Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

The sheriff said, “Why don’t you go home for a while. Take a nap. Everybody out there is wired together, so if anything breaks, you’ll hear about it immediately.”

  Matt didn’t answer, just kept staring far off to sea. Fast-water had the notion that he might start crying. He’d seen exhaustion and grief break bigger men than Matthew Simon. “I tell you what,” the sheriff said, trying to work a positive inflection into his voice. “I’ll walk you home. I’d like to see how Abby is doing.”

  “She insists on going to the memorial service for Rose,” Matt said.

  “Well, that’s probably a good thing for her to do. They were pretty good friends, weren’t they?”

  Matt nodded.

  The sheriff said, “You know, you said it yourself. There really isn’t much point in going back out there. Let me walk you home.”

  When Matt finally looked at him again, Fastwater saw the tear silently sliding down the man’s cheek, so he said, “This doesn’t mean we’re giving up, Matthew. We’re just going to take a different look at it.”

  Matt took a deep breath and nodded.

  Fastwater said, “I have to get something out of the office, then we’ll take a walk over to your place. Abby is home, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah. She hasn’t been to school lately, so she’s doing make-up homework.”

  “Good.” Fastwater stepped around Matt to go inside. “Excuse me for just a minute.”

  When he returned, he carried an old grocery bag under his arm, the top folded over several times like a large sack lunch. The two men followed Gitch as he trotted out ahead into the meadow. There’d been several inches of new snow here just a week ago, but with the recent warm, sunny weather, the sheriff could smell the earth waking up to another season. It amazed him every year to see the hardy local flora sending out new shoots and blossoms with reckless abandon, racing to establish a foothold in the rocky, acidic soil. With the short, chilly summer months here, plants took root as soon as the frost was out of the ground, often before the last of the snow had melted.

  Passing through the meadow, they entered the old cemetery, where Fastwater paused near his grandmother’s grave. Matthew came back to join him. “Floating Bird?” he read.

  “My grandmother.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” Matt said, and the sheriff was pleased to detect a tone of reverence and respect. Matt looked around at the other gravestones nearby. Most of them were solid blocks of granite, with names and dates professionally etched squarely in the rock. The markers on the Native American graves, however, were a softer, black stone. Names were crudely scratched in their surfaces, some so old and worn as to be nearly illegible. When Fastwater realized that Matthew was noting these differences, he started to say something, then thought better of it. The fact that all his family was here was enough for him.

  “Come on, Gitch,” he called. “Let’s go.”

  They continued on the path through the woods, heading generally downhill across the face of the ridge. The morning light had a soft glow to it now, thanks to the sun rising higher off Lake Superior. Woodpeckers rattled away overhead, and yellow-shafted flickers bored new homes high up in aspen trunks. The woods smelled damp and alive. It was hard to believe that in a peaceful setting like this, a situation of such ominous gravity was playing out.

  The path finally broke out on a paved street behind the main section of town. Within a block or two it met the street where the Simon family lived. The men walked side by side in silence, the grocery bag tucked up under Fastwater’s arm, and followed Gitch into Matthew’s front yard. The sheriff looked up at the end of the street, a cul-de-sac turn-around a few hundred feet past the Simon house. In the old days, a sawmill had operated up there just beyond the cul-de-sac. In the decades before roads or rail lines connected them with the outside world, logs cut from trees further inland during the frozen winter months had been stacked there awaiting spring break-up and a float trip across Lake Superior to the populated areas on the southern shore.

  But all that was gone now, nothing left of the old sawmill except two or three feet of compacted sawdust covering several hundred square yards. Antique hunters sometimes wandered over the area with metal detectors, digging in the spongy sawdust and dirt, uncovering well-preserved saw blades, bottles, tobacco tins, and even leather boots. With the forest grown back, however, a newcomer would have no idea of the extent of the labor and activity that had taken place here a hundred years ago.

  As the men walked into the yard, the front door opened and Abby Simon bounced down the steps to meet Gitch. She knelt beside the dog, scratched his ears, and let him lick her face.

  “Hey, there, Abby,” Fastwater called by way of greeting. When she looked at him, he was pleased to see the smile remain on her face. They gathered around Gitch, Abby still on her knees, the men standing comfortably with hands in pockets.

  Matt said, “How’s the homework coming, kiddo?”

  “Done. It’s stupid, Dad. They’re just mad because I skipped a day of school. Now they’re making me jump through hoops to finish the year.” With sarcasm, she added, “Like they wouldn’t let me go to high school next year if I didn’t finish the work.”

  Fastwater had to laugh. It was just the sort of comment he’d expect from her.

  Matt shot him a stern look, but to Abby said, “Well, you did a great job all year on your assignments and grades. Might as well finish it off on a high note.”

  “How come you’re not out with the search teams?” she asked. “Did Mom find you?”

  Matt nodded, grinned, and toed a clump of sod in the yard. “Yeah, we talked.”

  “Bet you wished you were out in the woods, eh?”

  Everyone laughed at that. To the sheriff, Matt said, “Can you stop in for a cup of coffee?”

  Fastwater stepped toward the house, but hesitated with a glance at Gitch. Abby said, “He can come in, Mr. Fastwater. Right, Dad?”

  “Sure.”

  The house seemed dark and close after the wide-open sunshine outside. They tromped single-file through the entryway and front room, with Abby and Gitch leading the way. When they reached the kitchen in the back of the house, Fastwater pulled out a chair at the table while Matt rummaged through cupboards for coffee fixings. Abby filled a bowl with water for Gitch, and then offered the big dog a leftover cheeseburger from the refrigerator. Gitch curled up under the table at the sheriff’s feet, gently mouthing small bites of the unfamiliar treat. Fastwater held the grocery bag in his lap, but set his cap on the table and ran a large hand through his wavy hair.

  Other than the custom .44 Magnum belted to his hip, the cap was his only piece of apparel that wasn’t official uniform. Dark brown in color, tattered and frayed from years of use, it simply read SOO in orange block letters across the front. He’d begun wearing it years ago as a private homage to his Sioux heritage. If anyone had bothered to ask him which tribe his family descended from, he would have told them with pride about his Dakota warrior blood.

  But no one asked.

  Local white folks boasted about their Norwegian heritage, or Swedish, Finnish, or German; but to them, the sheriff was simply a Native American. Two or three hundred years ago, the Ojibwe had come down over the top of Lake Superior and pushed the native Sioux tribe south, out onto the prairies. The Ojibwe themselves were being pushed west by white settlers in the east. But Fastwater’s family never moved. This had been their home since the first days. They assimilated themselves into the new tribe, helping the newcomers overcome the harsh realities of life on the north shore of Lake Superior. And when the white folks arrived, they assimilated again.

  Together, but apart.

  Of course, everyone in town thought his cap referred to the Soo Line Railroad, and again, if anyone had asked, he would have admitted that was probably what the cap had been designed for. But he preferred his made-up meaning, and the subtlety of it satisfied the sheriff just fine.

  When Abby took a seat across from him at the table, he asked, “Are you planni
ng to do any fishing this year?”

  Her answer was evident in the abrupt change in her countenance: from a relaxed and easygoing teenager to an expressionless stare. Matt’s coffee preparations suddenly resounded in the silence.

  “Abby is the best fisherman in these parts,” Matt said.

  “I know that,” Fastwater answered, holding Abby’s stare. “Have you gone after any steelhead this spring?”

  When Abby still didn’t respond, her father said, “We haven’t done much river fishing for a couple of years now. Abby tends to like lake fishing better.”

  Fastwater sat back, settled into his chair, and let a warm smile spread across his face. “You know, I remember when Leonard was just a little guy. I’d take him up fishing for rainbows.” Abby’s expression didn’t change. Fastwater took off his sunglasses and carefully set them on the table. “I used to laugh out loud watching him try to hook those feisty little critters.”

  A trace of a grin showed up in the corners of Abby’s eyes. “That’s because their mouths are so soft,” she said. “The hook just pulls through if you’re too rough.”

  Fastwater pointed at her and said, “Bingo! But do you know the best bait for rainbows?”

  “Red worms,” she answered promptly, as if taking a test.

  Fastwater nodded. “Red worms are good. But I know something even better.” He leaned forward slightly, like he didn’t want to be overheard. “A couple kernels of corn on a bare hook.”

  Abby looked skeptical. “For real?”

  The sheriff grinned. He could see her thinking it through.

  “Of course!” she exclaimed. “It makes sense. The yellow color would show up better in dark water.” Now she began thinking out loud. “And rainbows locate most of their food by sight.” Abby turned her avid concentration back on the sheriff. “I bet a fresh kernel of corn would stay on the hook better than a soggy old worm, too.”

  “That’s right,” Fastwater agreed. “But there’s more to the secret, and Leonard is the only other person who knows about it.”

  Matt came to the table and set out cream, sugar, and an open package of store-bought cookies.

  “Don’t tell me about slip sinkers,” Abby said. “That’s about all I use. Best set-up out there.”

  Fastwater laughed and nodded. “Hey,” he said, “ if you’re not fly fishing, then slip sinkers are a given for rainbows. But I’m still talking bait.”

  Matthew leaned against the counter, a smile resting easily on his face, enjoying the banter between his daughter and the sheriff.

  Fastwater sat forward, Abby’s attention completely his. “After you have that kernel of corn on the hook, and maybe just a piece of red worm for scent, you coat the whole thing in a thick gob of spit.”

  Both Matthew and Abby burst out laughing as the sheriff mimicked spitting on a hook. With a twinkle in his black eyes, he added, “Hey, it works. It’s good luck, too. Just try it sometime when the fishing slows down.”

  Just then the phone rang and Abby jumped, letting out a startled “Oh!” Her reaction wasn’t lost on Fastwater. Matt reached over to grab the cordless phone.

  “It’s Marcy,” he said, walking to the other side of the kitchen.

  The sheriff continued watching Abby. In an instant she’d gone completely pale, her half-eaten cookie forgotten. He calmly took the grocery bag from his lap and set it on the table between them. “There’s another thing that’s unique to fishing around here,” he said. From the grocery sack he pulled out the freezer bag of fish. “I taught this one to Leonard, too. You bring your lunch with you in a zippered plastic bag, and after you’ve eaten, you use the empty bag to haul your catch home. Keeps the fish smell off your gear and clothes, especially when you’re on foot.” He pushed the bag across the table. “I believe these are yours. Leonard found them the day Rose died, not far from her minnow seines.”

  The insinuation couldn’t have been clearer. Abby didn’t move. That explained the footprints at the water’s edge, she thought. Leonard always wore cowboy boots.

  The sheriff spoke quietly, intimately. “I know that Rose didn’t drown, Abby. And I believe you know that, too.”

  The tough guy stare was back.

  Fastwater said, “It’s too early in the season to seine minnows. Rose’s stock of bait came from the wholesalers. It always has this time of year. Also, when I found her, she wasn’t wearing waders.”

  Abby studied her hands resting on the bag of frozen fish. She vaguely recalled an image of the big man struggling to move in waders that fit way too tightly.

  “Not even you would go out in the water this time of year without waders,” the sheriff added.

  “How did you find out Rosie was dead?”

  “We got a call down at the diner.” Before he could say more, Matthew returned to the table and handed the phone to Abby.

  “Marcy wants to talk to you about the memorial service.”

  She took the phone, gave the sheriff a parting glare, and left the kitchen.

  Matthew picked up the bag of fish. “What’s this?”

  “Abby was with Ben out at Big Island the day they skipped school. Looks like they had some luck. Leonard found the bag along the shore. I’ve been keeping it in the freezer in my office.”

  Matt took Abby’s chair across from the sheriff. “She never said they went fishing.”

  “I think there’s a few things she hasn’t told us.”

  “Like what?” Matt’s voice rose as he stood up again. “Do you think she knows what happened to Ben?”

  “Sit down, Matt.”

  “I’m going to get her back in here. Abby!”

  The sheriff stood up, cutting off Matt’s access to the front room. He let his size take command of the situation. “Sit down, Matthew. Please. The one thing we know for sure about Abby is that she isn’t going to tell anyone anything right now.”

  “But if she knows something . . . Sheriff, time might be against us.”

  “Listen to me, Matthew. Abby is one of the smartest and bravest kids I’ve ever known. If she had any knowledge of Ben’s whereabouts, she’d tell us. I’m not sure what she knows. But the fact that she won’t talk about it says she believes Ben is safe.”

  Matt’s look was incredulous. “But if she knows anything—”

  “I don’t think she knows much,” Fastwater interrupted. “But did you notice how she acted when you came home today? Think about it. I’m in charge of the overall search, and you’ve been spending eighteen– and twenty-hour days out there. All of a sudden, with no explanation, we both come home when the search should just be heating up for the day. Don’t you think she’d want to know if we’d found something or had some news? But she went straight to Gitch—never asked anything about the search. I think she knows he isn’t out there.”

  Matt sat down again, studying the sheriff, shaking his head. “She’s just a kid. What you say makes sense, but if he’s not in the woods . . .”

  “He’s someplace safe, Matthew. You’ll have to trust me on this. Abby probably doesn’t know where he is, but she has some reason to believe he’s safe.”

  Matthew worked the bag of fish back and forth on the table, considering this new information. Fastwater looked at the coffee pot, spotted the mugs on the counter, and stepped over to pour a cup for each of them. When he sat down again, he said, “She took a couple of phone calls the night Ben disappeared. Wrong numbers. Remember?”

  Matt fingered the cup. “Yeah. I wasn’t home, though. The FBI asked her about them.”

  “Did they tell you the calls were traced to a cell phone out of Chicago?”

  “Chicago?”

  “It belonged to a man who died six months ago.”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

  “That I don’t think they were wrong numbers. Abby is hiding something.” Fastwater swung around in his chair to look through the kitchen doorway. At the far end of the front room, he could just make out Abby through the screen
door, sitting on the front stoop talking on the phone.

  “Whoever called here was using a stolen phone,” he continued, turning again to face Matt. “They knew you were out when they called, which means they probably called from right here in town. They were calling specifically to talk to Abby. When they were done, they coached her to say the calls were wrong numbers. After all, she wouldn’t know we could trace a cell phone call. She probably wouldn’t have suspected we’d even know about the calls in the first place. If she had said a friend called, we would have checked it out, and known she was lying. This way, we can’t know for sure.”

  Matt’s eyes were wet, his voice soft. “My poor little girl—”

  “She never flinched,” Fastwater interrupted. “I was there. When the FBI suddenly asked her about the calls, she immediately said they were wrong numbers, like she expected the question.”

  There was a pause, then Fastwater said, “I thought maybe Jackie would know something. She’s from Chicago, right?”

  “Yeah. But that was years ago. Besides, she wouldn’t pull a stunt like this.”

  “And the custody issue from your divorce hasn’t changed?”

  “No.” Getting exasperated, Matt said, “The FBI went through all this, Sheriff. Jackie gave up custody—signed the papers and never said another word about it.”

  “Most abductions are by non-custodial parents.”

  “I know that!” Matt said through clenched teeth. “But Jackie would never do that to Ben. She wouldn’t use Abby this way, either.”

  Another pause, and the sheriff asked, “But the kids have visited her in Duluth, right? Stayed with her there overnight?”

  “Sure, but not for a while now. They don’t like it there. Especially Abby.”

  Raising his coffee cup, the sheriff blew at heat vapors swirling above the mug. He heard the front screen door close behind him.

  Matt shook his head, and said, “Jackie wouldn’t take Ben. Not like this.”

  Abby sauntered back into the kitchen and dropped the phone on the table. She seemed to have regained some of her teenage swagger. “Marcy is picking me up to go to the service. We’re going to walk.”