Hanging up the phone, Corrine got up and walked over to Don’s desk. “Anything I can do to help?” she asked.
“Thanks for the offer, Corrine, but most of this is stuff I’ve got to do myself.”
She stood there a moment, not saying anything, then she asked, “Don, you sure this is a suicide?”
“There was only one set of tracks.”
“I know, but … well, couldn’t someone have stepped in exactly the same holes in the snow, to make it look like only one person had been there?”
“I dusted the knife, Corrine. The only prints on it were the dead guy’s.”
She frowned, making furrows in the freckles on her forehead. “Couldn’t someone have wiped off the knife, then wrapped the victim’s hand around the handle to leave his prints?”
“Corrine, you’ve been reading too many mystery novels.”
“Well, it is possible, isn’t it?” she persisted.
Don gave in. “Yes,” he said. “It’s possible. But I think it’s all pretty improbable.”
Corrine shook her head. “Not as improbable as someone doing … doing that to himself.”
“I’m only telling you what I think, Corrine. I’m not dismissing the possibility of murder out of hand. I’m sending the guy’s prints to the FBI. There’ll be an autopsy, and I’ve still got the Blazer. If anything suspicious turns up, I’ll see if I can get the state police techs to go over it.”
“I know you know what you’re doing, Don. That’s not why I’m asking. It’s just that it’s so hard to believe someone could do that to himself. I mean, how could he?”
“People do crazy things, Corrine. Something snaps, and all of a sudden they’re not thinking normally anymore. Look at Son of Sam. Guy was taking orders from a dog. There’s no way to figure it, no way to make sense out of it.”
Corrine nodded. Although she knew such things happened, apparently she didn’t understand them, not deep down where it really counted. The phone rang, and she went back to her desk to answer it. Don picked up the card bearing the dead man’s fingerprints. Getting the prints hadn’t been easy, the body being frozen the way it was, and it would probably be a good idea to have the pathologist take a second set after the corpse thawed. It would also be up to the pathologist to remove the knife, which had been lodged in the frozen corpse as tightly as King Arthur’s sword had been embedded in the stone.
Don frowned, thinking about the knife. It was a wicked-looking thing, the blade about ten inches long, the kind of knife the crazed killer usually wielded in splatter films. Corrine had a good point. How the hell could someone jam a knife like that into his own gut, then work it upward, slicing through his insides while blood oozed out around his fingers? The pain must have been excruciating. What kind of single-minded determination did it take to do something like that? What madness could have driven the man?
Don Farraday had no answers for those questions, for deep down where it really counted he didn’t understand what had happened any better than Corrine did.
Corrine was doing something in the rear of the building when a heavyset man with close-cropped gray hair showed up. Stepping up to the counter, he looked at Don with authoritative blue eyes. His bearing was military, shoulders back, spine flagpole straight. Don wondered whether the guy had ever been a drill sergeant.
“Help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for someone, and I thought you might be able to help me.”
“I’ll try. Who you looking for?”
“Edward Dwyer.”
“There’s no Dwyers on the island.”
“He’s not local. He would have just arrived.”
Although Don hadn’t put his finger on it yet, there seemed to be something odd about the way this was going. He said, “What’s this Dwyer’s business on the island?”
The man hesitated—only a fraction of a second, but Don noted it. “I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I have reason to believe that he should be here.”
“You check the Superior Motel? It’s the only one that’s open right now. Everything else is closed till summer.”
“I’ve already checked it.”
“What does he look like?”
“White male, mid-thirties, five-ten, a hundred eighty pounds, brown hair, brown eyes.”
Don studied the man. Although he’d avoided saying things like “brown over brown” or “no distinguishing marks” when giving the guy’s description, he still sounded like a cop.
“You seen him?” the man asked.
Don had indeed seen someone matching that description. He’d been lying on the floor of the Abelson cabin with a chef’s knife sticking out of his gut. “Come on in,” Don said. “Have a seat.”
The man did. “You seen him?” the guy asked again as he sat down. He was carrying a long case that looked as if it might contain a flute, or maybe one of those expensive pool cues that came in sections.
“You a pool hustler?” Don asked, eyeing the case.
The guy shrugged. “I play an occasional game of eight ball. You seen Dwyer?”
Instead of answering the question, Don said, “I’m the town constable, Don Farraday.” He looked at the man expectantly.
“Steven Kesselring.”
“What’s your interest in Dwyer?”
“He owes me some money.”
“Just a personal thing, between you and him.”
“Yes,” the man said, frowning. “May I ask why you’re being so inquisitive?”
“It’s just unusual for a stranger to come here at this time of year looking for another stranger.”
“It’s not illegal, is it?”
“No, it’s not illegal.” Don smoothed his hair. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d show me some identification.”
The man produced a driver’s license. Steven A. Kesselring, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He watched as Don copied down his address, date of birth, and Social Security number. Don handed the license back.
“You ever been to Liberal, Kansas, Mr. Kesselring?”
The man studied him. “Why do you ask?”
“How about Duluth, Minnesota?”
“Yes,” Kesselring said. “I followed Dwyer from there.”
“What about Liberal, Kansas?”
Kesselring sighed. “I followed him from Liberal to Duluth.”
“And yet your home’s in Pittsburgh.”
“That’s correct.”
“Which is all the explanation you’re going to give me.”
“Why do you need to know? Do you know Dwyer? Has something happened to him?”
Although Kesselring was looking at Don calmly, something in the man’s eyes belied his casual manner. Behind the façade, Kesselring was worried, maybe even afraid.
Opening his middle desk drawer, Don took out a Polaroid of the dead man, handed it to Kesselring. “That him?”
He studied it. “Yes. What happened? How did he die?”
“Suicide.”
“I see. Well, I can’t collect money from a dead man, can I?” Kesselring started to rise.
“Hold it,” Don said. “I think you’d better tell me what all this is about.”
“I did tell you. Dwyer owed me some money.”
“Back in Pittsburgh?”
“Yes, back in Pittsburgh.”
“And he took off.”
“That’s right.”
“Must have been a lot of money.”
“It was.”
“So much that you’d forget about everything else and follow him all over the country.”
“Yes.”
“You a loan shark, Mr. Kesselring?”
Apparently the question caught the man off guard, because he seemed stunned. Finally he managed a small smile. “No one ever accused me of that before.”
“So you’re not a loan shark?”
“No.”
“But you’re free to travel around in pursuit of a guy who owes you money?”
“I’m retired. And it’s t
he principle of the thing.”
“No wife? No family?”
“My wife divorced me twenty years ago, and my children are married and raising kids of their own. And the amount of money Dwyer owed me was twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“So Dwyer committed suicide because he owed you twenty-five thousand dollars. The shame got to him.”
“I don’t know why he committed suicide.”
Don watched him closely. “What would you say if I told you he was murdered?”
Kesselring’s only reaction was a hint of amusement, as if he could easily see through everything Don was trying to do. He studied Don a moment before answering. “Was he?”
“No—at least I don’t think so.”
“How did he take his life?”
“Stabbed himself in the belly with a kitchen knife.”
Kesselring nodded, said nothing.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Don said.
“It’s an unusual way to commit suicide, but then suicide itself is an irrational act.”
Corrine returned from the back of the building and sat down at her desk. As if it had been waiting for her return, the phone rang.
“I’m going to have to get a complete statement from you,” Don said to Kesselring. “I need to know everything you know about Dwyer, where you met, how long you’ve known him, the details of your pursuit of him around the country.”
Kesselring took a moment to collect his thoughts, then plunged in. He’d met Dwyer after retiring from the army, and Dwyer had talked him into investing in a plumbing supply business. Kesselring did, and the business prospered, and Dwyer sold it for a profit three years later, still owing Kesselring twenty-five thousand dollars. He quickly left Pennsylvania. Angry, his pride hurt, Kesselring had traced him through relatives, finally catching up with him in Kansas. Dwyer had fled north, again with Kesselring hot on his tail.
Don said, “Dwyer sure did a lot of running over a bad debt. Was he afraid of you for some reason?”
“All I wanted was the money. I wasn’t out to hurt him.”
“I need the names of the relatives in Kansas,” Don said.
“Lydia Gait on East Paulsen Avenue. I don’t have the number anymore, and I’m afraid I don’t recall it. Sixteen something.”
“Any others?”
“Yes, in Pittsburgh. Uh, Gerald Mercer on Allegheny Avenue. There were others I talked to on the phone, but I don’t recall their names right now.”
Swiveling her chair so that she faced him, Corrine said, “Guess what, Don?”
“What?”
“That was the state. They’ve just ordered the Split into effect.”
“You’re kidding. This early?”
“They say they’ve got a separation, a three-foot gap. Looks like Hank Bergstrom’s right again.”
Don shook his head, amazed at Bergstrom’s reliability. Kesselring was staring at him, clearly puzzled. When Don didn’t offer to explain, the man said, “I have all the information you need back in Pittsburgh. When I get back there, perhaps I can phone you.”
“You won’t be going back for a while.”
“Why? You have no reason to hold me.”
“No, I don’t. How’d you get here—to the island?”
“I rented a car in Duluth.”
“I hope you got a good rate.”
“Why?”
“You can’t get off the island. The state has just closed the ice bridge for the season. You’re here until the ferry starts running.”
“How long will that be?”
“Depends on the weather. At least a few weeks.”
Kesselring rubbed his brow. “Does this happen often, people getting stranded here?”
“Last time was five or six years ago.”
Kesselring nodded. “Couldn’t someone walk to the mainland? It’s only three miles.”
“Not once the ice starts breaking up. The only way it can be done is to carry a canoe with you so you can get across the gaps. I’d discourage anyone from trying it, because it’s dangerous. A guy died once attempting it. Somehow, I don’t know how, he fell into the water.”
“He drowned?”
“No, he was able to pull himself back onto the ice, but that water’s just a fraction of a degree above freezing, and the air temperature’s usually a lot colder than that. You die of hypothermia.”
Don had expected Kesselring to be upset, but instead he seemed thoughtful. “And when exactly was the ice bridge closed?” Kesselring asked.
“Just now.”
Kesselring was lost in his thoughts for a moment, then he said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe what?”
“Oh, uh, I was thinking about something else.” Again he seemed to ponder something, then he said, “Have there been any other unusual deaths here in the last few days?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing. Just idle curiosity.”
“Look, Mr. Kesselring, you can’t ask a question like that and then just dismiss it as idle curiosity. You must have had some reason for asking it.”
“Dwyer could be dangerous. He had a bad temper. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t harm anyone other than himself.”
Don wasn’t sure he believed that. He wasn’t sure he believed a great deal of what Kesselring had said. But then the man wasn’t going anywhere. He’d have plenty of time to question him again.
“You know where the Superior Motel is,” Don said. “My advice would be to get yourself a room. Ask about the weekly rate.”
For a long moment, Kesselring just looked at him, and he seemed to be debating with himself, as if there was something else he might say. But then he stood, saying, “I’ll go see about a room at the motel.”
Don watched as he let himself through the gate in the counter, walked to the door, and left. Instantly Corrine was up and standing beside Don’s desk. “Did he know anything about the guy in the Abelsons’ cabin?” she asked.
“He identified the guy as Edward Dwyer, said he owed him some money. Put Dwyer into NCIC, see if the computer recognizes him.”
“You have a DOB or Social Security number?”
“No, just the name.”
Corrine looked doubtful. “I don’t know what you’ll get back with just a name.”
“Try it and see. Last known address was Liberal, Kansas. Also run Steven A. Kesselring.” He gave her Kesselring’s date of birth and Social Security number.
Corrine turned to the computer that stood on a small table beside her desk and punched in the information. A few minutes passed, then she swiveled around to face Don. “NCIC’s down,” she said.
“For how long?”
“Who knows?”
“Keep trying. I’ve got to go set up the signs and barricades for the Split before somebody drives off the ice into Lake Superior.”
“What else did he say, that guy Kesselring?”
“I’ll tell you when I get back, Corrine. I don’t have time right now.”
Although she was all but twitching with curiosity, Corrine understood that imparting the juicy details to her was of much lower priority than seeing to the barricades for the Split. Looking resigned, she said, “I’ll help you get the barricades out of the storeroom.”
2
At the edge of town, Island Avenue became a state highway, which curved to the right, ran a short distance, and ceased being a road in the conventional sense. In the warmer months the highway ended at the ferry landing. But now it cut left, around the landing, and onto the frozen surface of the lake. Don stopped the Cherokee and got out.
Standing in front of the Jeep, he stared off toward the mainland, which was invisible in the grayness of the overcast day. A gust of wind pushed against him, sending snow flurries eddying across the ice that covered the lake. Stretching off into the distance were the two rows of barrels that marked the ice bridge, their safety-orange color seeming out of place in this scene of grays and whites.
He felt lonely standing there, although he
wasn’t sure why. Though cut off from the mainland, he was here with his wife and daughter, along with the island’s other permanent residents, people he’d known all his life. And yet, staring into the gray day, watching the two lines of orange barrels shrink and converge, he was as forlorn as the lone survivor of a shipwreck, all by himself in a lifeboat. Don shook his head, trying to make the strange, lonely feeling go away.
But it didn’t go away. He kept thinking there were only two links to the outside world, the ferry and the ice bridge, and both were severed. Ice Island was isolated.
But then isolation was relative, wasn’t it? You could still call anywhere in the world on the phone. You still could see TV, watch basketball live from New York, or see news in the making from Japan or England or Egypt. And you got the mail once a week. Jerry Atwell flew it over from the mainland in his Cessna. The island didn’t have a landing strip, so Jerry had to get his wife, Estelle, to push the mailbags out, let them float down on a parachute. Strangely, nothing had ever been damaged coming down that way. Two years ago during the Split, Vivian Rogers got a package of French crystal left to her by an aunt in Arizona, and not a single piece was broken. Of course, you couldn’t send any mail out for a few weeks, but for Ice Islanders that was just something you had to live with.
Which meant Don wasn’t going to be able to send the dead man’s fingerprints to the FBI. No matter. The ambulance would have made it off the island before the Split, so the body would be on the mainland. He’d have the pathologist send the guy’s prints to the FBI.
Don opened the back of the Cherokee and began taking out the barricades: sawhorses with battery-operated flashing lights and signs that said road closed. The highway department would take care of the orange barrels on the mainland side of the ice separation. Vince Terrell, who read water meters and did odd jobs for the town, would pick up the ones on the island side, put them in his stakebed Dodge truck. It wasn’t safe to go too far from shore, where the ice was thinner, so a few of the barrels out toward the midway point were lost each year. One time Vince had been sick during the Split, and five hundred twenty-eight official State of Michigan orange barrels had simply sunk when the ice melted. The highway department guy in charge of this area still got mad about it sometimes.
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