Death Rides the Ferry

by Patricia Skalka

  “Quiet,” Ubell said. Regaining his balance, he checked the handheld screen again.

  “Head northwest,” he said and pointed to the compass.

  Rowe held the wheel steady. “There’s nothing out there.”

  “You do as I say. Now.”

  Rowe looked back at Cubiak, and the sheriff nodded.

  The deputy turned the wheel and nudged the Speedy Sister through the undulating water. “I don’t know this area. There might be shoals or hidden rocks,” Rowe said.

  Ubell ignored him. A wave slapped them portside. It was followed by two more in quick succession.

  “Lake Michigan’s three sisters,” Rowe said.

  “Dangerous?”

  “They can be.”

  But only to sailors far out on the lake. Cubiak had learned this much from Bathard. Rowe was again deliberately misleading Ubell.

  “More slow,” the German said.

  The clouds moved in again. With the stars and moon shut off, the night sky became a thick overhead shroud. As they crept forward, Cubiak strained to hear past the hum of the motor, hoping to catch a sound that might indicate what lay ahead. Were they nearing land, or heading to a rendezvous with another vessel?

  “You have searchlights?” Ubell said.

  Rowe pointed to a lamp mounted on the prow.

  “Turn it on.”

  The yellow beam streamed over the bow and split the dark. Ubell swept the headlamp back and forth in careful, slow arcs. What’s he looking for? Cubiak wondered as he followed the rotating light. They had slowed to trolling speed and seemed to barely move against the current. It was impossible to calculate distance. They might have traveled fifty feet or fifty yards.

  Another five minutes passed, and a low ribbon of land skimmed the horizon. The patch of earth was maybe a half mile out, maybe less or more, and even blacker than the night sky.

  “Keep going,” Ubell said.

  As they drew closer, Cubiak heard the rush of surf. They were near one of the islands. In another sweep of the light, he glimpsed the skeletal remains of a dock. Rowe said the archipelago was uninhabited but someone had lived there once, as evidenced by the pier they had left behind.

  The fake Helen appeared in the stairway. “What’s going on?” Her tone demanded a response.

  “We have made it. We are late, but still within the parameters,” Ubell told her. His voice was heavy with relief and satisfaction.

  It was just past midnight by the sheriff’s watch. The witching hour.

  They were here to meet someone, Cubiak realized. But who?

  21

  ANCIENT WEAPONS

  They motored forward with the searchlight trained on the rendezvous point. The island looked like a jagged pencil stroke drawn across the black miasma of water and sky, but slowly the features came into focus: First, the rickety dock that extended out into the water. Then the ring of gray boulders that lined the shore. Finally, the thick forest of wind-wrecked fir trees that formed the serrated horizon. Taken together, they formed a forlorn and uninviting habitat.

  The pier had been badly neglected for years. Cycles of wind, sun, rain, and ice had stripped the paint and weathered the wood to a dull noncolor. Some of the boards had rotted through, leaving gaping holes in the surface. Ubell swore quietly.

  “Shut everything down,” he told Rowe.

  The deputy hit a series of switches, and they were plunged again into darkness. Cubiak felt the quivering underfoot as the Speedy Sister went numb. The only sounds were the wind and the restless surf lapping the hull.

  In the dark, the boat thumped against the dock.

  “I have to put out the bumpers,” Rowe said.

  “Forget it.” Ubell kept the gun on the deputy as he tossed the mooring lines around the dock posts and secured the boat.

  They had landed on one of the islands, but which one? Cubiak wondered. Did it matter? Was someone waiting onshore? Perhaps a black-market viol buyer? Although it hardly seemed like the kind of venue for a sales transaction. Or someone paid to transport Ubell and his precious cargo out of the US?

  “Dave?” Cate sounded frightened.

  “Keep her quiet,” Ubell told his colleague.

  Cubiak shouted over him. “I’m here. We’re OK.”

  “Shut up, everyone.” Ubell seemed tense. He pulled Rowe away from the wheel and lashed the deputy’s hands behind his back. “Sit,” he said and shoved him down on the side bench. Then to Cubiak, he said, “Stand up. Go there.”

  “Where? I can’t see anything.”

  “To the dock. We are getting off.”

  Ubell let the sheriff pass and then he nudged him from behind. “Go,” he said.

  “What about Cate and Helen-Marlene?”

  “Never mind them. Go.”

  Cubiak inched forward. As long as he did as he was told, the fake Helen wouldn’t hurt Cate, but he feared that if she was left on her own with her captive, she could turn reckless. The woman was unpredictable. She envied and resented Cate, and her enmity could make her act irrationally.

  “Stay calm, Cate,” he said.

  The German prodded him again.

  Cubiak hesitated. For years, he had been uncomfortable around boats and fearful of deep water. But that night, he dreaded the thought of trading the security of the Speedy Sister for the unknown dangers that lay ahead on land.

  In the dark, he couldn’t see the island, but he sensed its menacing presence. The lake had been terrifying but alive. In contrast, the land exuded a morbid stillness, as if the ground and everything growing from it was trapped in a stagnant limbo. He took a breath. The air was damp and seemed colder than it had been on the lake. Worse was the fetid smell that perfumed the atmosphere.

  Ubell pushed him a third time. “Now,” he said.

  With his hands secured behind him, the sheriff clambered over the side and onto the dock. He had miscalculated. The pier was low and slick with moss. Thrown off balance, he toppled forward and fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet and then nearly fell again when Rowe tumbled after him.

  “What stinks?” the deputy said.

  “Rotten wood.”

  Cubiak slid his foot forward and pressed down with the toe of his boot. The board yielded to the pressure like a wet sponge.

  Ubell appeared out of the dark. Holding the tan canvas bag and a flashlight, he panned the pier. The shore end of the dock was wedged between two clusters of rocks. From there a narrow path led to a small clearing that looked large enough for a couple of tents but not much else. Beyond that, there were more stunted firs. Cubiak couldn’t tell what they were, white pine perhaps or tamaracks. Like the trees along the shore, they grew so close together that their branches interlocked into a solid black wall.

  “Go,” Ubell said again, pointing the feeble beam down the length of the rotting pier.

  Cubiak stepped over a gaping hole.

  “Careful,” he said to Rowe.

  The sheriff didn’t trust the dock to hold the combined weight of the three of them, and he moved slowly. He was already cold; he didn’t want to get soaked again. He also wasn’t eager to find out what Ubell had planned for them onshore.

  “Faster,” the German said.

  “This is as fast as I can go.”

  When Cubiak finally stepped onto solid ground, he turned around to see how far he had gone. By his reckoning the Speedy Sister lay some fifty feet away and was all but invisible, save for a faint flickering glow, probably a candle in the cabin. He grimaced thinking of Cate, trapped in the cramped space with Helen-Marlene. But he knew that as long as the yellow viol was onboard, Ubell would do nothing to endanger the boat and Cate was probably safe. That thought gave him small comfort.

  If Ubell sold the viol on the island, he would have no further need for her or either of the men. If he was transferring to a larger vessel, he would still need a hostage and would take Cate along. He would kill Rowe and Cubiak before departing, and then he would murder Cate when she was no longer useful
to him.

  “Sir,” Rowe said as he stepped off the pier and took his place alongside the sheriff. It was an expression of respect, a single word spoken with confidence.

  The burden of the office was on Cubiak’s shoulders. He was in charge; he was the person responsible.

  “Keep calm. Stay ready,” he said quietly. He needed a plan.

  Safe on solid ground, Ubell grew cocky again. He was nearly jovial as he pulled a dented, red metal can from the canvas bag. It was the kind used to transport gasoline. The German set the can down and shoved Rowe to his knees. Then he untied the sheriff’s hands.

  Cubiak rubbed his wrists and waited.

  “We need firewood. Lots of it. You go first to look. Start piling it up over there.” With the flashlight Ubell drew a circle on a patch of dirt near the water. “Any funny business and I shoot the deputy. If my compatriot hears my gun, she shoots your wife.”

  “Everything is wet from the storm,” Cubiak said. He was stalling. Ubell was going to use the gasoline to light a bonfire, a signal that would bring his accomplices to shore.

  “Go. We need a few pieces to start.”

  “I won’t be able to find my way back in the dark.”

  “Call when you are ready to return. I will guide you here.”

  Cubiak plunged into the forest. Branches lashed his face and hands. He kept his head down to protect his eyes and kicked at the ground as he searched for twigs and fallen branches. Drops of cold rainwater fell from the branches and slid down his neck. The work made him sweat, and soon the perspiration ran cold as well.

  As he gathered wood, Cubiak thought about what lay ahead. Once Ubell was satisfied that there was enough wood for the fire, he would kill the sheriff. Maybe Rowe as well. Unless he still needed the deputy to pilot the Speedy Sister. But at some point, he meant to shoot him too.

  For Cubiak the threat of death came with the job. He knew the same was true for Rowe, although he also knew that he would not let the deputy die if there was any way to save him. But Cate? His strong, brave Cate, who had forgiven him so much already. Could she ever see past this? She was at risk because of him. And not just her, but the baby, too. Hours earlier when they had climbed aboard the Speedy Sister, she had looked at him with a mixture of fear and calm assurance. There was no question that she understood the danger they were in but had complete faith in him to save them all. How? Rowe had been clever in hiding and then retrieving the knife on the boat, but Ubell had thwarted the attempt. With a weapon, Cubiak stood a chance, but he was unarmed. If both he and Rowe were ever free together, they could attack Ubell, but their captor made sure that one of them was always bound and under guard.

  Cubiak couldn’t chance a mistake. A simple misstep and Ubell would shoot the deputy—a signal for the fake Helen to shoot Cate. Clever bastard, that one. The world was full of men like him. Though unknown to each other, they formed a brotherhood of conniving fiends. There were others, wild and drunk bastards, who killed as easily and with as little remorse. These men destroyed by sheer happenstance. Ubell killed by intent. There were three known victims along his trail of dead bodies: Helen Kulas. Lydia Larson. Richard Mayes. How many before them? How many more to come?

  The sheriff had to get back. He had to keep Ubell in sight.

  Cubiak had been circling in the dark. Too late he realized that he was unsure how to retrace his steps to the clearing. With his arms full of firewood, he called out. When he heard Ubell’s shout, he started toward it. After a while, he stopped and called out again and reoriented himself by the response.

  The forest fought his every step. He staggered up a sharp rise and then on the way down, he caught his foot on a tree root. Cubiak fell and the branches he had collected tumbled from his arms. On his knees, he scrambled to retrieve the scattered pieces of wood.

  The stony ground was layered with moss and pine needles. He had recovered half the firewood when he made one more pass with his hand and felt a sharp sliver of rock jutting up from the surface, probably the top of a boulder. He started to move on, but then he slid his hand back over it again. The exposed rock was the size of a half dollar and rippled with minute bumps and hollows. Cubiak dug away the surrounding detritus and worked the piece free. When he had it in his palm, he traced the outline with the tip of his finger. The piece was triangular, and despite having been buried in dirt for decades, the point and edges were sharp. He had stumbled on an arrowhead, a relic of one of the Native American tribes that had once inhabited the islands. Rowe said they had used the islands as staging grounds for hunting. Maybe there were more of the ancient weapons buried in the ground. Cubiak tore at the patch of lichens desperate to find another. Instead of an arrowhead he uncovered part of a broken knife blade, probably a remnant from one of the white settlers’ early fishing camps. The blade was short and dull; the arrowhead hard as steel. Both were thin enough to slip into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Where the fuck are you?” Ubell yelled, and Cubiak realized that the German had been shouting at him for several minutes.

  He started back. On the boat, he had felt a surge of hope when Rowe slipped the knife to him, but that had been quickly shattered. Now hope was resurrected.

  “What the hell were you doing out there?” Ubell said when the sheriff stepped into the clearing.

  “I fell,” Cubiak said. He dumped the wood and held out his scraped hands as proof.

  “Idiot.”

  “It’s dark out there.”

  Cubiak started to sit down.

  “You go again,” the German said.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Fuck tired. Go.”

  The sheriff made two more forays before Ubell retied his wrists and made him sit on a tree stump by the stack. The pile of twigs and branches was nearly three feet high, but the German wasn’t satisfied. He sent Rowe to scavenge for more wood. How long before there was enough and their time was up? Cubiak wondered.

  “You’re going to let the women onshore when you light the fire, aren’t you? They must be half-frozen on the boat,” he said.

  Ubell splashed the flashlight into the sheriff’s eyes. “None of your business what I do.”

  “It’s awfully quiet out there. How do you know my wife hasn’t gotten the better of Helen-Marlene?”

  Ubell scowled, and then he turned toward the dock and shouted in German. The fake Helen answered. She was long winded and whiny. While the two went back and forth, Cubiak worked the arrowhead toward the top of his pocket. When the flat stone was partially out, he pinched it between the tips of his fingers and pulled it free.

  “Patience,” Ubell called out over the black water. Then to Cubiak, he said, “Everything is fine.”

  “I don’t know if Cate is OK. I won’t go for more wood until I do. You can shoot me in the foot, I don’t care,” Cubiak said. As he spoke he pulled his shoulders back and twisted his wrist to get at the rope that bound his hands.

  Ubell yelled again. After a moment, Cate spoke. Her voice was strained but strong.

  “Dave. I’m OK. Are you there? Are you all right?”

  He slashed at the ligature but missed. “Yes. I’m here. Try not to worry.”

  Ubell laughed. Cate started to say more but he cut her short. “Enough,” he said and mocked the sheriff with his own words. “Worry? I do not worry,” he said as he rearranged the pile of logs and branches.

  Rowe crashed through the trees with an armload of wood. Ubell sent him back out and stacked the pile higher. While the German was occupied, Cubiak sawed at the taut cord. He felt it loosen, or was that his imagination? There was little circulation in his hands, and his fingers were numb. The arrowhead was thin, and hard to hold. He hit the rope at an odd angle and the flinty rock slipped. He tightened his grip and took a slow breath. Willing the tension from his shoulders, he again jabbed the arrowhead toward his wrist. The first stab connected but the second slashed into his arm. The pain was sharp and sudden. Blood trickled over his hand, and the arrowhead fell to the gro
und. He leaned back but he couldn’t reach down far enough to get it. He swore silently. Sweat burned his eyes. His hands tingled. He had one more try. Like the man with the last match in the short story he had read when he was a kid.

  Rowe reappeared and tossed his load onto the stack. The pile gained another foot.

  “Enough for now,” Ubell said.

  He bound the deputy again and sat him down opposite the sheriff.

  Cubiak began working the knife blade from his pocket. This is for Cate and for you, he thought, focusing on Rowe. I won’t let the two of you down.

  The blade had lodged deep in his pocket. He rocked forward to get at it. Please, God, he said as he slowly eased the piece free.

  Finally, he had it.

  He worked on the rope as Ubell uncapped the gasoline can and danced around sprinkling the fuel on the wood.

  The German seemed to enjoy putting on a show for his captives. He waited for the fuel to soak in, and then with a dramatic sweep he tossed a lit match onto the stack. Whoosh! The timber went up. Orange flames darted high into the air. The heat scorched Cubiak’s face. Cold as he was, he turned from it.

  When he looked back, Ubell stood at the foot of the dock and stared out over the water.

  Cubiak slashed the blade again, and a strand of rope snapped.

  “You’re waiting for a bigger boat, something that will take you across the border to Canada and then down the Saint Lawrence. For that you need something faster than the Speedy Sister,” he said.

  “Shut up.” Ubell didn’t bother to turn around.

  “A friend is coming. Someone with a very big boat.”

  Ubell laughed.

  “How many did you book passage for?” Cubiak talked as loud as he dared. He wanted the fake Helen to hear. “He’s not taking you with him, Helen-Marlene. You know that, don’t you? Why share the spoils when he can have it all to himself?”

  “Shut up, I said.”

  “You won’t have time to bury all of us, and it’s too risky to leave bodies on the shore. A party of fishermen might show up in the early morning and make the grisly discovery. You’ll dump us in the lake. A feast for the big fish.”