by Pill, Maggie
Rory seemed relaxed as he made casual conversation about people he’d met in town. I, on the other hand, became more tense, almost spilling my water at one point and dropping a forkful of panini into my lap. When the main course was gone, I skipped dessert with the excuse that I was dieting, wished him well in the job, and hurried away.
In the car, I cursed myself for all kinds of foolishness. The first attractive single man I’d met in Allport and I had two strikes against me: first, I appeared to be some sort of night stalker, and now he’d think I was socially anxious, ungracious, and possibly bulimic as well.
Still angry at myself, I spent the rest of the evening working on a letter to the mayor of Allport, my next Correction Event. Wearing rubber gloves, I took a single sheet of paper out of the center of a stack in my printer tray. Placing it on top of the stack, I printed the letter I’d composed. I read it through once more to be sure it was clear and error free.
Mayor Gleason:
Several times in the months since you took office, you’ve been quoted in the local paper using incorrect grammar. Since I have no way of knowing if you were misquoted, I am sending a copy of this letter to the newspaper editor in hopes one or both of you will address the problem.
The word myself is a reflexive pronoun that should only be used in certain instances. Therefore, please do not say that “the commission members and myself” took action. In addition, you are quoted as saying people may contact “my secretary or myself.”
You might recall from school that the key to correct pronoun use is to think how the sentence would be framed if no other person is mentioned. Since you would say “I feel” and not “myself feels,” I is the correct pronoun in the first instance. Since you would say “contact me” and not “contact myself,” me is the correct pronoun in the second.
If you become more aware of your tendency to err with pronouns, you can avoid these unfortunate mistakes and become a better example to your constituents.
A Friend
Satisfied, I made a second copy, again using untouched paper from the middle of the stack, then addressed the envelopes the same way. Modern science can probably determine which printer created a document, but I doubted it would ever come to that. Both letters were likely to be thrown in the garbage with hardly a thought. Still, I had to try.
Putting the envelopes in a plastic zipper bag, I stowed it deep in my purse. As we traveled north tomorrow, I’d drop them in a mailbox somewhere. Feeling a little better, I went to bed, humming a song my grandmother used to sing, “Brighten the Corner Where You Are.”
Chapter Sixteen
Faye
The next morning we again left Dale in charge and headed north. I lived through the bridge crossing, and Barb had resigned herself to driving her beloved Chevy over bumpy dirt roads a second time. Once we left US 2, I watched the two-track driveways disappear into the woods, allowing only glimpses of the homes at the end. Lacy-fingered firs lined the road, many with lower branches that had turned red-brown from distress. There was the general messiness of untamed lands: fallen trees downed by winter storms, some dragged off roadway just far enough for cars to pass. We saw several gas wells, some landowner’s dream come true. Depleted woodpiles testified to the winter the residents had to hope was truly over. It would soon be time to start building them up again, however. Summer never lasted long at this latitude.
At a huge signboard listing upcoming camps, we turned right, passing a row of more than twenty mailboxes. Residents for miles around had to find their own way to them if they wanted their mail, no matter the weather. Several were painted green and yellow. Yuppers were often Green Bay Packer fans, no matter that they lived in the wrong state.
We braked for a dozen turkeys who chose that moment to cross the road, some geeking their heads as they hurried, others strolling as if they ruled the world. As we waited, Barb wondered aloud what would happen when we got to the lodge. We’d decided calling the police was premature, but now she seemed to question that. “What if Brown—if that’s who Roger Kimball really is—gets violent when we show up again?”
“We tell him the police know where we are so it won’t do him any good to attack us.”
The last turkey cleared the road, and we started again. Barb gripped the wheel with both hands as a series of nasty ruts sent the car slithering sideways. “What if he wants to take his anger out on somebody? There we are.” I figured her argument came from lawyer habit. Neither of us really expected the guy who’d served us hot cocoa to turn into a raving madman.
Reality was stranger than anything we’d imagined. We pulled in at the lodge and got out just as Kimball came out his front door, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. The arm hung limply at his side, and he wore a patch over the eye that had appeared milky. When he recognized us, his lips pressed together in stoic acceptance. “Figured you’d be back.”
“Mr. Brown.” Barb made it a statement.
He nodded. “You might as well come inside.”
We followed him into the cabin. With an ironic grimace, he removed the patch to reveal a perfectly normal eye. Next he shrugged off the flannel shirt, revealing wrist weights wrapped around the supposedly lifeless arm. Velcro rasped as he removed them, remarking, “They make it hang stiff and remind me not to use it.”
“And the eye?”
“Halloween supply companies have all kinds of spooky-looking contact lenses. The patch is a quick fix when people drop by unexpectedly.” He dropped the weights onto the counter with a careless clatter as if glad to be finished with them. “Please, follow me.”
Behind the reception area was living space, not large or elegant, but comfortable. I guessed the furnishings were largely unchanged from what Haike had collected for himself. Snowshoes and trapping gear hung on one wall. Another was lined with foot-square storage units stuffed with blankets, towels, and clothing. Atop them a battered guitar rested, probably good company on long winter nights. A third wall had a Murphy bed folded against the knotty-pine wall, its feet doing double duty as clothing pegs. Beyond the bed was a wood stove similar to the one in our cabin but raised higher with bricks to make loading it easier for an old man with arthritis. At the far end of the room, a door stood open revealing a refrigerator, pots and pans hanging from nails over an apartment-size gas range, and a wooden table with one chair.
The place smelled like a man who’d had no reason to pretend to be civilized for some time. Noticing Barb’s unconscious sniff of disapproval, Neil opened the window beside him, inserting one of those expandable screens that let fresh air in and keep some bugs out. He moved to the opposite window, which resisted his efforts. He pounded at it with a palm and the frame accepted defeat, sliding upward as if it had meant to all along.
“Have a seat.” We obeyed, me on an old rocker and Barb on the visibly lumpy couch. I felt awkward, and even my cut-to-the-chase sister seemed unsure how to start the conversation. We’d expected Neil to make some attempt to maintain the pretense, but it appeared he was at peace with whatever happened. After all, he’d had a long time to think about it.
He disappeared into the kitchen and after some vigorous pumping returned with a ceramic pitcher and three enameled cups. “Best water in the world.” He handed us each a cup and poured as if we were welcome guests. The water was icy cold, chilling my fingers through the cup’s bumpy surface. Using both hands and freed of his disguise, Neil seemed a different person from the shy, shuffling misfit we’d met before.
“How’d I screw up?”
“You didn’t, really. We talked to Mr. Makala, and his story didn’t quite match yours.”
Brown seemed more pleased than upset. “You talked to Haike? How is he?”
“Deaf. Pretty much bed-ridden, they said.”
“Too bad. He’s a good guy.”
“You said you were working here that fall. He told us yo
u came the next spring.”
“Shoulda got our story straight.” He took a sip. “Six years, though. Can’t ask for more.”
I couldn’t resist a gentle jibe. “Kimball?”
He actually grinned. “Lame, I know. A fugitive.” He sobered. “I sure was.”
Barb set her cup on a driftwood end table. “Want to tell us about you and Haike?” I sensed she was letting him come at things the easy way, how he came to own Buck Lake Resort, rather than why he’d left his dying wife and dead brother-in-law back in Allport.
“I arrived here that November, said my car broke down back in Manistique. I said I’d walked because I didn’t want to miss a day of hunting. Haike knew it was bull from day one, but he just showed me to cabin number four.”
“How’d you get here? Juan took your truck south.”
Brown scrubbed a hand over his beard, reddish despite the dark dye job. “He in trouble?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Good. I figured he’d play dumb and get by.”
“He’s a citizen now,” I put in.
Neil nodded approval, curling his fingers around his cup as he took a seat on the raised hearth of his wood stove. “Seeing Juan hitch-hiking was the only stroke of luck I had that day. He agreed to take the truck in the wrong direction and save me the trip.”
“Clever.”
“Desperate,” Brown corrected, shifting his feet uneasily. “We parted company at a gas station in Ossineke. I hung around there, waiting for a ride. After while a van pulled in from the south with marquette office supply printed on the side. It was a good bet the guy was headed north, so when he went inside, I crawled in the back and hid behind some boxes.”
“What if the driver had opened the doors and found you?”
Neil chuckled dryly. “Who’d expect some guy to come charging out of his van? I’d be half a mile away before he recovered enough to call for help.”
“So he never knew you were back there.”
“No.” He smiled. “I had to listen to him sing along with his country music station for hours, but other than that it was easy enough.” He paused, biting his lower lip. “The next time he stopped, we were in Munising. When the driver went inside, I crawled out.”
“And headed for Buck Lake Resort.”
“Not right away. I got a motel room for the night, used a fake name and made up the car information. The next morning I went shopping, bought hunting clothes, boots, and supplies.”
“To fit in up here.”
“Right. My ride in the panel truck overshot Buck Lake, but I didn’t want to take a chance on somewhere else. What I knew about this place, single owner, remote location, made me think I could spend a couple weeks here without having to prove who I was or where I came from.”
“How’d you get here from Munising?”
“Walked. It took a few days, but it was safest. I bought a compass and a map. I followed the least traveled roads. Around dusk I’d look for a deserted hunting camp and break into it.” He shivered at the memory. “Those nights were miserable, just mice, squirrels, and me wrapped in every piece of fabric I could find in the place.”
“You couldn’t start a fire and invite curiosity.”
He nodded. “In one camp there was a gun hanging on the wall. I took it to complete my disguise as a hunter.” Brown smiled. “Later I returned it. Fixed the door, too.”
It seemed odd that of all the things he was suspected of, Brown fretted over stealing a probably useless gun from a possibly abandoned camp.
Barb ignored his attempt at atonement. “You’re pretty cool under pressure, Mr. Brown.”
“Not really. I was a basket case the whole time.” Setting his elbows on his knees, he sighed. “All I could think about was getting away from Stan Wozniak, where I’d be safe.”
As if in rebuttal, the pitcher beside Neil shattered into a thousand pieces. We all jumped; I think I screamed. For a split second we stood looking stupidly at the pieces, wondering what had happened. Neil recovered first. “Down!” he shouted. “On the floor!”
We obeyed as an odd thud sounded from the log wall behind us. A third followed, and I finally got it. “Someone’s shooting at us!”
“Stay down.” Belly-crawling to a corner, he opened a knotty-pine door to reveal three rifles. Reaching up he took one then reached up again to get a box of shells. “Direction?”
Barb pointed. “That way, I think.” How could she be so calm? I couldn’t even raise my face from the rough plank floor.
“Stay where you are.” Neil crawled to the front door, opened it a crack, and slid the rifle barrel into the opening. I watched with one eye, keeping the other shut and pressed against the floor. Small target, my mind said. As small a target as a large woman can be.
Suddenly the whole cabin rocked with a boom that seemed to come from inside my chest. I groaned with the pain of distressed eardrums. The echoes hung in the room, rolling around the walls and assaulting us several more times. I looked toward Neil, but he was gone. Steps sounded on the porch, and another shot rattled the windows. He’d gone on the offensive.
Silence. I wanted to say something, to hear Neil reply and know he was alive, but honestly, I couldn’t think of a thing that fit the moment. Did you shoot someone, Mr. Brown? Can I get off the floor now, Neil? Are we going to die? Better to say nothing.
Finally, a vehicle started some distance away and took off, its engine growling. Someone called out in distress. Car sounds faded, and the voice stopped.
A few seconds later Neil reappeared, crossing the room and peering out the window with his back to the wall, like they do in old westerns. After a tense, silent minute, he relaxed a little. “I think he’s gone. It was a black pickup. A Dodge, I think.”
Barb rose, keeping away from the windows, and came over to help me up, dusting off my clothes before attending to her own. “Do you have enemies up here, Mr. Brown?”
He turned from the window with a wry smile. “I didn’t until you ladies showed up.”
Chapter Seventeen
Barb
“We’ve got to get out of this place.” Despite sounding like a ’60s song, it was the truth.
“But who was out there?” Faye’s voice was higher than normal, and tight.
“Who it was doesn’t matter at the moment,” Brown said. “What does matter is getting you away from here so you’re safe.”
I looked at him significantly, and he seemed to understand. “I’ll turn myself in.” He glanced out the shattered window. “If you found me, so can other people.”
“It’s pretty obvious they did,” Faye commented.
“They followed us.” If I’d been as bad at the practice of law as I was in my new profession, I was thinking, I’d have been disbarred. Aloud I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. I never considered the possibility that our finding you would interest anyone else.”
“It would interest Stan Wozniak.” Faye gave the shattered window a tentative push, sending brittle glass tinkling to the floor.
Looking to Brown I asked, “Would Wozniak sanction murder?”
He shrugged. “The guy knows how to hate.”
“Why don’t we go someplace where we can talk this out?” Faye suggested. “I’d like to hear the rest of Neil’s story before we go back to Allport.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. There was a lot we hadn’t had the chance to ask Brown and a lot we hadn’t yet told him. When we returned home, the police would take him into custody. “Where?”
“Not south,” he said. “Whoever shot at us might be waiting, and we’ll be easy targets.”
“So we have to go north. What’s up there?”
“This road joins 123, which arcs north to Paradise then goes south, back down to I-75.”
“Paradise has restauran
ts? Flush toilets?” Checking my watch, I added, “A motel?”
Brown seemed faintly offended. “Yeah, sure.”
“Okay, we head north. Want to pack some things?”
Opening a cupboard over the door, Neil took out a ratty knapsack. As he stuffed garments into it Faye said, “I take it we’re not going to tell the local police about getting shot at?”
“I don’t see how it would help,” I answered. “Our best bet is to tell our police and let them investigate.”
Brown’s packing didn’t take long. Shouldering the knapsack, he put a hand-lettered CLOSED sign on the front door. “I’ll figure out what to do with the place later.” He paused to look around once before climbing into the back of the Chevy. “Haike’s old car, too,” he added, nodding at a battered Ford Taurus beside the cabin. “Doesn’t look like much, but it runs good and starts every time.” He sighed. “Maybe someday I can come back.”
It wasn’t the moment to begin a discussion of what awaited him in Allport. An ailing sister and a daughter he apparently didn’t know about would complicate Brown’s life, even if he could explain away the crimes he was accused of. We turned north, toward a town large enough to hide in for a while. There, all stories would be told.
Chapter Eighteen
Retta
When I visited the house and found my sisters gone, I tried to get out of Dale where they were, but he closed down like a turtle. I left feeling grumpy. Barbara Ann and Faye Elizabeth had left me behind while they went on an adventure, just like when I was little. While part of me argued it was childish, another part of me vowed I’d find out something important while they were gone, so they’d have to admit I made a contribution. I decided to start with Stan Wozniak.
