Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  A loud click drew Cubiak’s attention back to Ubell. The German had laid the black instrument case on the floor and released the first of three latches. Two more clicks followed, and then the hushed squawk of the lid being raised. Ubell stared at the interior.

  “At last, the yellow viol is mine,” he said.

  With a reverence that seemed to belie his nature, the German lifted the mysterious viola da gamba from the case.

  In the dim light, Cubiak got his first look at the exquisite object that had driven one man to despair, another to thievery, and a third to murder.

  19

  SEVEN STRINGS

  Ubell carried the yellow viol to the barrel chair. Cradling the antique instrument between his knees, he closed his eyes and fingered the strings.

  “There are seven strings, which makes it unusual,” he said as he tuned the instrument. “Do you know the story behind the name?”

  “Augusto Fiorrelli made the viol for his wife’s birthday and dyed the strings her favorite color,” Cate said.

  The German looked up. “How . . . ?” he said and laughed. “Of course, Google.”

  “History of Early Music one-oh-one,” Cate said.

  “So even in America, there is an attempt at education,” he said derisively.

  As Ubell took up the bow, his posture relaxed, his face softened, and the meanness in his eyes vanished. He almost seemed to be smiling.

  Cubiak had no music training, but when he was a boy his elderly upstairs neighbor had played the violin, and the few times his parents went out or he was home sick from school, the old man came down to stay with him. The neighbor always brought his violin. He had let young Dave try it out, and after the boy produced a series of painful squawks and wheezes, the old man would take it back and effortlessly draw beautiful sounds from the sleek, almost feminine-shaped instrument.

  Compared with the neighbor’s violin, the yellow viol seemed primitive. The shoulders drooped dramatically. The two openings cut into the body were not the familiar f shapes but outward curving c’s. The long, wide neck was lined with frets, like a guitar. To Cubiak, the viol looked like a stunted cello with swollen glands.

  Earlier, Ubell said he had failed as a musician. Perhaps by his father’s exacting standards, this was true, but to the sheriff’s uncultured ear, he played like a pro—his thick fingers racing expertly up and down the neck, the bow sweeping back and forth. In the strange setting, the sheriff was momentarily transformed back to the magical hours of his childhood when, against all reason, strands of horsehair scraped across thin strands of steel ushered a bounty of grace and beauty into the austere surroundings of his parents’ tawdry apartment. He had found comfort in the music then, and at first he felt the same as the German played. But the sensation was fleeting.

  The longer the performance went on, the more Cubiak realized that the music was not meant as a serenade. It was a warning.

  Ubell played to prove that the instrument he had taken from George Payette’s estate was the long-lost yellow viol. He performed for the captive audience to establish his claim to the coveted instrument and to signal to the sheriff that he would do whatever was necessary to keep it. He had killed before; he would do so again if he deemed it necessary. The placid façade that he wore was truly the mask of evil.

  What about the fake Helen? Cubiak wondered. Was there any hope that a reasonable soul lurked behind her harsh exterior? He looked up and met her cold gaze. The Glock remained firmly in her grasp and pointed at Cate. The other was aimed at him. She was as much a demon as the man she was teamed up with.

  The music continued to fill the room, but through it, the sheriff detected a distant murmur coming from the outside. He had lived on the water long enough to recognize the sound as the far-off drone of a motor. Sound carried oddly over the lake. Was it Rowe on the Speedy Sister or a distant boat carrying a fisherman toward the ship canal, someone who was tired from hours on the water and eager to get home? The noise faded. He glanced at his watch. The timing was about right for his deputy to arrive. Moments passed and he heard the boat motor again, only louder this time. Whoever was piloting the boat was moving fast, the way that Rowe liked to drive.

  Then Ubell heard it, too. Abruptly, he stopped playing, and in the sudden silence, the thrumming of the engine was clear. One by one they looked toward the balcony. Helen-Marlene started to get up but Ubell signaled her to stay seated. A cruel smile played across his face as he nestled the viol back in the case and snapped the lid shut. The sound of the motor intensified. It seemed to be coming toward them, and Cubiak wasn’t sure if he was relieved or alarmed. Ubell had a plan, and when Rowe reached the townhouse the scenario would be put into motion. The German waited another minute and then opened the balcony door to the motor’s roar. As they listened, the sound diminished to a faint gurgle and stopped. Once again, an eerie quiet engulfed the room.

  Ubell peered into the darkness.

  “Your friend perhaps is here,” he said.

  Cubiak pushed to his feet.

  “Sit.” Ubell spoke just as the sheriff’s phone chirped. The cell lay on a small table between the two men. The German grabbed it. “It’s a text from Mike. ‘All set,’ he says.”

  “That’s Rowe. My deputy.”

  Ubell typed a short response.

  “What did you tell him?”

  Ubell gave him a quizzical look. “To wait, of course.” He motioned the women to get up. “Time to leave.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You will find out soon enough.”

  Cubiak stood. “Leave her. Let her stay here,” he said, indicating Cate. “There’s not enough room on the boat for all of us. It’ll be faster with one less onboard.”

  Ubell shook his head. “We will make room. She goes. You go. We all go,” he said, pointing around the room. He retrieved his gun from Helen-Marlene.

  “I need the black bag.”

  Almost gleefully, the fake Helen hurried out of the room and thumped downstairs. A few minutes later she returned carrying a small duffel. “Here,” she said and pulled out a handful of long leather strips, which she gave to Ubell in exchange for the gun.

  “The slightest misstep and I shoot,” she said, leveling the barrel at Cate and Cubiak.

  Ubell worked on the sheriff first. Letting his arms hang loosely at his sides—“in case anyone is watching,” he said—the German tied the cord to one wrist, threaded the rope through a back belt loop, and knotted it around his other hand. It was a clever ploy. Cubiak knew that with his arms free to swing a few inches as he walked, no one would suspect he was being held captive. At the same time, he had no chance to break free. Ubell did the same to Cate and unshackled her ankles.

  When he finished he pushed them against the wall.

  “You have extra jackets here?” he asked Cate.

  “Down the hall, in the closet of the guest bedroom.”

  Helen-Marlene left again and reappeared with an armload of jackets and sweaters. Ubell stuffed the clothes into one of the packs and hoisted it onto her back. He swung the other over his shoulder, and then he picked up the canvas bag and the case with the yellow viol.

  “We will go ladies first,” Ubell said as he escorted Cate to the door. “You will lead, and then my love will go next. Our honored guest and I will follow, but not too close.”

  He draped a scarf over Helen-Marlene’s gun hand. “Don’t hesitate to use it,” he said. She sniggered and prodded Cate with the concealed weapon.

  Cubiak watched the fake Helen carefully. Each time she was given more responsibility, her ego inflated and she grew more willful. A dangerous combination, he thought, although having Ubell guard Cate would be even worse. The fact that the German was staying with him meant he felt threatened by the sheriff. Good, he thought.

  “Now?” Helen-Marlene said.

  Ubell turned off the lights. “Yes, now.”

  The fake Helen shoved Cate toward the hall. “Go,” she said.

  Cate sta
yed her ground. Helen-Marlene kicked her shin and sent her staggering from the jolt.

  Cubiak moved to intervene and felt the sharp jab of the gun barrel between his shoulders. He recoiled as best he could. “Cate, do as she tells you. We’ll be OK,” he said. He kept his voice level, hoping to reassure his wife. But Cate was no fool, and like him she probably understood that every step they took from the condo put them in greater peril. Once they left land, they would be in the greatest danger. Where were they headed? How far would they get in Rowe’s speedboat?

  The sheriff knew that Ubell didn’t care what happened to him or Cate and suspected that he wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice his willing assistant if he was forced to choose between her and the yellow viol. The German was determined to get away from Door County with the valuable instrument. How well did he know American geography? the sheriff wondered. Wisconsin was in the Midwest but it was far from landlocked. Did Ubell realize how much water surrounded them?

  The state of Michigan sat some fifty miles away, due east across the lake, but there were no towns of any size along the northern shoreline. Milwaukee was the nearest big city and it was nearly two hundred miles south. Going there would take the German deeper into the heart of the country. If Ubell wanted to reach the city of Green Bay by boat he had two options: he could go the long way around the peninsula or take the shortcut through the ship canal. They would save time via the canal, but they would have to go by the coast guard station at the entrance to the channel and then pass under the three bridges that his deputies had under surveillance. The deputies would take notice of a pleasure boat going through at that time, and there was a good chance they would recognize the Speedy Sister II and try to get Rowe’s attention.

  The only real option was to head north toward the Upper Peninsula and then cut across Lake Michigan to the Straits of Mackinac. And then what? Try to reach Sault Sainte Marie and Canada? They would need good maps to navigate that stretch of unfamiliar territory and plenty of fuel to cover that distance, probably more than Rowe had onboard. There’s only wilderness and more water there. It would be insane to head in that direction, Cubiak thought.

  Ubell gave the order to start. They walked single file out the door, through the hall, and down the stairs to the first floor.

  “Go that way,” he said, motioning toward the patio.

  He unlocked the sliding door and pushed Cate toward it.

  “Careful,” Cubiak said as she started forward. Cate looked down in time to step around the chair he had put in the way.

  The cool night air was tainted with a faint fishy odor. Heavy cloud cover hid the stars, and the wind washed waves of surf over the sand. As they crossed the damp lawn, separate streaks of lightning slashed the dark sky to the north—a summer storm, maybe two. There was no thunder, which meant the storm was more than ten miles away, but it was impossible to know which way it was moving. The wind might be blowing the rain out over the lake or steering it inland toward them. A burst of laughter came from the restaurant, but the outdoor tables were deserted and the paucity of cars in the lot meant few people were still dining.

  Cate knew the path well, but she took her time leading them along the brick walkway that ran from the edge of the lawn to the pier. Of the two dozen townhomes that fronted the beach, only three had windows that were lit, and in these the curtains were pulled tight. Anyone glancing out would see a party of four on their way to the vessel at the dock.

  Until that night, Cubiak had not seen Rowe’s new boat. He knew it was a thirty-two-footer, not that much longer than the original Sister, but it seemed substantially taller and bigger. How seaworthy it was, he had no idea. Rowe had bragged about it having twin inboard engines, but Cubiak wasn’t sure what that meant. He hoped they were big engines. He hoped there were life jackets onboard as well. Even in August, the lake was cold.

  If seeing the quartet alarmed Mike Rowe, the deputy didn’t display any concern. He stood in the cockpit of the Speedy Sister II and rode the gentle rocking of the boat like a man accustomed to water and late-night rendezvous. Rowe wore a black jacket and a dark watch cap pulled down over his ears. Two years’ working with Cubiak had taught him to look first and ask questions after, and so he waited, mute as a rock, until the entourage reached the dock.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  “No questions. No talking,” Ubell said. He took in the Sister and then glared at Cubiak. “I thought you said it was a fast boat. This is some kind of party boat.”

  Rowe bristled. “She’ll do forty-five on the open water. That’s as fast as you want to go out there, unless you’ve got a cigarette boat or a sixty-footer. Right now, it’s this or nothing.”

  “How much fuel?”

  “Enough to get us a hundred miles or more, depending on what we run into.”

  The German grunted and tossed his backpack over the gunwale. He signaled Helen-Marlene to do the same with hers.

  “They go in the cabin,” Ubell told Rowe.

  The deputy left the bags at his feet. He wouldn’t do anything until the sheriff gave the order.

  “Do as he says,” Cubiak said.

  Rowe threw the backpacks below. The German gave the canvas bag to Helen-Marlene and then helped her climb aboard.

  “Frisk him,” he said, indicating Rowe.

  It was an odd sight, but the boat was in the shadows and probably no one could see the goth woman patting down the clean-shaven young man. Helen-Marlene finished and then gave an extra swipe to the deputy’s inner thigh. “He’s clean,” she said.

  “You, next,” Ubell said, shoving Cate forward. Cate was a seasoned sailor but with her hands bound, she lost her footing and fell against the side bench. Cubiak stumbled in and nearly landed on top of her.

  Rowe moved to help them but Cubiak warned him off. “We’re good,” he said.

  Ubell remained on the dock. “Sit, both of you,” he ordered the sheriff and his wife. “You, give me your mobile,” he told Rowe. The deputy hesitated, but at a signal from Cubiak, he complied. The German flung the phone into the lake and then told the fake Helen to check the boat.

  She seemed to know exactly what to do. Moving around the three in the cockpit, she swept her hands under the cushions and the instrument panel. Then she knelt and ran her hands across the deck and along the base of the rear and side benches. Radio chatter occasionally broke the silence until she went below and switched it off. They heard cabinet doors open and slam shut.

  A few minutes later she appeared in the gangway. “Nothing,” she said.

  All this time, Ubell had been holding the yellow viol. Given the all clear, he finally stepped onboard with the precious cargo. For a moment he seemed uncertain what to do with it. Almost reluctantly he gave it to the fake Helen.

  “Put this below, somewhere safe,” he said.

  Ubell eyed Cubiak and Rowe. “No secret tracking devices, I assume. Because if there are—if we are being followed—one of you will die. If I discover weapons on board, someone will pay. And explosives?” More lightning exploded in the distance, and he laughed. “If you are that foolish, then you drown with us. We are in this together, don’t forget.”

  Cubiak pushed up to his feet. “There’s no reason for my deputy to go with us. You have two hostages. That’s enough. Leave him here. There’ll be less weight on board and . . .”

  Helen-Marlene was halfway up the stairs. “‘We’ll make better time.’ Is that what you were going to say, Sheriff? Of course we will leave your friend behind—so he can call for help,” she said.

  “You can tie him up in the condo. He won’t be able to do anything,” Cubiak said.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Rowe said. “You need me out there. I know this boat. I can pilot it with my eyes closed, which is about what it’s like trying to go anywhere on the water at night.”

  Rowe was right. Bathard had taught the sheriff to sail but he was little more than a seasoned novice. Cate was a veteran on the water, but he doubted that Ubell would trust
her at the wheel, and besides, running a powerboat was different from operating a sailboat. It pained Cubiak to realize he was putting his deputy in jeopardy, but without Rowe at the helm they were all in danger. Beyond that, he figured that the two of them might have a chance of overpowering their captor. Better than any he had on his own. And if they ran into rough weather, they would need Rowe to get them through.

  “He stays with us,” Ubell said.

  “Then trade him for Cate.”

  As he spoke, Cubiak looked at his deputy. He had to try to negotiate; they both knew that.

  “I’ll go in her place,” Rowe said.

  Ubell snorted. “We all go.”

  He pushed Rowe to the front of the cockpit and pointed to where he wanted the others. The fake Helen and Cate were on the starboard side facing in. Cubiak was in the stern.

  When he had them all seated, Ubell undid the mooring lines and pushed the boat away from the dock. The wind had come up and the Speedy Sister pitched gently on the water.

  “Now. It is time,” he said.

  The deputy started the engines.

  “Go gently. Do nothing to attract attention,” Ubell said. “Soon, we will go fast, the way you like.”

  20

  AWAY FROM EVERYTHING FAMILIAR

  As the Speedy Sister slipped away from the pier, an elderly couple in jaunty resort attire emerged from the restaurant. “Have a good trip,” the man called out and both waved. Ubell raised a hand in a show of false cheer as the boat motored through the shallow scallop of a harbor.

  Within minutes they passed the breakwater and churned toward the deeper depths of the lake. Since Cubiak had learned to sail, his fear of water had lessened, but as they sped farther from land the familiar, childhood terror rose up again. Why was he so damned frightened by deep water? Sitting with his hands tied, he remembered. It went back to a hot summer day, not long after his sixth birthday. He was a scrawny kid, on a picnic with his parents and a gathering of boisterous relatives he barely knew. They had gathered at a small lake in Indiana, and all the kids except him were diving and splashing in the water.