I stopped at Harry’s room before going back to mine, and gave it a firm knock.
“Yes?” came a squeaky voice. It was McGlade, trying to sound like he had a woman with him.
“It’s Jack. Want to get breakfast?”
“Breakfast?” he said, in his regular voice. “Yeah. Gimme five minutes.”
I brushed my teeth. The hard, embedded toothpaste was unpleasant, but did the job. I rinsed it off and stuck it in my purse, and then gave Herb a call.
“Jack? Little late for the BBQ.”
“I decided to take a vacation, Herb.”
“I’m surprised. Where are you and Latham going?”
“Minnesota.”
“I’m not surprised. Vacation, huh?”
“I’m not with Latham. I’m with McGlade.”
I gave Herb the quick version.
“You obviously know the trouble you can get into for doing this,” he said. “Is that why you’re calling? For me to talk you out of it?”
“I need you to do a NCIC record search on Edward Cline, Garrett McConnroy, and known associates.”
“Jack…”
“We’re just going to make sure the women with Cline are okay. That’s all. If they aren’t at his house, or McConnroy’s, I want to have some idea where to look for them.”
“I’ll get back to you,” Herb said.
He hung up before I could thank him.
I went to go get McGlade, and found him standing outside my door, scanning the parking lot.
“Looking for something?” I asked.
“Let me know if you see any white vans.”
“You want to tell me why?”
“No. Just let me know. You mentioned breakfast?”
I pointed at a sign that said, “Grandma’s Diner.”
“We can’t eat there,” Harry said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not our diner. It’s Grandma’s.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s Grandma’s diner. Meaning she’s the only one that can eat there. A play of words on the possessive.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“Nothing’s funny if you have to explain it.”
“It wasn’t funny, period.”
“Want to bet that Grandma is actually a thirty year old guy named Nikos?”
“I need coffee,” I said, “It’s too early for you.”
The diner was tiny, only ten tables and a counter with six stools. Two of the stools, and one of the tables, were occupied. Harry and I grabbed a table, and I peeked behind the counter and saw that the cook did, indeed, appear to be a young, swarthy guy.
Our waitress came over. She had a coffee pot and wore an expression like the world owed her money. Harry and I turned over the cups on our table; universal diner-speak for fill us up. She did.
“Would you like to hear the specials?”
“Please.”
She didn’t seem pleased, but launched into her spiel. “Our specialty is the pancake mouse, with fresh strawberries and cream.”
“What’s a pancake mouse?” Harry asked.
“It’s three pancakes, joined together. A big one for the head, and two small ones for the ears.”
“Like Mickey Mouse.”
“We can’t say Mickey Mouse. Disney sent us a cease and desist letter.”
“I’ll take it,” Harry said. “I love it when my breakfast includes trademark infringement.”
“Bacon?”
“Does it look like Porky Pig?”
“No.”
“I’ll have some anyway. And raisin bread toast. With no raisins.”
“You want raisin bread without raisins?”
Harry batted his eyelashes. “Can you pluck them all out for me?”
“Ignore him, he thinks he’s funny. Any other specials?”
“Eggs Benedict, with homemade hollandaise sauce.”
I thought of Herb. “Nah. Got a friend by that name.”
“What name?” she asked. “Eggs?”
Was she trying to be funny now? I couldn’t tell.
Harry jumped on it, though. “Do you know why his parents named him eggs?”
“Why?” She asked.
“Because they liked a good yolk.”
No one laughed.
“It’s like you two are made of stone,” Harry said.
“I’ll take a broccoli and cheese omelet. Bacon and wheat toast, please.”
My phone rang. It was Herb.
“No record on Cline. You already know McConnroy’s rap sheet. He has one known associate. Guy named Tucker Shears, out of Green Birch. Assault and battery. Disorderly conduct. Cruelty to animals.”
“Can you text me his picture?”
“Sure. I love helping you ruin your career on my day off.”
Once again he hung up before I could thank him.
“Fat boy seems irritated,” Harry said. “Maybe his wife is hiding the donuts. If she put them under his workout gear, he’d starve before he found them.”
Our food came, and McGlade was blessedly silent while we ate, though he did make little mouse screaming noises as he carved up Mickey’s face. After a second cup of coffee, and half my omelet, I was feeling back to normal.
“So tell me about this white van,” I said to Harry. He was using the strawberries to make it look like Mickey had a severed artery.
“It’s nothing you’d be interested in.”
“It actually is.”
McGlade looked up from the mouse vivisection on his plate and appraised me. “Really? I’m touched you care, Jackie. Since you’re insisting, I’ve been getting death threats, and the other day a sniper shot up my condo, trying to kill me.”
“And the sniper is in a white van?”
“I don’t know what he drives. But when we were coming up here last night, I noticed a white van following us. Can I ask why the sudden interest in my well-being?”
“Because a white van just pulled into the parking lot,” I said.
PHIN
My wake-up call came at seven. I started the morning like I started every morning.
With pain.
I padded into the shower, took off the bandages on my arms, and stepped into the scalding shower, letting the needle spray sting my eyes and poke at my stitches. I lathered up with one of those ridiculous motel soaps the size of a credit card, scrubbing until all of the pain was replaced by heat. Even Earl’s munching at my organs was lost in the barrage of soap and water.
I stayed in the shower longer than I needed, letting it pound me into shape, and then I stepped out and toweled vigorously off with a towel thin enough to see through. The pins and needles feeling slowly reverted back to pain, but now it was more bearable. I rubbed the steam off the mirror, pulled a disposable razor out of my bag, and ran it over my head and face.
Bald may be beautiful, but it wasn’t on me.
I looked mean.
After rewrapping the old bandages over my hands and forearms I dug out a fresh pair of jeans and a T-Shirt from my sports bag. I debated between my Nikes and my elephant boots, and went with the boots.
Then I was off to Lake Violet.
It was one of those cool crisp mornings that covered everything with dew. I climbed into the Bronco, eating gas station snacks while checking my map.
Lake Violet was a three hundred and twenty nine acre lake with two main access roads. It took me forty minutes to get to the nearest, just past a tiny bait shop with an ancient fuel pump in front, and I almost missed it. Eagle Lane was a narrow, one-lane gravel and sand affair that would have been almost impossible to see at night. According to the map, it led to the lake and made a half circle around the West side.
I turned, my Bronco eating up the road, and just as I was coming around a bend I had to slam on the brakes. An eight point buck stared back at me, so completely still he looked stuffed.
I noticed a mark on his shoulder. A healed bullet wound.
He was
a survivor.
Our eyes met. I didn’t see any fear. Only defiance.
“If I meet the guy who did that to you,” I said, “I’ll return the favor.”
Without any warning, he bolted into the woods, leaping a fallen tree like a steeplechase champion, fading into the trees in a blink.
I got on my way, slower this time. Two hundred meters down the road I reached the first house.
The first thing I saw was a large canvas-wrapped boat on a trailer, giving me almost instant verification that the nearby cottage was empty. I drove past, parking off-road in the woods. Smith & Wesson in hand, I left my truck and cautiously made my way back to the house, looking and listening for any signs of humans.
The shades were all drawn, the back porch covered with dirt and leaves. The grass, even this early in the season, was already in need of a trim. All indications that no one had been here since last summer. I walked toward the house on the sand driveway, keeping to the tree line, stepping lightly on grass and rocks and still leaving footprints. That was the clincher. If the house were inhabited, there’d be tire tracks all over the place.
I walked past it, to the lake.
Standing on the shore and looking out over the black water, I realized this was going to be easier than I thought. I could see the entire body of water, which stretched out and tapered at the other end, like an ear of corn.
Or a pancreas, Earl said.
Very few piers were set up this early in the spring, and the houses in plain sight didn’t number more than a dozen, all on this half of the lake. Across from me, on the lake’s opposite shore a hundred meters away, there was only a single house. It had its dock up, a fancy boat tied to it.
Something caught my attention peripherally. I spun my 9mm around and dropped to one knee, drawing a bead on an egret. It was white, stood about three feet tall on spindly yellow legs, and gave me a squawk that sounded so much like a woman’s scream I almost fired. I let the tension go from my fingers, lowered my gun, and stared. The bird stretched out its enormous wings, then leapt up into the air, flying in a wide arc over the lake.
This is turning into a nature special, Earl said. Any minute now a squirrel will jump out of a tree and eat nuts from your hand.
I went back to the truck, keeping an eye out for squirrels. I didn’t see any.
Getting back on Eagle Lane, I came to another sandy driveway, which lead to another empty house. I kept going and managed to find people at the next cottage I encountered.
This one was built out of uncut lumber, log cabin-style, with big glass windows and a satellite dish on the roof. Parked in front of the house, on the patchy grass taking root in the sand, was a Ford station wagon, vintage 1970s. There were no other cars, in particular Tucker’s Land Rover. And I didn’t think one of his buddies would be driving a Country Squire.
I parked, clipped my stolen police badge to my belt, grabbed my binoculars, and walked along the tree line.
From a vantage point behind a large spruce, I had a clear view into the kitchen window. I raised the Bushnells to my eyes, feeling like the voyeur I was.
I saw a woman, mid-fifties, walk to the refrigerator and pull out an entire slab of bacon. She unwrapped the slab, and put the entire thing in a cast iron skillet she had on the counter. This went on the stove. Then she went back to the fridge and took out a whole stick of butter, adding this to the bacon.
The woman was dangerous, obviously, but not the type of dangerous I was looking for. I searched for other windows and quickly found one leading into a bedroom. A middle aged man was putting on some brown slacks, having to lift up a large section of his belly to find his waist. That was to be expected, from the way his wife cooked.
I tucked the binocs into my back pocket, and stepped out from behind my tree to knock on their door. My threat-o-meter was down to zero, unless they tried to feed me. But maybe they knew something about the other residents of this lake.
I did the standard shave-and-a-haircut knock, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. I heard some mumbling behind the door, probably the couple asking each other who it could be, and after about ten seconds of back-and-forth the door opened.
The man stood there, the woman peering from under his shoulder. They looked more curious than suspicious. I tried a smile on for size. It felt wrong, and I hoped it didn’t look too hideous.
“Hi, folks. I’m Mark Stevens, from Chicago.”
I held out a hand and the man took it. I noticed a scar on his bare chest, white and faded. He was no stranger to heart surgery. Again, no surprises there.
“I’m Fred Hardson, and this is my wife Edna. Is this official business, Mark?”
He was looking at my badge.
“Actually, no. I’m on vacation. I came up to visit my friend Tucker Shears, but I lost his address. All I know is that he’s on Lake Violet.”
“Don’t you have a phone number?” he asked.
“On the same piece of paper that the address was on. Flew out my window at sixty-five miles an hour.”
“I don’t think there’s a Shears on this lake,” the woman piped in.
“We’re supposed to be staying with friends. Names are Ed, Garrett, and Chad,” I said, repeating the names I’d heard on Tucker’s answering machine tape.
“No last names?” the man asked.
“Out the window, sir.”
There was a pause, both of them apparently thinking. The kitchen really started to smoke, accompanied by the smell of bacon frying in butter.
“Oh, my cooking,” said the woman, who hurried off.
“Don’t know if we can help you, Mark. The only families we know up here are retired couples. These boys your age?”
I nodded.
“Well, I don’t really know who that could be.”
“What about the Johnsons, a few houses down?” the wife asked, over the sound of fat crackling. “Don’t they have a boy named Eddie?”
Fred turned to look at his wife. “He’s only a teenager. Besides, he’s got that genetic problem where his head blows up like a melon.”
“It’s called hydrocephaly,” Edna said. “And I thought they put a spout in, to have it drained.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s not who he’s looking for.” Fred looked back at me. “Your buddy have a spout in his head?”
“Not that I’d noticed, sir.”
“Do the Martens have a son?” Edna called to us.
“Daughter.”
The smoke got thicker.
“Do you have a directory for the lake, or something like that?” I asked. “Something that lists the families with homes here? Maybe if I saw a last name one would ring a bell.”
“Hal Fischer would know,” said Edna. There was smoke throughout the kitchen now.
“Hal Fischer does a monthly newsletter for Lake Violet residents,” Fred said. “He knows everyone on the lake.”
“Where does he live?”
“About six houses down Eagle Lane. We’ll call him, tell him you’re on your way. Can’t miss his house. It’s red.”
I thanked them and got away from the door before all the smoke gave me lung cancer. Or arteriosclerosis. Then I hit the trail and went to find a red house.
To say the house was red was an understatement. The house, roof, curtains, porch, and garage were all red. His vehicle, one of those mini vans that couldn’t decide if it were a car or a truck, was also red. This guy definitely had a red fixation.
I pulled the Bronco up his driveway, which was rock instead of the usual sand and grass.
Red rock.
Hal came out onto his front porch while I was getting out of the cab. He was a portly little white haired man, with a tiny feminine nose and small hands. Wrapped around him was a red smoking jacket, and in his mouth a pipe. A red pipe.
“Officer Stevens,” he said by way of introduction.
I walked up his porch steps and took his outstretched hand, trying to smile, feeling it was forced. I settled for a nod. “So
rry to put you out.”
“No trouble whatsoever. Fred said you needed a list of everyone on the lake?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to find my buddies. All I know is that they’re on Violet somewhere.”
“What are their names?”
“My friend’s name is Tucker Shears. He’s staying with three other guys, Ed, Garrett, and Chad.”
He puffed on his pipe. It left a cherry scent in the air. Who woulda figured.
“They’re probably at Ted Cline’s place. His son is named Eddie, he comes up with his friends a few times a year.”
“Where is their house?”
“Real easy to find. It’s the only house across the lake. Cline owns all the property on the eastern shore. Keeps to himself. Tried to interview him, and his son, a few times for my newsletter. Always turn me away. Maybe you can put in a good word.”
“I will,” I said. “I can tell you’re well read.”
“Well read. Ha! Like the color red. I am well read, and I do like red, obviously. Did you know that seeing the color red can actually make your heart beat faster?”
“Good to know. Does Eagle Lane go around to the other side of the lake?”
“Nope. You have to go back to the main road, make a left, then a right when you get to Barleywood Street. About a mile down you’ll pass an unnamed access road. It’s got a chain in front of it and a sign says No Trespassing. House is a half mile down that road. And watch out you don’t run over Herbie.”
“Herbie?”
“Our egret. It’s a big white bird, lives on the lake. Sometimes it lands on the dirt roads because those are the only clearings. We call him Herbie.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for Herbie,” I promised.
“And you know to approach slow and easy, right? Your friends are always shooting over there. I think they have a range on the property. Just wave at the cameras so they know it’s you.”
“Cameras?”
“They didn’t tell you? Whole property is covered by closed circuit cameras. Nothing bigger than a rabbit could step onto their land without someone watching.”
“Right. Cameras. Tucker mentioned that.”
“Remember to ask about that interview. Whole lake is really curious about that place. I’d love to get an exclusive.”
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 53
