by Pete Hautman
“So what’s the story?” he asked Roni.
Roni pulled off her helmet and shook out her hair. “I thought you didn’t care about the Doblemuns,” she said.
“I don’t. But I’m curious. Did you find the house?”
“Let me talk to Darwin first, then I’ll tell you what I found.”
Roni’s new tire had arrived that afternoon. Darwin promised to install it first thing in the morning. As Brian walked Roni home, she told him what she had learned.
“The address turned out to be a vacant lot. The house burned down nine years ago.”
“Oh.”
“But I found out where Mr. Lance Doblemun lives. Guess.”
“Tierra del Fuego?”
“According to Mrs. Irma Kelly, he lives in Pepin,” Roni said.
“Pepin, Wisconsin?” Pepin was only about thirty miles away, just on the other side of the river.
“Exactly. I’m going there to find him, first thing in the morning—as soon as Darwin puts on my new tire. And you have to come with me.”
“I do? Why?”
“I promised Irma Kelly that I wouldn’t go alone.”
13
go back lane
“How come you never let me drive?” Brian shouted in Roni’s ear.
“Because you’re not old enough, because you don’t have a license, and because I’m a better driver,” Roni said over her shoulder.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” Roni had shown Brian how to ride Hillary a few weeks earlier, letting him tool around in an empty church parking lot. Now she was wishing she hadn’t. The kid wouldn’t leave her alone.
“I think I’m very talented,” Brian said. “Like Evel Knievel.”
“That does not make me want you in the driver’s seat. Anyway, we’re already here.” She pointed at the green sign welcoming them to Pepin, Wisconsin. According to the sign, 883 people lived there. Roni cruised slowly down the main thoroughfare. Pepin was a typical river town, with the highway serving as the main street, a mix of businesses and houses on each side, and a bunch of side streets poking out from it like legs on a centipede.
“What now?” Brian asked.
“Now we ask somebody,” Roni said as she pulled into a convenience store/gas station and parked. “There are only a few hundred people here. If we ask enough of them, we’re bound to find somebody who knows Lance Doblemun.”
They climbed off of Hillary.
“Nice butt massage,” said Brian, rubbing his hind end with both hands. Roni’s rear was a little numb, too. Forty minutes on a Vespa was a whole lot of shaking.
“I’ll just run in and ask the clerk if he knows any Doblemuns,” Roni said. “You stay here and guard Hillary.”
“Guard her from what?”
“Thieves, vandals…porcupines.”
“Why porcupines?”
“I don’t need another flat tire. Watch out for sharp, pokey objects of all kinds.”
Inside the store, three men wearing Green Bay Packers caps were gathered at the counter chatting with the clerk. Roni waited for them to finish their business so she could talk to the clerk, a hefty woman with three chins and a cap of frizzy blond hair. After about two minutes it became apparent that the men were not there to buy anything—they were just talking.
“Excuse me,” Roni said.
They all turned to look at her.
“I’m trying to find someone, and I was hoping you could help me,” she said to the clerk.
“Who are you looking for, dear?”
“A man named Lawrence Doblemun. He might use the name Lance Doblemun.”
“Doblemun. Hmm.” She stroked her chins. “He lives here in Pepin?”
“I think so.”
“Bert, you know any Doblemuns hereabouts?”
One of the men tipped his hat back and scratched under the bill. “I know a Dobbins, and a Davidson, and a Duggan. Any of them do ya?”
Roni shook her head.
One of the other men said, “We got a fella named Monk. If there was two of him, you’d have Double Monk.”
The third man said, “I used to know a guy named Lance, only his last name was Boyle. Lance Boyle.”
Realizing that they were playing with her, Roni felt her face grow red. “Thanks anyway.” She turned and went back outside, trying not to let their chuckles bother her.
Brian was not guarding Hillary. Great. She looked around and found him at the other end of the building, standing at a pay phone. He was writing something on his hand.
“Hey!” she yelled. “I’m about to steal this here motorcycle!”
Brian looked up, then trotted over to her. “Any luck?” he asked.
“No. We’ll have to ask someplace else…. What are you grinning about?”
Brian shoved his hand in her face. Something was written on his palm in blue ink.
“Ten twenty-six Goatback Lane,” Roni read. “What’s that?”
“Lawrence Doblemun’s address. It was in the Pepin phone book.”
Brian loved to one-up Roni. She would get all scowly and sarcastic for a few minutes, and then she would say something like “I was about to check the phone book myself,” which he knew was probably not true.
“I wonder where Goatback Lane is,” he said.
“I suppose I could go back inside and ask,” Roni said, but she showed no inclination to do so. Brian got the feeling that the people inside the store had not been friendly.
He said, “Since the address is written on my hand, I’ll ask.” He headed into the store, where he found three old guys and a lady clerk scratching off lottery tickets.
“Any luck?” Brian said.
“Not hardly,” said one of the men, ripping his ticket in half.
Brian held out his hand, showing the address he had written there.
“What’s that you got there, son? A tattoo?”
“An address I’m looking for. Anybody know where Goatback Lane is?”
“Just down the street from Hogbelly Hollow,” said one of the men. Everybody laughed, including Brian.
“What’s on Goatback Lane?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“I’m visiting a friend,” Brian said.
“I didn’t think anybody lived on Goatback,” said the man who had ripped up the lottery ticket. “Nothing up there but coulees, bluffs, and rattlesnakes.”
“It’s not here in Pepin?” Brian asked.
“Pepin County, maybe,” he said.
Brian took out his blue felt-tip pen and poised it over his forearm. “How do I get there?”
“Are you sure you wrote it down right?” Roni yelled over her shoulder.
“Yes,” Brian yelled back. “But I can’t guarantee they gave me the right directions. We should have seen the sign for Goatback Lane by now.”
They had taken a road called CC to a road called XX to yet another road called, simply, Z. For some reason, Wisconsin named its county roads with letters instead of names or numbers.
“They said there was a sign,” Brian said.
“I haven’t seen anything but deer trails and poison ivy,” Roni said.
“Slow down—what’s that?”
Roni throttled back as they came to a road leading off to the left. She came to a complete stop. The road was marked by a barely legible sign on a rusted metal post:
“What do you think?” Roni asked.
“I get the feeling that Lance Doblemun is not a people person.”
“One way to find out.” Roni revved the engine and they turned onto Goatback Lane, a steep, twisted dirt road that climbed slowly but relentlessly toward the top of the bluffs.
14
squirrel skulls
About a mile later, Roni and Brian came to a driveway marked by a sagging mailbox with several small skulls nailed to its post. L. DOBLEMUN was painted on the side of the box. Brian hopped off the bike for a closer look.
“Squirrel skulls,” he said.
“He must not lik
e rodents,” Roni said.
The driveway was little more than a pair of tire tracks weaving through the woods, so narrow that if a car came from the opposite direction they would be forced into the tangled brush lining the trail. At one point they were stopped by a tree trunk about six inches in diameter that had fallen across the trail. They had to get off the Vespa and lift it over one wheel at a time to proceed.
“Tell me again what we’re doing here,” Brian said.
“We’re here to see if Lance Doblemun was your first adoptive father,” Roni said. “Maybe you’ll recognize him.”
“The guy I remember was jolly. I don’t think he’d nail squirrel skulls to his mailbox.”
The driveway ended in a clearing about two hundred feet across. Roni stopped her Vespa at the edge of the woods. At the far side of the clearing was a dilapidated mobile home, once a cheerful shade of yellow, the paint now peeling from the bare aluminum like skin from a bad sunburn. An equally dilapidated pickup truck was parked in front, next to a smoking metal barbecue.
“Just in time for lunch, I guess,” said Roni, turning off the engine.
The mobile home door banged open and a tall, thin, bearded man came out carrying what looked like a slab of meat.
“What’s he got?” Roni whispered.
“Looks like a dead squirrel,” Brian said.
The man lifted the lid of the barbecue and laid the dead squirrel—or whatever it was—on the hot grill, then went back inside, wiping his hands on his faded coveralls.
“Does he look familiar?” Roni asked.
“I can’t tell,” Brian said. “He’s got that beard covering half his face.”
“I suppose we could ask him to shave it off.”
“Right.”
Roni put down the kickstand and hopped off the Vespa. “You stay here. I’ll go talk to him.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’ll improvise.” She marched across the field to the mobile home. She could hear the man humming to himself inside—some sort of geriatric rock ’n’ roll, seriously off-key. Dozens of empty beer cans littered the trampled grass around the mobile home. Roni rapped on the door. The humming instantly stopped. Roni stepped back a few paces, waiting.
The door banged open. The bearded man stood there holding a cast-iron frying pan in one hand.
“Who are YOU?” he said in a voice like a shovel full of gravel.
Roni had interviewed irascible older men before. She knew better than to show fear. But in fact, she was terrified. Up close, Lance Doblemun looked in even rougher shape than his paint-deprived home. His eyes were red, his teeth were stained brown, his left eye pointed in the wrong direction, his clothing was filthy, and his odor—it took a second for it to hit her—was like bad cheese on week-old fish.
Clearly, he was not prepared to receive guests.
“I’m Roni Delicata,” Roni said. “Are you Mr. Lawrence Doblemun?”
“What if I am? And it’s Lance, not Lawrence.”
A second wave of stink hit Roni’s nostrils, one she recognized immediately: alcohol. Lance Doblemun was thoroughly pickled.
Roni took a few steps back, keeping about six feet between them. She thought she could outrun him, but she wasn’t sure.
“If you’re the county assessor, you can just stick your fascist tax bill where the sun don’t shine, missy. I told them, next government man sets foot on my land I’m gonna put the Oshkosh b’gosh on ’em.”
“I’m not a tax collector, Mr. Doblemun.”
“That’s what the last one said.” He advanced a few more drunken steps. “Set my dog on him, that one.”
Dog? Roni looked around frantically. There was no way she could outrun a dog.
She said, “Mr. Doblemun, if you ever want to see your son Bryce again, you’d better behave yourself.”
15
pop
“What do you know about Bry?” Lance Doblemun said, squinting at Roni.
“So you never found him?”
“If I knew where he was, you think I’d be living in this dump?” He shook his head as if he wanted the thought to go away. “He’s been gone ten years. I gave up on him.”
“If you gave up, then why do you have his picture posted on the missing-children website?”
Doblemun snorted. “First I heard about that! Probably my busybody witch of a mother-in-law.” He tipped his head, focusing on her with his good eye. “Why? Do you know something?”
“I’m an investigator,” Roni said, taking out her notebook. “I’m looking into several missing-children cases, and I wanted to check on a few things. How long did he live with you?”
“About three years.”
“Did he have any identifying marks? Scars? Birthmarks?”
“Nah, the kid was perfect.”
“I understand that Bryce might have been taken by your wife.”
“That’s what always happens, the police say. Me and the wife were having problems, you know, not getting along so good. The kid was her idea. She thought getting a Chinese kid would help our relationship. Fat chance.”
“I thought Bryce was Korean,” Roni said.
“Korean, Chinese, same difference.”
Roni made a note. Maybe Irma Kelly was right—Mrs. Doblemun may have had good reason to run off with her child.
Doblemun was getting impatient. “So what do you got to tell me? You know something about Bry?”
“Just a few more questions,” Roni said.
“I don’t think so,” Doblemun said. He moved faster than Roni had thought possible—one quick stride, and his free hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. He pulled her up against him.
“My turn to ask the questions, missy.”
It was driving Brian crazy not being able to hear a word they were saying. He was considering sneaking around through the woods when suddenly Lance Doblemun grabbed Roni and started dragging her toward the mobile home.
Brian didn’t hesitate: He jumped on the Vespa and started it. In seconds he was flying across the clearing, straight at Roni and her captor. He waited until the last possible second, then hit the brake and skidded to a stop. Roni and the bearded man both stared at him.
Brian didn’t want to get any closer, but he had to give Roni a chance to get away. He decided to try something.
“Hey, Pop,” he yelled.
The man released his grip on Roni’s arm, and she backed quickly away from him.
“Bry…?” said the man.
It sent a shiver up Brian’s spine to hear this derelict of a human being call him Bry, which could easily be his own nickname.
Doblemun took a step toward him; Brian twisted the accelerator, the rear wheel spun, and an instant later he was speeding back across the clearing. Lance Doblemun ran after him. Brian kept the bike going just fast enough to stay out of his reach. When he was almost to the trail leading out of the clearing, he made a wide loop and headed back toward the mobile home.
Roni saw what Brian was doing. She ran an intercept course and hopped on the back of the Vespa when he got to her. Doblemun was also trying to run an interception, but Brian spun the bike around and took off at a right angle, again aiming for the exit road. Doblemun tried to change direction, but lost his footing and fell headlong in the grass.
Brian stopped the bike and looked back across the clearing. The man was climbing to his feet, but there was no way he could catch them now.
“Hey!” Brian yelled. “Your squirrel is burning!”
The man shook his fist, then ran back toward the mobile home.
Brian laughed.
Roni said, “Get going! Hurry! He’s got a dog!”
Brian took off down Goatback Lane. Behind them, they heard the howl of what sounded like an enormous hound.
“Faster!” Roni yelled.
Brian twisted the accelerator.
“Slow down!” Roni yelled.
“Make up your mind!” Brian said—then he saw what Roni had just remembered: the
fallen log crossing the trail. He just had time to say “uh—” when the world turned upside down.
16
upended
Hillary’s front tire hit the log hard. The Vespa stopped, but Roni and Brian kept going. Roni landed in a prickly bush a few yards away. Flailing at the branches, she quickly managed to extract herself.
“Brian?” she called out.
“Over here.” Brian was clawing his way out of a hazelnut bush. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
A loud howl caused them both to scramble to their feet. The giant hound was getting closer. Roni ran to the Vespa and lifted it upright. Amazingly, the engine was still running.
“Is it okay?” Brian asked.
“I think so. Get on!”
Just as Brian was throwing his leg over the seat, the dog appeared around the bend of the driveway and let out an excited bellow.
Brian started to laugh. The big noise was coming from a small, floppy-eared basset hound. The dog skidded to a stop a few yards away from them and commenced a series of barks, howls, bellows, and snorts.
“Good dog!” said Brian.
The hound wagged his short tail.
“He won’t hurt us,” Brian said.
“Yeah, but—” They heard the roar of a truck engine coming down the driveway.
“Go! Go!” Brian yelled, wrapping his arms around Roni’s waist.
Roni twisted the accelerator and they took off down the driveway. The hound howled and was joined by a disturbing squeal from Hillary’s front wheel.
Brian looked back as Lance Doblemun’s battered pickup truck appeared about a hundred feet back, gaining on them. The hound jumped out of the way of the truck with an indignant yelp.
“Faster!” Brian shouted in Roni’s ear.
“Shut up!” she yelled back.
Brian didn’t think they could count on Lance Doblemun stopping when he caught up, but he had only a second to worry about it before the truck hit the log. The front end bounced into the air and came down with a loud metallic crunch. The truck skidded to a stop, its front end askew. The last thing Brian saw as they rounded a bend in the driveway was Lance Doblemun’s face, contorted with anger and frustration.
