One figure reclined on the king-size bed, another was in the red barrel chair that Cate had bought at a charity auction, and the third sat upright at the cherry desk. It took Cubiak another moment to identify each of the trio. The reclining shape on the bed was the fake Helen. Cate sat at the desk. The upright shape in the barrel chair was Ubell Acker.

  “Sheriff, welcome to our little party,” he said, and then he snapped on a small table lamp. Enough light filtered through the dark glass shade for Cubiak to see their faces.

  “Willkommen,” the fake Helen echoed. She held a small silver hand gun that she kept trained on Cate. Unlike the wan creature who had visited his office, she was heavily made up with the black lips and kohled eyes of a gothic horror.

  Ubell sneered. Smoke curled from the cigarette that hung from the corner of his mouth and swirled up into a veil that blurred his features. A pistol rested in the flat of his hand. It was a Glock, and the barrel pointed in the direction of Cate. Despite the two weapons aimed at her, she refused to look cowed.

  “Are you OK?” Cubiak asked her.

  “Yes . . .”

  “You do not speak!” Ubell barked out the order.

  The sheriff ignored him. “Have they hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “Shut up!” Another order, louder and harsher.

  Cate blinked as if slapped, but she continued to look at him with an intense fearlessness. He held her gaze. I will get you out of this, he tried to tell her. As if in reply, as if saying Yes, I know, Cate inclined her head. The movement was small but enough for him to see.

  Cubiak edged over the threshold and scanned the room. A tan canvas bag and two bulky backpacks leaned against the wall behind the round chair. A black cello case stood propped up between the knapsacks. The case was shiny and made of black metal or carbon. It was the kind of protective container made for an expensive instrument. On the night-stand at the German’s elbow was a phalanx of empty beer bottles. The door to the balcony, which had been closed earlier, was open a few inches, and through the breach came the susurrus of the water caressing the shore.

  “I am unarmed,” the sheriff said again.

  Ubell sniggered and motioned to his colleague.

  The fake Helen put down her pistol and approached him. She had traded her bulky Amish skirt and Pollyanna blouse for tight motorcycle pants that showed off her slim figure and a black leather jerkin with deep cleavage.

  “You aren’t Helen Kulas, so who are you?” Cubiak said as she ran her long fingers along the inside of his thighs.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. A raw, guttural twang replaced the soft, feathery voice she had used in his office.

  “It does to me. I’ll call you Helen-Marlene, because you’re such a good actress,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “Shut up,” Ubell said.

  The fake Helen kept her hand on Cubiak’s belt and whirled toward the barrel chair. “Why should I? It doesn’t matter, so what difference does it make if he calls me Marlene? He could call me Queen Victoria and it wouldn’t matter.”

  Ubell blew a plume of smoke at her. “There is only one captain on the boat. Remember that.”

  Helen-Marlene lowered her eyes in fake submission. “Aye, aye, sir.” She shoved Cubiak away. “Sit,” she said and pointed to the floor near the balcony door.

  When he was seated, she picked up the flashlight and held the beam beneath Cate’s chin, angling it so the light shone grotesquely upward into her face and onto the ceiling. Cate stared straight ahead.

  “Blink, bitch,” the woman said, but Cate didn’t flinch.

  “Your wife’s a real stoic, isn’t she?” Helen-Marlene said. “Something she learned at finishing school, no doubt.” Bored with her little game, she tossed the flashlight to Ubell. “Bet she’s cold as ice, too. But rich!” The fake Helen flung her arms open and rolled the r’s on the word, repeating it several times. “Married up, didn’t you? Sheriff.”

  He said nothing.

  She laughed. “Oh, I read all about you, Herr Cubiak. Poor little policeman. Wife and daughter die, and then he meets the rich princess. Such a sad story, tears all around, but what a happy ending.” She snickered at him.

  “Shut up,” Ubell said again, more irritated this time.

  Helen-Marlene made a face. “The internet is a wonderful invention, so full of information,” she said, glaring at the sheriff.

  “Sit down.”

  “Whatever,” she said and flounced onto the bed next to the silver pistol. “This is fucking boring. Maybe I will take a little nap. You join me?” Her eyes widened as she leered at Cubiak.

  He ignored her taunts.

  “No? How about you? You want to lay down with me and make nice?” she said, this time to Cate.

  Cate did not respond.

  “No? Well, suit yourself, cunt,” Helen-Marlene said.

  Ubell hurled an empty beer bottle toward the bed.

  “Enough,” he said, and the room went quiet.

  Cubiak studied the two. They were a pair of sociopaths, two sick people bent on shaping events to their own perverse view of the world. He didn’t mind when they focused on him, but he did when they amused themselves at Cate’s expense. He needed to draw attention away from her.

  He looked across the room at the man with the gun. “Your name isn’t Eric Fielder. It’s Ubell Acker, and you shot my dog,” he said.

  The German lit another cigarette and let out a trail of smoke. “You are correct, it is and I did. I reasoned that it was a way to invite you here to join us without having to communicate directly. And look, it worked. You put two and two together and got four. You are a clever man. Just don’t let yourself become too clever.”

  “You have what you came for, why not leave?”

  Ubell puffed out his chest. “I do indeed have what I came for, as you say, but it is not so easy to leave, my friend. There is a little problem with the bridges.”

  “One word from me and they go down.”

  The German snickered. “Are you tempting me, like Eve with the apple? You think I will fall for your little plan? Don’t play me for a fool, Sheriff. I am not a fool.”

  “I know that. I respect that. You figured out how Payette got off the island with your father’s viol. Why not use the same method and outwit the authorities again?”

  The captor smiled. “It takes a bit of time to do it right, and unfortunately I do not have the luxury of time.”

  “Or you’re afraid of screwing up. One little mistake and the viol is ruined forever.”

  “I do not ‘screw up,’ as you say,” Ubell retorted, but Cubiak suspected he had touched a nerve.

  He pointed toward Cate. “Let her be, and I’ll get you off the peninsula, even if I have to drive you over the bay myself.”

  Ubell’s laugh was cruel, like his name. “Oh, you will get us away from here all right, only not in anything on wheels. I want a boat, a fast boat. With someone who can pilot it and with enough gas to go a long distance.” He rose to his feet and gestured toward the unseen water. “No coast guard. No police boat. A plain brown wrapper—that’s the American expression, isn’t it?”

  “My deputy has a boat.”

  “He is police.” Ubell spoke with derision.

  “He is my friend. He has a good boat and he likes to go fast.”

  “Does the boat have a big tank?”

  Cubiak had no idea. “Yes.”

  “How big?”

  The sheriff didn’t dare push his luck. “I don’t know.”

  Helen-Marlene sat up. “Don’t believe him.”

  “Shut up. I need to think.”

  At the desk, Cate stirred. “I have to use the bathroom.”

  “Women.” Ubell curled his mouth in disgust. “Can’t you wait?”

  “I have waited.”

  The German gestured to the fake Helen. “Go with her.”

&
nbsp; When Cate pushed the chair away and stood, she bobbled unsteadily on her feet. Then she took a few clumsy steps, and Cubiak saw that her wrists were bound and her ankles shackled.

  He started to get up. “That’s not necessary.”

  Helen-Marlene shot over and shoved him down hard.

  “Good girl,” Ubell said to her.

  The fake Helen smiled as she retraced her steps and prodded Cate with her fist.

  Then the German turned to the sheriff. “You do not tell me what is necessary.”

  When the women disappeared into the bathroom, Ubell got up and paced. “If your compatriot hadn’t stolen the yellow viol, if he hadn’t destroyed my father, if he hadn’t ruined my life, then it would not be necessary for me to be here,” he said.

  He stopped in front of Cubiak. “Do you know what my name means?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” The demonic laugh again.

  “It’s a very unusual name,” Cubiak said, determined to rile the man. “Was it chosen in honor of someone in the family, or did your father consider you evil because of the circumstances of your birth?”

  Ubell kicked the sheriff in the shin. “We do not need to talk about my father.”

  “Why not? Parentage can be so interesting. If we had time I would tell you my own unhappy story, although it’s probably not as interesting as yours. Franz Acker gave up on life, didn’t he? He stopped playing his music. He turned his back on you. He was weak. Not like his son.”

  Ubell started toward Cubiak again but was interrupted by the fake Helen, who kicked the bathroom door open and pushed Cate back into the bedroom.

  “She tried to buy me off. The rich bitch tried to buy me off,” Helen-Marlene said.

  Ubell spun away and took three quick steps toward Cate. “Cunt,” he said, and slapped her.

  Cubiak jumped to his feet. “Leave her alone.”

  The German turned and leveled the handgun at his chest. “I will do as I wish.”

  Cubiak ignored the weapon. “If you hurt her, I don’t help you,” he said. Then he looked at Cate. Her cheek was red where she had been struck, but she remained stoic. She caught his gaze and shook her head slightly, a signal that what the fake Helen said wasn’t true. The woman had lied.