by Jeff Nania
“The truth be known, Jack, I’ve had some pretty good friends who were or are lawyers, and I respect what they do. Like in any field, bad lawyers or bad cops cast a dark shadow on the profession.”
“I need to be forthcoming, Mr. Cabrelli. I didn’t know you lived here. Now that we’ve met, I should say that I know who you are. I closely followed the tragic events that transpired and am honored to meet you. It was a terrible tragedy and would have been much, much worse had you not put yourself in harm’s way. I hope your recovery is going well. From news accounts, it sounds like you were badly hurt.”
“I am recovering and doing well. Thanks for asking.”
“I would have met you sooner or later anyway. I’ve been asked to help sort out some of the affairs of the clients of now deceased lawyer Derek Anderson. The court appointed me after it was besieged by requests from concerned parties. It’s a temporary position providing a little remuneration to support my newly acquired hobbies of fly fishing and handmade canoes.”
“That must be a real job. I’m sure Derek had all sorts of nasty little things going on.”
“Actually, while I can’t share the details—attorney-client privilege and all—I can say you don’t know the half of it. He was truly a dishonest man. The only thing he did right was to keep paying his malpractice insurance. I’m working with the insurer to compensate the clients who were victims of his embezzlement. Under normal circumstances they would also be due some damages, but it looks as though the limits of the policy will be reached before that point.”
“Derek was the one who first contacted me about my uncle’s death and inheriting this property. He set off my slimeball detector immediately.”
“You’re actually on my list of clients I need to contact, John. You may be due some compensation. Once I review your case, I will call you to set up an appointment.”
“Okay, Counselor, let me know. I don’t think Anderson got any money from me.”
“Well then, you would be one of the few.”
Jack Wheeler had fixed his line, hitched up his waders, and headed back down the shore toward his hidden canoe. I walked along with him. The canoe was a cedar strip beauty with golden shades of brown strips fashioned into a sleek but sturdy craft at least sixteen feet long.
“Boy, Jack, that is a great canoe,” I said.
“It was my retirement gift to myself and paddles like a dream. From my Boy Scout days I thought all canoes were heavy and clunky. This boat is neither. There is a gentleman in Musky Falls that makes these and other boats. When I stopped to see him, he happened to have this one ready to go. It seems as though a fellow from Chicago had commissioned the boat, but when it came time to pay, he wouldn’t or couldn’t. I bought the boat on the spot for a very reasonable price.”
“Was the boat builder Seamus Ruwall?”
“It was. Do you know him? Fabulous craftsman.”
“He was fishing offshore of my place a few days ago in a restored wooden fishing boat. A friend told me about him. I haven’t met him yet, but I intend to make a point of it.”
I steadied the canoe for him as he got settled in, then I gave him a little shove off. The boat drifted easily away from the shore. I waved goodbye and turned around to go back to my dock when a thought came to mind.
“Say, Counselor, one question before you go. Are you representing Homer and Irma Jones or a Miles Turner?”
He stopped paddling and stared at me. He didn’t respond immediately but eventually said in a guarded tone, “Yes. Why do you ask, John?”
“Just curious. Good luck fishing.”
I walked up toward the cabin, but a glance over my shoulder told me that Jack Wheeler had not resumed paddling or fishing. He sat on the water looking at me. The names had struck a chord with him.
As I approached the house, Julie came wheeling in followed closely by Bud. She parked in her usual place close to the door to ensure walking the shortest distance possible carrying the daily armload of student papers and assignments. Tonight was no different. She hauled a stack two feet high into the house. Bud drove down the trail leading to the storage shed. A few minutes later he returned with a pair of large cement blocks in the back of his truck.
“Hey there, John! You catchin’ some fish?” I had almost forgotten about the fishing rod in my hand.
“Well, that was what I was going to do, but I got sidetracked.”
“I could use a hand if you have a minute,” said Bud.
“Sure. What do you need?”
“Well, I was figuring that if we put these two blocks under the dock right by the land, it will keep it from shifting around. I’ve had to reset the post on the end three or four times, and I hope this will take care of it,” Bud stated.
“I’m your man, Bud.”
Bud lifted the large concrete blocks one in each hand off the bed of his truck and walked over to the shore.
“John, I am going to pick up the dock, and you slide the blocks in,” Bud directed.
With a heave, the dock was raised high enough, and with some effort I was able to put the blocks in place one at a time. When they looked level, Bud set the dock back down and looked things over.
“That looks pretty good. We’ll see if it works,” said Bud.
We walked back to the house, and Julie met us at the picnic table with iced tea.
“Looks like thirsty work. I thought this would taste good,” she smiled.
“You sure were right, Julie. This is gonna hit the spot,” replied Bud.
We sat quietly for a while, lost in our end of the day thoughts. I decided then that I needed a couple of co-conspirators. I would share what I could without putting them in a spot.
“Chief Bork stopped by today for a visit. He had a picture of a person he’s interested in, might have a connection to the trail cam photo the agents took from me. Big guy, middle age or older, with a cruel-looking scar running down the side of his face, short hair.”
“The chief has a picture of the guy?” Julie asked incredulously.
“He does, and when I saw it my memory from the attack came back. I’m almost positive it was the guy who beat me.”
“Boy, I should’ve looked at the photo you handed over to the agents. A big guy with a scar on his face? Does he have an accent?” Bud asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I know a guy like that. Well, I don’t really know him, but I met him. I got a call from a builder in town. A customer called him after a tree crashed through his front porch during that big windstorm a few weeks ago. The builder had his hands full and wondered if I could help out. He gave me directions to the place. It was way the heck out there on one of the remaining pieces of private property in the national forest. It took me forever to finally get there. When I pulled up in front, a big man was standing by the door. He had a rifle in his hands. That didn’t worry me too much, though. You know how backwoods folks are.
“I got out and told him I was there to fix his porch. All he said was ‘good,’ and he leaned the rifle against the door. I got my chainsaw out to cut the tree apart that was through the roof. He came up to me and told me not to use the saw, that it would cause more damage, and he insisted we could lift the tree off. He had an accent, maybe Russian or something. Anyway, he didn’t use all his words like he should have, if you know what I mean.
“Well, I looked at that tree, and I could see lifting it was going to be hard, but he was right. If I cut the tree apart, the part of the trunk that was under pressure could let loose and probably wreck something else. Let me tell you, it was a job alright. I grabbed one end and he grabbed the other. I counted to three and we lifted. The tree moved but didn’t come clear. We lifted again and again, and then there was a loud crash as the tree came loose. We hoisted it up and walked it away from the porch out to the yard. It shook the ground when we dropped it. That’s how heavy it was. Believe me, it was all I could do to lift my end, and even though this guy was a lot older than me, he
didn’t seem to be straining at all. He was one strong son of a gun.
“Anyway, he went inside and I started working. I pretty much got the repair framed in and put down some plywood over the hole. I knocked on the door and he came out. I told him that I would put some tarpaper over the plywood and come back with shingles the next day to finish the job. He looked at my work and asked if the roof would leak if it rained. I told him no. The tarpaper would work for the time being. He told me it was good enough and handed me a wad of cash. I told him I always finish a job right, but he told me to go and not come back, so I took off. He gave me more money than I would have charged, but I thought, whatever. I had a bunch of other customers who needed work, so I never went back. But I sure never forgot about him. He was a big man with a mean-looking scar that ran from his hair all the way down the side of his face.”
“Do you remember where he lives, Bud?”
“Sure do.”
“Can you take me there?” I asked.
“Sure can.”
“Let’s go there now,” I said.
“Right now?” Bud asked.
“Yeah, I was thinking right now,”
“Can we eat first, John? I am pretty hungry,” Bud said.
“Ok, Bud. I’ll get the burgers going,”
During dinner, Julie could not help herself. “Why is it, John, that you feel it’s necessary to seek this guy out? If it is someone the police are looking for, shouldn’t we notify them so they can take over?”
“Well, Julie, I only want to get a look at the guy. I need to see his face to figure out for sure if he’s the one who attacked me. If he is and is also the same guy the chief is looking for, I will give him a call. If not, I’ve saved everyone a bunch of time and protected an innocent man from being bothered.”
“I always feel like you’re not telling me the whole truth about things like this. Why is that?” Julie pressed.
“It must be your suspicious teacher nature shining through again. I want to get a look at the guy. That’s it,” I replied and put my hands up in an “I’m innocent” gesture.
“Well, I don’t have time to go traipsing around with you two in the backwoods tonight. I have a ton of schoolwork,” Julie informed us.
“You stay here, Julie. We will be back before you know it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Bud got into the jeep while I took a quick detour to the shop. From the top drawer of the file cabinet I removed a Walther PPK/S pistol. The gun was loaded with a round chambered, but I grabbed an extra full magazine, just in case. I tucked the holstered pistol into my waistband cross-draw style. Easy to pull if you’re sitting in a car and secure enough to withstand some physical activity.
We headed east on the highway toward the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. Bud instructed me to turn off at an unmarked gravel road. The two-track was rough but passable and didn’t present a challenge to my jeep. We followed several switchbacks deeper into the forest and eventually came to a small clearing with two dirt roads leading from it.
“The right one leads to the cabin,” Bud recalled.
I took the left one and just over a small hill pulled off to one side.
“We walk from here, Bud. You can stay here if you want,” I said.
“Nope. I’m goin’ with you, John.”
We cut into the woods for about half a mile and could make out the road to the cabin through breaks in the underbrush. Our trail led us up a small hill, and from there we could see the cabin. I took out a pair of pocket binoculars that I brought along and could see the man in question was sitting on a stump in front of the place. I had a good view of him. He was cooking something over an open fire. It didn’t look like food, but I couldn’t make out what it was. He had his shirt off and was barechested. At one point he got up and walked back to the cabin door, and that’s when I saw his back. The flesh on his back appeared to be covered with rope-like marks, raised and angry scars of some vicious beating from who knows when. I was pretty sure he was the man in the picture and the one who had beaten me unconscious. The rifle standing next to the door appeared to be a military type firearm. It was hard to say for sure what kind. Maybe a Kalashnikov with a folding or pistol grip stock. A long, curved metal magazine protruded from the receiver that probably held thirty or forty rounds.
Dusk was settling in once we had retreated and were back on the road, and Bud asked, “Is that the guy that clobbered you?”
“I think so, Bud.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure, but not positive. He sure looks like the same guy.”
“There’s a spot down the road here where you can get cell service. Let’s call the sheriff and tell them where he is. They can come and get him and throw him in the clink,” Bud suggested.
“Bud, not quite yet. There are some other questions I need to answer first,” I replied.
“Like what questions, John? The guy tried to break into the shop, and when you caught him, he darn near beat you to death. Sounds pretty cut and dried to me. He should go to jail,” Bud retorted.
“He will go to jail, Bud, soon. I’ve got a story to tell you when we get back to the cabin. Then I think you will see where I am coming from on this.”
Julie, Bud, and I gathered around the kitchen table, and I told them almost everything.
“All this time—through your operations and recovery, through the pain inflicted on our community, through the worry—the one thing that sustained me was that it was all over. The evil had left us and we could rebuild, find our way back to a peaceful, happy life living in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I had dreamed of us living the rest of our lives in peace. Especially you, John, for once in your life to live in peace. But it’s not going to happen, is it? No way! John Cabrelli will not let this go. No, you will jump in with both feet and fight the bad guys until you have killed all of them, or they have killed you. You will not rest until this is done. Even though there are any number of competent law enforcement agencies that could handle this the way it should be handled, you believe you are the only solution. I’ve had enough!” Julie shouted the last few words.
She grabbed her coat and backpack and ordered Bud to put her schoolwork in the car. Then she got in and drove away. Her leaving felt like a final act. She had been through enough and had no more room for any more heartache.
“She doesn’t mean it, John. The bad guys were already here when you moved in and took over this place. You didn’t bring them with you. You helped us get rid of them, and now there are more. That’s not your fault.”
“Bud, the truth is that trouble and I always seem to find each other. Partly because I can’t walk away from it, but partly because it’s a disease that infects our lives and confronts and confounds us at every turn. Criminals hurt good people all the time without remorse. They steal what we’ve earned, they poison our children with drugs, they seek to destroy our land and water. Good people need to have someone stand up for them. Someone is walking around out there who killed my uncle Nick, and I am going to find him. I’m going to put him where he belongs and can’t rest until I do.”
“Well, John, I’d better get going and catch up with Julie. I should make sure she’s okay. I bet she’ll settle down and give you a call.”
“Better that she doesn’t, Bud. The last thing I would ever want is for Julie to be caught up in this mess.”
7
Is a warrior made or born? Much has been written on this topic. I do not know the answer. I have known warriors who stand for what is right and what is just, often putting themselves in danger. Some warriors live for war. Others—the strongest I have known—are reluctant, not seeking confrontation or conflict but ready and able to rise to the occasion when there is no alternative.
There’s a certain weariness that precedes the decision when the need for action is inevitable. Weariness now overtook me. I needed to sleep. I crawled into bed. As usual, sleep came in fits, and the face of little Angelina Gonzalez hovered above me.
The clock read 3:00 a.m., and I went to the kitchen and made coffee. I sat on the porch, the pre-dawn air chilling me. The discomfort provided comfort.
I dressed for the task at hand wearing dark field clothing that would allow me to lose myself in the shadows. I tucked the little Walther back in my waistband and put two extra magazines in my left pocket and my Gerber Gator rescue knife in my other. I packed water and some food, my uncle Nick’s most powerful set of binoculars, and his camera with a telephoto lens.
I got in the jeep and drove back to the forest, following the dirt roads until I once again came to a familiar split in the trail. I went left and this time pulled the vehicle into heavy cover making it difficult to see from the road that leads to the cabin. I climbed the hill to the top and laid down.
The sun had not yet penetrated the darkness of the deep woods, but my binoculars gathered enough ambient light to give me a perfect view of the cabin. There was smoke coming from the chimney. Was it a remnant of the cool evening before or a fire newly-started this morning? There appeared to be no activity. I took the opportunity to look the place over. The cabin was on the small side but appeared well built. The logs were freshly painted, and the chinking looked new. The repair Bud made on the porch roof was still evident, and the tarpaper hadn’t yet been covered. I settled in. I wanted to see this man again, watch him move, and see what he did. I needed to know who he was and where he fit in.
An hour later the cabin door opened. The man exited wearing only shorts and squatted down to build a fire. As the blaze caught, he patiently fed it small sticks until the fire burned brightly, and he went back inside. Again, I saw the marks on his back. With the powerful binoculars, it was clear that they were indeed a series of horrendous scars that had healed in relief. He was a powerfully built man with huge arms and shoulders and a short neck. His look matched up with Bud’s story about lifting the tree. He came back with a small pail that he placed in the fire. After a couple of minutes, he dropped something into the pail. He watched and stirred the fire. Soon he removed the pail from the fire and poured the contents into a small pitcher. Then, moments later he poured the contents of the pitcher into a cup. He drank from the cup slowly as if savoring the brew. I took this chance to snap as many photos as I could. The telephoto lens brought his face into clear focus. The scar was a dandy, not caused by some surgical procedure, but by an act of violence. It was long and rough.
