Abby paused, but soon Marcy figured she’d accepted her word, because the girl pursed her lips, nodded in agreement, and turned away so as not to make eye contact while she spoke. Scanning the stones at her feet for another skipper, she began, “We had to leave our gear behind when we ran away. That’s why we didn’t have anything with us when you saw us in the café. I went back later that night, but the man had already found it. He got our address out of the backpacks. When he came to get me, only Ben was home, so he took him as insurance.”
“He kidnapped Ben?”
“Yeah. But I’m the one he wants. He called me later to say Ben would be okay if I didn’t tell anyone what I saw at the lake.”
“He called to blackmail you? And you believe him?”
Abby nodded. “Sheriff Fastwater told me the man used a stolen cell phone. I saw Ben in the car with him.” She grimaced with worry. “Don’t you see? I have no choice, I have to believe him.”
“So, Fastwater knows all about this?”
“Of course he does.” Abby told herself that she wasn’t really lying. She had no idea how much the sheriff knew, but he was aware of the phone calls, and he knew she’d been out at the lake. He’d put Rosie’s death and Ben’s disappearance together, and for all she knew, he probably had even more facts than that to work with.
“But, Abby, if the man murdered Rose . . .”
“It means he’ll kill Ben if he has to. I only hope something comes up in the autopsy.”
Marcy shook her head, and with conviction said, “I have to talk to the sheriff.”
Abby grabbed her by the vest. “You promised me.”
Marcy pulled back. The look on Abby’s face wasn’t so much threatening as pleading. “This is way too big for you, Abby. The FBI is up there in town. They have all sorts of tricks and gadgets to catch people.”
Abby shook her head. “The man said Ben would come home in a few weeks if I didn’t tell anyone.”
“And you believe him? Come on, Abby, you said yourself he’s a murderer.”
“That’s just my point. Don’t you see? If I go blabbing on about it, and the police somehow figure it out and close in, he’ll dump Ben in a lake somewhere like he did with Rose. Then it’s just my word against his.”
Marcy’s expression softened. “Abby, you can’t be so naïve as to think he’ll just let Ben go.”
“What else do I have, Marcy? Even if I wanted to talk, I don’t know who he is, much less where to find him.”
“Let the cops handle it. They know how to negotiate these things. They get hostages free all the time.”
“No way, Marcy. I can’t risk it. I’ve thought all that stuff over a million times. If anything went wrong and Ben didn’t come home, I’d never forgive myself.” Having made her point, Abby turned and resumed the hike back to town.
Marcy quickly caught up. “If we could just figure out where he’s keeping Ben, maybe we could do something.”
Abby stopped so abruptly she almost tripped. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
“Well, jeez, Abby, now that you’ve told me the story, I’m kind of a part of the whole thing.” And, she thought, making herself the girl’s confidant might take some of the weight off Abby’s shoulders. Besides, if any real information came out, she’d have no qualms about going to the sheriff with it. It was one thing to be a friend, but if Abby found herself in any real danger, Marcy wouldn’t hesitate to run for help.
“Don’t forget—you promised not to tell.”
“I won’t. But I don’t think we can trust this guy to keep Ben safe. I mean, we have no idea who we’re dealing with.”
They walked at a slow, thoughtful pace for the next ten minutes. Marcy questioned Abby about the man, but other than the fact that he was tall and well built, with a tanned complexion, there wasn’t much to discuss. “He was a white man, with short, dark hair that stood straight up on top, but he wore sunglasses, so I’m not sure I’d even recognize him again.”
Marcy brainstormed ideas out loud. “The car was from Illinois. Maybe Chicago?”
“Could be. Seems logical.”
“Maybe he’s a gangster. I read one time that they have mafia in Chicago.”
Abby laughed. “What in the world would the mafia be doing in Black Otter Bay?”
“Who else would have a reason to murder an old lady?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Why would someone want Rosie out of the way?”
“Maybe she knew something, like the name of a criminal.”
Abby flashed her best teenage sarcastic look. “Again, Marcy, this is Black Otter Bay. What could she possibly have known?”
“First rule of brainstorming, young lady: no idea is a bad idea.”
Marcy was happy to see a grin emerge on Abby’s face, and it stayed there while they hiked in silence for a few more minutes. It was apparent that sharing her secret had been a relief to Abby, even though Marcy had no solid advice to offer her young friend. In fact, she really had no idea how she could be of help, but she was willing to listen, and at the first hint of danger, Marcy would run to the sheriff so fast . . .
Abby pointed. “Look, there’s Rosie’s old boathouse.”
They were approaching the Bengston property, a five-acre slice of land between the highway and the lake with 600 feet of cobblestone shoreline. The old boathouse, a square-logged, hand-scribed structure, was more than a century old. Proof of that was inside, above the doorless opening facing the lake, where the year “1898” was carved in deep, thick numerals. The logs, lengths of twelve– and fourteen-inch-thick pine and cedar, were burnished black by years of abuse by waves and ice. The Bengstons hadn’t utilized the building since the death of Randall’s father more than thirty years ago. Henry Bengston had been the last commercial fisherman in the area. Over the past three decades, the shifting cobblestone beach had piled up against the boathouse, so that now it protruded out of the shore like a fortified beachhead. Several roof boards were missing, allowing enough light for Abby to point out the date etched over the door.
“Wow,” Marcy said. “I never knew this was here. Did you?”
“Sure. Rosie brought me down here many times. She let me play on the beach. Ben and I used this place as a fort, or sometimes a castle, depending on what game we were playing.”
When she looked around the small interior, Marcy noticed several huge spikes nailed into the logs. At one time used as hooks for Henry Bengston’s fishing equipment, the spikes held discarded and long-forgotten marker buoys, rotting netting, and coils of rope. Even open to the sun and weather, the boathouse held a musty odor of decay and neglect.
As Abby ducked back outside, she said, “Rosie and I talked about jacking the place up and restoring it someday. I don’t know what will happen to it now.”
“It would be a shame to lose it. Can’t you just see the old fishermen mending their nets in here?”
Abby stopped. “You really do believe in ghosts, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” Marcy asked with a laugh.
“Well, you told us about Agda, the ghost in the café. And now you’re talking about the spirits of old fishermen. Sure sounds like you believe in ghosts.”
Joining Abby outside, Marcy said, “I didn’t say I believe in them. But I do like to keep an open mind.”
Abby laughed. “Okay, whatever you say. Come on, let’s go up to the house.”
Marcy took great pleasure in seeing the smile on Abby’s face and the lighthearted spring in her step. It felt good to think that perhaps she’d distracted the girl, for a short time anyway, from the worries of the past week.
A seldom-used path led up from the beach through a broad stand of tall birch and aspen trees. Straight as toothpicks, the trees held their crowns of fresh young leaves high overhead. It was quiet here, except for the soft rustling of a cool breeze wafting up from the lake.
An old barn-like structure soon came into view. A squat, fat building, the bait shop looked even shorter due t
o a heavy listing to one side. It appeared to be propped up by several cords of split firewood stacked along one wall. As they approached the building from the rear, Marcy was surprised to see so much junk piled up against the back wall. Scattered over the forest floor lay several old cattle troughs, once used as minnow tanks. Some of them now hosted full-grown aspen trees, their trunks growing up through the rusted-out, bottomless hulks. She identified old snowplow and tractor parts, and half a dozen overturned fishing boats with gaping holes in their hulls.
Silently, they made their way along the side of the building where neat rows of maple and birch firewood stood beneath a tin-roofed lean-to attached to the building. The place had a deserted feel to it, but Marcy found herself sneaking along behind Abby anyway.
Beyond the bait shop stood the clapboard-sided house. A couple decades ago it had been painted white, with white trim, but much of the siding had weathered to a bare gray, with curled patches of peeling paint hanging in neglected disrepair. Looking beyond the house, Marcy saw where the driveway dropped off sharply from the highway, past a sign announcing, ROSIE’S BAIT SHOP—OPEN 24 HOURS. At the bottom of the hill, the driveway split to make a circle around the house. Another homemade sign directed traffic to stay to the right. On this right-hand side, a rubber-coated buzzer wire lay across the driveway. It functioned like the ones used in old-time full-service gas stations: when a vehicle rolled over it, a doorbell-like chime sounded inside the house and bait shop.
But there were no customers here today. Abby crossed the driveway to peek in the kitchen window. To Marcy, the place had the overrun, weather-beaten look of desertion. Near the side of the house was evidence of a long-ago garden bed. Having not been tended in years, it was now an overgrown jumble of weeds and shrubs, highlighted by captured pieces of litter that had blown in off the highway. A white plastic bag fluttered against the house from its mooring on an aspen sapling sprouting up next to the foundation. Bits of Styrofoam from broken bait buckets stuck out like small patches of snow.
The windows of the house were covered with heavy draperies against the recent cold weather, although many of the first-floor windows were obscured by untrimmed vegetation. The surrounding forest was quickly reclaiming what had once been a lawn.
Marcy turned her attention to the front of the bait shop. A single-stall overhead garage door was closed, as well as the small service door next to it. On the plywood panels of the overhead door, a faded mural depicting a fisherman and his canoe could still be seen. A small sign tacked on the service door revealed it to be the home of ROSIE’S BAIT.
Abby recrossed the driveway and tried the small door. When it opened, she looked back at Marcy, and said, “Come on, let’s take a look.”
“We shouldn’t go in there, Abby.”
“Just for a minute. I want to show you something. No one’s around, and Rosie wouldn’t mind.”
“It’s trespassing.”
“You wait here, then. I’ll be right back.” She scooted inside, but left the door open.
Marcy stuck her hands in her pockets and looked around the property again. It was peaceful and quiet, and the sunshine felt so warm and friendly here away from the lake. But it didn’t take long for the stillness of the woods to work on her nerves. “Abby?” she called. Peeking inside, she found a large open room filled with shadows and, she guessed, cobwebs and little scurrying feet. The only light came from the open door. The minnow tanks hummed their insistent drone of life support.
“Abby?”
“Over here. I’m looking for the light switches.”
Straight ahead, Marcy discerned the form of the cash register on the counter. Abby’s voice came from behind it. “Okay, Marcy, I found it. Come on in and close the door.”
Marcy did as instructed, only closing the door after the bank of fluorescent lights over the counter came to life. They emitted a pale, sickly glow, as if reluctantly, and didn’t illuminate the corners of the room so much as enhance their crepuscular mystery. The building appeared much larger from inside. It extended well beyond the reach of the lights, where Marcy detected stacks of equipment and supplies, as well as Rose’s old, dented and rusted-out pickup truck.
Abby came around the counter to grab Marcy’s hand. “Look at this,” she said, pulling her over to the cash register. Abby pointed at a photograph from among dozens taped under the glass of the counter.
“That’s me,” she said. “Ten years ago.”
Marcy looked at a picture of a grinning little girl holding up a crappie hardly bigger than her hand.
“And here’s another one.” Abby pointed at a photo of her family standing in front of the bait shop’s mural. Ben and Matthew held a stringer of walleyes between them, while Abby and Jackie stood behind, looking on.
“Jackie doesn’t look too happy,” Marcy commented.
“She never liked fishing,” Abby replied. “She didn’t like camping, either, or the woods.” Still holding Marcy’s hand, she turned to look at her. “I’m sorry she was so rude to you today.”
“It’s nothing, Abby. I’m sure this whole episode would push anyone off center. Do you think she’s happy living in Duluth?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“I grew up with Randall. He’s older than me, but I’ve known him all my life. He always was a little odd. It’s weird though, seeing him with Jackie.”
“Yuck!”
Marcy laughed. “Well, you have to admit, he’s got some money.”
“Sure. And he’s also got pals in the casino business, which makes Mom really happy.”
Marcy frowned and withdrew her hand. She’d heard the gambling rumors to which Abby alluded. Feigning interest in the photographs, she leaned over the counter while saying, “You can’t be sure about that, Abby. People say all sorts of things.”
“You sound like my dad now.”
Marcy followed Abby along the length of the counter. “So, how’s your dad doing?”
Abby stopped at the first tank of minnows. “I think this is killing him. But he doesn’t talk much, so I don’t know. He’s been out in the woods every day with the search teams.”
“You know, I grew up with Matthew, too. His older brother, your Uncle Dan, was Randall’s age. Dan was everyone’s heartthrob, but I always kind of liked your dad.”
Abby continued on to the next minnow tank, then stopped to stare into the darker recesses of the room.
“Your dad and Leonard Fastwater were best friends in school. Did your dad ever tell you we went on a few dates in high school?”
When Abby didn’t reply, Marcy figured it was because a teenager wouldn’t want to talk about her father in that way. Looking at the girl’s long, thick braid lying heavily against her back, Marcy concluded, “I think we were just too much alike.”
Abby still didn’t move, so Marcy stepped in closer behind. “Abby?”
“That’s the truck,” the girl said, staring into the darkened garage bay
“What truck?”
Abby turned to grab Marcy’s hand again. “Out at the lake, when I ran away from that man. Remember? I saw a pickup truck coming in on the access road. That’s the truck. I knew there was something familiar about it!”
When the bait shop buzzer suddenly rang, they both jumped. Abby ran back along the counter to peek out the window of the small door. “It’s Randall,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “And Mom.”
By the time she returned to the shadows near the truck, they heard a car door slam and a voice raised in anger. “Quick,” Abby said, nearly pushing Marcy up over the side of the pickup truck bed.
“The lights, Abby. What about the lights?” But before she could answer, the bait shop door crashed open, and they flattened themselves against the bed of the truck.
“I don’t give a rip,” Randall yelled into his cell phone. “We had a deal.”
Amid the racket of things smashing to the floor, Marcy pressed herself as hard as she could against the truck bed.
“That’s
your problem,” Randall yelled. “Tell them to wait.”
Abby pulled herself up over the wheel well to spy on Randall as he ransacked drawers and shelves behind the counter. Tackle and supplies toppled to the floor.
“Screw you!” he bellowed. Then, following a long pause, he continued in a calmer, nearly normal manner. “Listen to me. We just had a memorial service for my mother. Now, I’m holding up my end of this thing, so you’ll just have to be patient and back off. I need a couple weeks.”
With one hand he extracted a small handgun from the till in the cash register drawer and held it up to the light. Abby watched as he used a thumb to pop open the cylinder. Satisfied that the gun was loaded, he slammed the cylinder shut with a deft flick of his hand, then grabbed a box of ammunition from the drawer and stuffed it in his pocket.
“That’s right,” he said into the phone. “Everything will be fine. If anything does go wrong, we’ll just put it on Jackie. Either way, the deal goes through.”
When he hung up, he stood still for a moment, staring straight ahead as if listening, or perhaps replaying the conversation in his mind. The gun in his hand hung limp at his side. He looked around, then at the counter and the floor. Slowly, his head tilted back until he faced the overhead fluorescent fixture. When he unexpectedly spun around, Abby ducked and closed her eyes tight against her arm.
“Damn it!” she muttered to herself.
The only sound beyond the pounding of their hearts was the suddenly amplified hum of the minnow tanks. Ears straining, they awaited discovery. Then the bait shop door opened again, and Jackie called, “Randall?”
“Shhh!”
“What is it? Come on, let’s go.”
“Shut up!”
Marcy grabbed Abby’s hand. Over the humming tanks she heard the faint scrape of a hard-soled shoe on the concrete floor. There it was again, closer, and then the loud click of the gun being cocked. Several seconds ticked off before Marcy sensed Randall standing at the driver’s side door of the pickup, peering through the darkened window. He slid to the front end of the truck, and it was quiet again as he scrutinized the shadows in the back of the shop. The silence became so intense that Marcy involuntarily held her breath.
Black Otter Bay Page 12
