Fastwater rocked back on the rear legs of the chair, rolling up his sleeves. As Mrs. Bean returned to her desk, he asked, “Why do you always have to have a fire going? It’s warm outside today.”
“Helps my joints loosen up, Marlon,” she said, smiling at the man she felt so much affection for. “You should try handling all this mail when your knuckles are swollen and your fingers won’t bend. I know it’s a short day today, but there’s still a lot of mail to sort. Besides,” she added while taking a seat across from the sheriff, “a good fire in the morning dries all the moisture out of the air. Keeps it cooler in here the rest of the day.”
The sheriff knew her words were in no way meant as a rebuke. He looked across the room at the gurneys stacked with trays and tubs of mail, and a larger hamper overflowing with packages. He found it amazing that she could sort all that mail in just a couple short hours. As far as her need for a fire every day, he’d learned early on not to argue with her logic. If a fire somehow kept her cooler, so be it. He figured her reasoning came from her upbringing in eastern Maine. Marlon had never been to that part of the country, but he pictured the North Atlantic coastline as a generally cold, damp place. He imagined the natives there had developed their own techniques for dealing with the climate.
Mrs. Bean’s husband had been an ironworker. A ruggedly handsome, virile man, Fred Bean had a gift for gab and a generous, fun-loving spirit. They married one summer after a brief, intense romantic fling. Fred had taken work on the wharves in Eastport, welding and repairing boats in the hard-working fishing fleet. Long days on the job perfected his iron-working skills, and even longer nights carousing around town cemented his image as a man among men. When his reputation suddenly became a little too risky, even by Fred’s standards, he whisked his nineteen-year-old bride away from her strict parents and the sober, small-town existence that was rural Maine, to the austere lifestyle and severe weather of northeastern Minnesota. In short, not much changed for the new Mrs. Bean.
Technically, Mrs. Bean wasn’t a missus anymore. Fred Bean died in a grisly one-car accident twenty-five years ago. With the construction job in Black Otter Bay completed, he had taken work on the docks in the Duluth harbor, commuting fifty miles back and forth to the jobsite each day. He could have found work in the taconite plant if he’d wanted, but true to his character, he needed to move on, try something new somewhere different. His wife, however, was perfectly content in Black Otter Bay, her new home away from home, especially after being hired on as postmistress. She’d made it clear early on that she had no intention of moving again.
Fred’s job in Duluth was often dangerous, welding and repairing steel-girder crane structures high above the harbor. But it paid well, and with pockets full of cash and a spirit as free as the crashing waves beneath him, Fred Bean’s drinking binges and carousing exploits took on an almost mythical status. The last episode ended with a call to the volunteer rescue squad in Black Otter Bay. At three o’clock on a Saturday morning, a caller reported taillights glowing in the woods down by Sheppard’s Curves on Highway 61. Marlon Fastwater was one of the first to arrive on the scene. It was impossible to say with any certainty whether Fred had passed out at the wheel or simply lost control of the car. There was no question the man had been drunk. In the end, how it came to happen didn’t really matter. At ninety miles an hour, the big Cadillac had cut a large swath into the woods, but ultimately it was no match for a three-foot diameter, two-hundred-year-old white pine.
Mrs. Bean had heard the call come in over her home base CB radio. Most nights she left it on for background noise, listening to the conversations of truckers and tourists passing through. Sitting home alone late at night, she appreciated the sound of fellow human voices, and once in a while engaged them in conversation, offering directions or suggesting local points of interest. Of course, Fred’s name had never been mentioned over the air that night, but she’d known it was him from the outset, so when the sheriff knocked on her door at dawn, she was dressed and ready for the news.
By the time of Fred’s passing, local folklore had him working jobsites across the state, crashing parties in every town from Minneapolis to Thunder Bay, and, among the blue-collar labor force, he’d taken on a Paul Bunyan-like image. For Mrs. Bean’s part, however, the teenage infatuation had long since worn off. They’d never had children, and the twenty-five-year-old widow felt no need or inclination to move back east. She had the rocky coastline of Lake Superior here, which reminded her of the best part of her old home in Maine, and her job with the post office provided steady work and benefits. Besides, she felt plugged into the social gridwork of the townsfolk. People stopped in every day to get their mail, and Mrs. Bean had become the clearinghouse for community gossip and rumor.
Ever since her arrival in Black Otter Bay, the locals had known her as Mrs. Virginia Bean. She’d never been too happy with her given name, so the formal title had a new and exotic ring to it. After Fred’s death, folks didn’t know what to call her. Virginia, or worse yet, Ginny, just didn’t seem appropriate for a young woman who’d lost her husband. So, even twenty-five years later, she continued to be known as Mrs. Virginia Bean, like the etched-metal placard on the post office counter proclaimed, and that suited her just fine.
Sipping coffee while absentmindedly rearranging papers on her desk, she asked the sheriff, “Are you going to the service later?”
Fastwater kept his eyes down, one hand in his lap, the other gently kneading the back of Gitch’s neck. “I guess not,” he replied. Nodding at the dog, he added, “We’re going to head up to the perimeter of the search.”
Mrs. Bean started to reach a hand out to him, wanting to comfort her friend, but his arms and hands were tucked out of the way. “Do you think you’ll find him?”
He lifted his face to look at her, and she saw the answer in his eyes.
“What do you suppose could have happened to that boy?” she asked. The question might just as well have been rhetorical for all the chance it had of being answered by the sheriff. She knew he’d never discuss a case with her. He said she talked too much. His joke was that when he needed information or news spread around town, he’d tell the postmistress, and by the end of the day, everyone in town would know.
The last time she remembered him talking openly to her was six months ago, when his nephew’s relationship with Marcy Soderstrom broke off. The sheriff took his role as mentor to Leonard very seriously, but this relationship business had him completely baffled. Leonard was hurting, and the sheriff had no idea what to say or how to help. Finally, on a chilly evening last fall, hunkered together around the woodstove in the post office, Fastwater mentioned the situation to Mrs. Bean.
“Are you looking for advice?” she asked, enjoying his discomfort while relishing the fact that he’d opened up to her. Of course, he had no clue that Marcy had been confiding in the postmistress all along, so she knew all the details of the break up.
“You have to keep these things simple, Marlon. They both care very much for each other, but Leonard isn’t ready to commit to settling down yet. You know how he is, how he’s always looking off into the distance. Now Marcy, on the other hand, well, neither love nor money could pry her out of that café.”
The sheriff had stared at her like none of this had ever occurred to him.
“They’re not kids anymore, Marlon. They know it takes more than physical attraction to make a relationship work.” She didn’t tell him that those were the words she’d passed on to Marcy: advice straight from her own experience. She’d patted him on the chest, brushed away imaginary lint from his shoulder. “All you have to do is let Leonard know you’re there for him. That’s all. They’ll figure it out, but if he wants to talk, you listen.”
Gitch rolled over and looked up at the sheriff, making it clear that he thought it was time to get to work.
Fastwater sat up straighter and cleared his throat, giving Mrs. Bean the impression that he might have something to say, but didn’t know how to start
. Finally, the sheriff said, “Nothing about this disappearance makes any sense.”
“Do these things ever make sense? Is it ever fair? He’s only eight years old, Marlon.”
“I know. But things like this don’t happen around here.” Fastwater spun his thermos cup in his hands, a dark look on his face, and Gitch let out a sigh before lying down again.
Mrs. Bean could guess the real reason for the sheriff’s sour attitude. Other than the missing child, the situation he disliked more than any other was a bunch of outsiders meddling in what he considered to be his business. And the town was full of outsiders now. She didn’t know all of the agencies involved, but she knew the FBI by the insignia on the doors of their big, dark SUVs. Talk in town had referred to the state police, the BCA, and even the highway patrol.
The irony in the situation was that Fastwater himself had summoned the help. Immediately after learning of Ben’s disappearance, he knew he didn’t have the manpower to handle the situation. The boy was most likely lost in the woods, in which case the sheriff felt confident they’d find him in a day or two. But no one had witnessed the disappearance, so the child may have run away or, worse yet, been abducted by some sort of pervert. Fastwater couldn’t afford to rule out any scenario. The bottom line was that time was the enemy, and with just a small local rescue squad and a few police officers spread around the county, he’d had no choice but to call in the cavalry.
As far as she knew, the story hadn’t made the national news yet, but all the regional media outlets were in town. The sheriff’s little office halfway up the ridge had been taken over. He still coordinated search teams in the woods, and he hadn’t relinquished jurisdiction yet, but interrogations, data gathering, and overall strategy came from the outside.
“What has Abby had to say?” she asked. “Wasn’t she the last one to see Ben?”
Fastwater snorted. “She’s been questioned by everyone but the president of the United States. A bunch of suits in sunglasses asking the same questions over and over, as if she’ll suddenly come up with an answer she didn’t know two minutes ago.” Fastwater paused, obviously upset. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee from the thermos cup. “She doesn’t know anything.” Then he slid a glance up at Mrs. Bean. “At least, that’s what she says.”
“What do you mean? Do you think she’s hiding something?”
He looked away again, scanned the hampers of mail and the metal cases where the letters would soon be sorted. She could feel his discomfort with the conversation. Finally, he said, “I don’t know what she knows. Probably nothing. But she’s scared. And I don’t blame her for not talking to them.”
“They’re just doing their jobs, Marlon. They want to find the boy as much as you do.”
He nodded, but she wasn’t fooled into thinking he agreed with her. She knew how he felt. He was frustrated with all the law enforcement bureaucracy in town. The sheriff would be thinking he could get this settled much quicker if they’d just get out of his way.
“What about Jackie?” she asked. “I saw her in town yesterday.”
“That’s the first place the feds looked. But she doesn’t know anything. She’s just up here to make Matt’s life miserable. Blaming him for being irresponsible.”
“Irresponsible?” Mrs. Bean exclaimed, indignant. “Who’s the one who walked out on the family?”
Fastwater ignored the question, glanced at his watch. Mrs. Bean reached for the thermos and poured herself another half cup. She knew his manners wouldn’t allow him to leave before she finished her coffee. For the hundredth time she thought how much their early morning coffee sessions resembled an old married couple at the breakfast table, Marlon checking his watch before heading off to work while she prattled on, asking questions and giving advice.
“You don’t think he’s lost, do you?” she asked.
The sheriff swirled his coffee for a moment before responding. “You know, they had that fellow from Duluth up here with his dogs. I told you about him. Followed the boy’s scent all the way out to Big Island Lake.”
“That’s where Rose drowned.”
Fastwater nodded.
“You don’t think the boy drowned out there, too, do you?”
“No. But just to be sure, they dragged the whole bay looking for him. The ice only went out a day or two before he disappeared.”
“Well, then, what do you think happened?”
Fastwater shrugged his shoulders. “The dogs picked up several scent trails out there. There seemed to be a lot of confusion.” The thing he didn’t mention was that a scent trail could lead in either direction, or both ways, if the person made a round trip.
Mrs. Bean said, “But the dogs took you out there. Ben had been there, right?”
Fastwater nodded. “And we found plenty of his tracks in the wet ground to back them up. That’s why so many of them still think he’s lost, and not abducted. But it just doesn’t feel right. I don’t know what happened, but I don’t think he’s out in the woods.”
Mrs. Bean would be willing to bet the sheriff’s feelings were right. He had a distinct sense for these things, and everyone knew it. Since the time twenty-some years ago when his intuition had told him that the man holding a gun in the bar wasn’t going to shoot and the sheriff had taken the gun away by hand, folks had remarked on his gift. And before him, his grandmother’s powers had been legendary. Furthermore, having grown up in the woods, the sheriff was tuned into the pulse of the natural world. If he didn’t have a sense of the boy being out there, then Mrs. Bean would say that chances were pretty good he wasn’t.
She smiled now as she studied the big lawman sitting across from her. It wasn’t often that he shared this much with her. “Have you talked to Abby?” she asked.
“Sure. But Matt insists on being there. He’s protecting her—wants everyone to leave her alone.”
“Can’t blame him, can you?”
“Not at all. But she’s so used to repeating the same denials over and over that if she does know anything, it’ll be impossible for them to get it out of her.”
“So, you talk to her, Marlon. Get her away from all those other people.”
He didn’t respond right away, but cast his glance around the room again. She could see he was considering her suggestion.
“Do it, Marlon. She’ll talk to you. You two are from the same mold: hardheaded maybe, but honest. You both want this thing to end soon, and end well. Talk to her.”
Fastwater drank off the last of his coffee before screwing the cup back on the top of the thermos. Mrs. Bean could see the wheels turning behind his shiny black eyes. Giving him time to mull it over, she brushed a length of long, graying hair away from her face and reset the glossy red enamel barrette above her ear. Then, slowly leaning forward on her elbows across the desk, she asked, “Are you sure you can’t get away to make an appearance at the service?”
When the sheriff stood up, Gitch jumped to his feet and loped to the dock door where Fastwater parked when they visited. The sheriff kept his eyes on the dog as he spoke. “If it turns out that I’m wrong and Ben is missing out in the woods, we need to keep after it. We can’t afford to let up. We’ve been lucky with the weather so far, but each passing day adds to the danger.”
Mrs. Bean walked with him through the cluttered back room. “Can I ask you something, Marlon?”
He didn’t respond, but she was determined to ask anyway, knowing full well he wouldn’t answer if he didn’t want to. She clutched his arm to hold him at the back door.
“Why did you order the autopsy on Rose? She was almost eighty years old, Marlon. Doc Thompson said she died of cardiac arrest. Do you think something else happened?”
Fastwater opened the door for Gitch, and they watched the big dog carefully paw his way down the open wire mesh steps. Just as she’d suspected, the sheriff offered no response to her question. Gitch inspected the smells near the loading dock, then sniffed his way around the squad car. Mrs. Bean followed the sheriff’s gaze up t
o the clear blue sky and got a whiff of an early morning breeze wafting up off Lake Superior. With such a beautiful start to a new day, it was hard to believe that one of the youngest among them was missing, and they’d be saying goodbye to one of the oldest in just a few hours.
Still holding the sheriff’s arm, she said, “You know, some of the townsfolk are saying that the autopsy is unnecessary and disrespectful.”
Gitch came around the backside of the squad car and raised a leg to pee on the tire. “Hey!” Fastwater yelled, bluffing a charge out the door. Gitch continued his business, unabashedly looking at the sheriff. To Mrs. Bean, Fastwater said, “I have to go. We’ll see how the day plays out.”
As he pulled away from her, she leaned into him, hoping for more words or a sign of affection. He took the hand that held his arm and gently squeezed it. Her hand disappeared inside the warmth of his big fist. He turned to face her, directing all his attention into her eyes. “I mean no disrespect,” he said. “I just want to get this right.”
And then he was out the door, leaving Mrs. Bean to wonder if he was alluding to the autopsy of Rose Bengston, or if his words were really intended for her.
SIX
Marlon Fastwater
In the spring of 1890, when the Canadian schooner Madeleine foundered and sank in a raging storm outside the sheltered inlet of Black Otter Bay, the village acquired one more permanent resident. Stephan Lecoursier, the sole survivor among his eight crewmates, found himself hurled onto the cliff-lined coast by a twelve-foot, ice-encrusted wave that had every intention of bashing his head into the rocks. Just before the moment of impact, however, Lecoursier was lifted clear by the floating wreckage of the mainmast and boom. The short section of destroyed mast broke the impact of his return to terra firma, but Lecoursier was knocked unconscious and only received deliverance from a watery grave thanks to the efforts of the brave townsfolk who’d witnessed the disaster.
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