Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2)

by Barry Knister

  “No, Brenda. It’s the friend. This Rohmer.”

  “Fine. How does the friend get here except with Schmidt’s help?”

  “We don’t even know it’s Charlie’s boat. There must be dozens like it.”

  True, why believe the worst? Fear is why, Brenda thought, feeling along unpainted aluminum. An absence of faith. Wanting something when reason says it makes no sense.

  Convinced she would find no keys, she shoved up on weary legs. She stepped to Tina, reached down and again felt her arm.

  “I don’t think I can get you back up,” she said. “Not by myself. You’re very cold.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll get blankets.”

  “It’s all right. You went for a ride last night. To these falls.”

  “Charlie and me.”

  “Is he telling the truth, the man? From out in the lake, could he see if we tried to signal?”

  “I don’t know, it was dark. Halfway back we could see the houseboat lights.”

  “Then we shouldn’t risk a signal.”

  “It was after dark.”

  Brenda raised a leg to the boat’s gunwale, shoved up and stepped on deck. She went back inside, moved into the second unused cabin and began snatching blankets and sheets from the top bunk. Then the lower. Arms full she backed out and pushed through the door. She looked at the grills, the propane tanks. She had no idea what to do with them. She turned back, watched her step, then jumped down. She began wrapping Tina in blankets. It might be possible to get her back, but it would be risky. If she could do it, Brenda might then load the Lund for a fire—clothes, cushions—set it going, then shove it out into the cove.

  “You’re sure Marion’s phone doesn’t work.”

  “That’s what he said. He made her go up and get her coat, I’m sure she checked it. I think he came here last night, when we were fishing. He said…what was it? He said she had to be warm, she was in the steno pool. Typing. That’s good, thank you.”

  Brenda straightened and looked around. Tina sneezed, still stroking the dog.

  “Did you check the bait tanks and rod cases?”

  “Yes, I did. Nothing.”

  Hidden by islands, someone on the far side was not likely to see smoke. But then she thought of him smashing the fish’s head, something small tripping a switch, setting him off.

  “Charlie didn’t know.” She looked down at Tina. “I’m sure of it. This person stole the boat. He came here for a specific purpose. He forced Marion and Heather to go with him, to split us up.”

  “If he needs her, he’s not going to hurt her,” Brenda said. “It must be related to her husband’s deal. He’s in London, all their assets are at some broker’s.”

  She looked out at the cove. It was flat and gray, the day windless. “Do you think, between us, we can get you back on the houseboat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “He was playing a part,” Tina said. “There was something loose about it. Unconcerned. I was in here when he tied up. I heard him call ‘Hi,’ then Heather screaming. He threw her in, just like that, without warning.”

  She looked down at Sonny, kept stroking his head. “He came here for something. Whatever it is, if he gets what he came for—”

  “What, Tina?”

  She looked up, stroking, and shook her head.

  Nielson left his truck on the road and walked in. When he reached the bend where Charlie Schmidt’s drive curved around big boulders, he could see the house.

  Charlie kept things up. He had his gravel graded every couple years, trimmed back his trees. Painted. He had been a pallbearer at mom’s funeral, driving up from Milwaukee. Summers, if you needed help taking down a tree or putting in a dock, you could call Charlie Schmidt.

  Crows were at it off to his right, loud behind the pole barn. They were coming down through the trees, flying back up. Looking again to the house, Nielson came to a stop where the gravel broadened into the turnaround. Schmidt’s truck still stood parked before the barn’s closed doors. Starting forward, he looked once more to the barn, and here, too, the lock was undone. Like daddy’s. Not broken, just open.

  He crossed the turnaround to the house, stepped up and knocked. The sound fell hollow inside. He waited several seconds before trying the handle. The door opened.

  “Charlie?”

  He entered and crossed the big room, glancing left and right. The bedrooms were open, all four empty. Stepping around the hearth furniture, he moved to the kitchen door wall. Down on the dock, someone was sitting in an Adirondack chair, facing the lake, and Nielson now saw it was the friend with the beard. He was bowed over, concentrating. The plane bobbed on his right, Charlie’s utility on the left. In the utility, next to the motor, Nielson saw rifles.

  If you went out on the water with guns, a park ranger stopping to check your fishing license would give you serious trouble. Charlie would tell that to anyone staying with him. The old man missing, and Charlie nowhere. With his company here, his truck here.

  Nielson turned away, and moved to the first bedroom. Snapping on the overhead, he saw the quilt Lillie Schmidt had shown him once, bought at some auction. Everything looked normal. Deciding to talk again to the man on the dock, he snapped off the light.

  But snapped it on again. Lined up on the floor next to the bed were boat shoes. It was all Charlie ever wore, brown Topsiders. Where would he go without his shoes?

  Nielson again checked the man on the dock—still there—returned to the front entrance, and stepped out. He moved to Schmidt’s pickup, glanced in and saw no keys. Quickly he crossed to the pole barn and eased open one of the panels. The wedge of light expanded, revealing something shiny, silver. It was on a chair, like a mummy. He stepped inside. “Daddy?” The figure moved slightly, and now Nielson saw the chair was balanced on Schmidt’s jet skis. The rope with a noose hung loosely from the person wrapped in tape. Shoeless feet hung between the skis.

  “Charlie.”

  Now Nielson saw his father’s pickup. He thought to look inside, but moved behind the jet skis. He stopped a moment to study the skis, then the noose. It had been pulled loose, not cinched. He stepped back, to the workbench. A broom rested next to the vise. He got it and looked around, saw a leaf rake in the corner, and retrieved it. Back behind the jet skis, Nielson gripped rake and broom. He raised both handles.

  “Okay, Charlie, this is me. Don’t move.”

  Carefully, he lifted the noose, working it up over where Schmidt’s nose would be, until he had it free of the head. Once it hung loose he dropped the broom and rake, slipped quickly between the skis, opened his arms and wrapped them around man and chair. Nielson lifted and stepped back, smelling adhesive. He set down the chair.

  Schmidt made a sound, but sat motionless.

  “Yeah, Charlie, just wait.”

  He knelt, looked for some place to start, and now began working his way around the chair on his haunches. The tape looked seamless, a hundred feet of it or more. Nielson stood and moved back to Schmidt’s workbench. Tools hung from hooks. He remembered the open door, crossed and closed it, returned in the dark, found the light switch. A tin-shaded bulb shone above the bench. Drill bits, screwdrivers, wood planes—

  Tin snips.

  He got them down, moved back and knelt. He raised the heavy scissors to the small gap where the ear would be, but stopped. The head was too tightly bound. He knelt and studied the feet. Cutting along the leg and tearing up would be best. Nielson worked the inside blade under the taut base, where naked foot met ankle. He clipped, and the tape split. He snipped again, dropped the shears, grabbed with both hands and ripped up. The tape tore along the side, up one width of double strapping. Clipping and pulling, he separated tape, up to the knee. He continued, snipping and tearing, but stopped. Schmidt’s thigh and calf were exposed.

  “You okay? I cut your pants—”

  Schmidt again made the sound.

  “Okay, sit still.” />
  Nielson re-gripped the tear. The tape separated with a ragged sound, revealing Charlie’s belt and flannel shirt. Snipping and pulling, he worked along the bound arm, the shirt staying intact. Once his right hand was free, Charlie tore at the tape over his belly. At the ridge of the shoulder, Nielson was able to snip to the neck. Again he stopped.

  “Can you pull it—” Feeling with his free hand, Schmidt fumbled to the point of separation. Working his thumb under, he pulled, made a small lip on the tape and leaned away. Nielson could now insert the tin snips. He cut and tore again, several times, until Charlie’s neck was exposed. It was blotchy, lined with adhesive.

  “Thank—”

  Again he sat still while Nielson snipped, up the side of the head, into the hair. Charlie reached again with his free right hand, and pulled. Drawn by adhesive, his face followed. Nielson helped, seeing tape matted with hair. He tore back and away, peeling with both hands, pulling out hair until thick strapping hung off the back of Schmidt’s head.

  He stood abruptly, the chair with him. But he waited patiently, straddling his legs as Nielson forced loose the husk-like wrapping. It was furred with shirt flannel, head and body hair. At last it was possible to grip the kitchen chair for added leverage. With Schmidt’s legs braced, he pulled. Charlie tore free. Nielson dropped chair and husk.

  “The one with the beard is on the dock,” he said.

  “There’s two. The other has my boat.”

  “How do you want to do it?”

  Schmidt was studying his sliced right pant leg. It hung open, up to his hip.

  “You seen my old man?”

  Schmidt looked up, turned and faced the pickup. He shook his head. “It has to do with four women on one of Gustofson’s houseboats.” He twisted his neck and rubbed his face. Wiped his hands on the shirt. “You keep a rifle in your truck?”

  “It’s out on the road, I walked in. I went in your place, I seen the guy out on the dock. There’s rifles in your utility.”

  “Get the one in your pickup. Come back and make sure he doesn’t leave. John, if you see him moving to take the utility or the plane, stop him. Your boats are in the water?”

  “Just crank one of ‘em down.”

  “The other guy is bad news, these women don’t know he’s coming. I’ve been to the tie-up site, I’ll go there. You call Gustofson from my house. Tell him to phone Lester Gertz. Unless he moves to leave, don’t let the guy on the dock know you’re here.”

  “Why not take him now?”

  “He has a cell phone, they’re working together. If the guy with my boat is waiting on a call and doesn’t get it…I don’t know. It’s better they think I’m still in here.”

  John pointed at the rope, and Charlie glanced up. “Yeah.”

  “Lester’s thirty minutes from here.”

  Charlie touched his face, and only now did Nielson see Schmidt’s left eyebrow was gone. “Let’s go.” He walked quickly to Lars Neilson’s pickup and looked in. “The keys are here, John, we’ll find him.”

  He quickly crossed the dirt floor to the work table, got down and went under. He came out holding a worn pair of leather dress shoes spattered with paint. Charlie dropped the shoes, shoved into them and moved toward the entrance.

  They had left the islands, and were now in sight of Kettle Falls.

  On shore, where the dock met the road to the hotel, ground fog was lifting out of the trees. It was rising up, drawn by the dim morning fireball. In the last few minutes, it had burned a hole through the eastern sky.

  Still huddled in the bow, the women were facing forward. Lomak eased back the throttle. “Going to be nice later, Marion. Sunny.”

  She looked back and stared at him, then faced forward. She put an arm around the shy one. That’s right, Lomak thought. You bond, do the sister thing. In the minutes it had taken to cross the lake, something had happened in his head. Like a discovery, he had seen it was all really going to happen—the transfer, the plane, all of it.

  In a way, it made him feel generous. Forgiving. What made things different—steering the boat through cold air and now seeing the flat platter of motionless water ahead—was suddenly understanding that until this moment he had not actually believed it would happen. Months of bad luck and too many fuckups by other people had made him lose confidence.

  You had to buhleeve. Lomak aimed now for the long pier. That’s how they said it on the bible-thumper cable shows—you got to buhleeve. Enough bad luck and you started thinking like a loser. But he wasn’t a loser, and he would forgive Doreen—hell, with someone like that, you almost had to. They relied on others to think for them—himself, Marion Ross. Doreen would cry and thank him, then get in next to him in the Jacuzzi, in Costa Rica.

  As he throttled back, the spillway slipped into view. He had to think ahead. Leave the shy one in the boat. Tie up, but let it drift off the front of the dock. In front of the spillway. That way, Marion Ross wouldn’t try some crisis-management bullshit—bargaining, negotiating. Someone like that you never forgot, or forgave. She was tricky, smart with words. But with her buddy out there, being pulled by the current in front of the falls, Ross would do the transfer without a lot of lawyer crappola.

  “Hey, why not?” he called. “Make the most of your day when we’re done. Throw in a line this afternoon, Marion. Fire up the hot tub, catch some rays. You’re on vacation, right?”

  This time, Ross didn’t turn. Exactly, she had nothing to say. It made him want to tell her about her house blowing up in a few hours.

  No, he was sure of what Ross’s face would look like. He still remembered it from court, something she did with her nostrils. Like customers coming down to the basement when he was snaking out a sewer line. Smelling soggy toilet paper and sewage, they got that same look. Or diapers. Amazing how many people soaked diapers in the toilet, then forgot and flushed. Crazy fucking people. Then they called him to snake it for them. If he told Ross about her house blowing up, she would give him that same bad-smell look. I’m not surprised, the look would say. It’s what I’d expect from pond scum like you, a bottom feeder—

  That’s what she had called him in court. A bottom feeder praying on a helpless woman. Lomak eased the throttle back still more. The boat slowed to a crawl. Remembering the moment, he was angry again. Then, later, out in the corridor during a recess, he remembered sitting on a bench with coffee. She’d passed with Doreen, speaking so only he could hear. Pond scum. Then she’d gone back inside, all super-professional. My client this, my client that, may it please the court. When Louis Rohmer had called, the memory was still fresh.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. He had to be cool.

  He put the throttle in neutral. After some seconds, the boat was taken by the current. The bow glided toward the long dock.

  “Well, shit, ladies, all hands on deck. Get ready up there.”

  Ross looked back, still holding the shy one.

  “The bow line, hurry up.”

  She let go and edged up to grab the rope.

  “Not the anchor, the bow line. Pay attention to what you’re doing…that’s it.”

  You had to stay on them, otherwise they lost concentration. And it wasn’t just the dumb ones like Doreen, the ones with a slow-boat-to-China brain, it was all of them—smart, dumb, it was something about their wiring, how they were put together.

  Lomak looked left, to the shoreline. The road to the hotel rose steeply. A trail branched to the right, then disappeared into a ridge. He thought it must lead to the falls on the far side. There were no signs of life. If he saw people—fishermen or hotel staff—Rohmer had said to execute the transfer, then go back to one of the islands and leave the women there. He saw now that it would not be necessary.

  Ten feet from the dock, he reengaged the clutch, spun the wheel. Now he returned to neutral and waited. Pulled by the current, the boat came alongside the pilings. Lomak grabbed one and drew the Stratos close. He got the canvas sack with the laptop and phones, turned off the ignition an
d jumped up onto the dock. Marion looked up, holding the bow rope. He knelt and took it from her, then held out his hand.

  “Come on, take it—” She took his hand, and he pulled her up. “Sit over there.”

  Weathered wooden benches had been nailed to the plank deck. He turned back to the second woman. She had stopped crying and now looked sullen, resentful. Still thinking about her bath, he thought. What a big old nasty man you are.

  “What’s the matter, Heather, don’t you like me? Come on, the swim was just to get your attention, lighten up.”

  She looked away.

  “Okay, you want to pout, that’s your business.” Holding the rope, he used his foot to shove the boat. It floated off from the dock.

  “No! What are you—”

  Ross came off the bench, following him as he walked along the dock, holding the bow line. The shy one was crying again, doing the little hop from earlier, staring at the spillway. When the boat cleared the last piling, the bow swung sharply as the current pulled the line.

  Serious pressure drew on the rope in Lomak’s hands.

  He felt the boat’s weight in his arms. The yellow nylon rope seemed to stretch with the force of the heavy fiberglass Stratus and motor. Not a good idea. Needing all his strength, he pulled, then ducked and slipped the rope over his shoulder. He leaned. Braced and bent at the knees, Lomak struggled to recover the boat. Not easy, a bad idea.

  Ross was next to him. “Let me help.”

  “Get your fucking hands off and sit down. Do what I say, or I let this fucker go.”

  Hunched forward, the rope cutting his shoulder, he stared at her until she backed away. Once she sat, he pulled. Very slowly, he was able to bring the boat back. First to the pier, then around the end piling, on the safe lake side. Quickly he tied the bow and stern lines without looking at either woman. It had seemed a good idea, putting the shy one out there a few yards from the spillway, to keep Ross focused. Strong fucking current, an honest mistake.

  The woman in the boat had hold of a piling. Without letting go, she raised a leg to the gunwale—frightened, anxious to be on shore.