Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

  Arlene said, “I admire your loyalty, Abby. Ben couldn’t ask for a better sister.”

  In a voice hardly more than a whisper, Abby said, “It’s my fault that they took him.”

  “Well, I really doubt that,” Arlene said. “But the fact is, you know what happened to him, even if you don’t know where he is.” She paused to hold a hand up at Marcy, again stopping her from going to the girl. “I’ll tell you something else, Abby,” she continued, still talking to her back. “The sheriff has spoken to me several times about the case. He knows you haven’t been telling him everything, but the big galoot is too kind to press you on it. And you can thank him for keeping the federal investigators off your back. Now, don’t get me wrong. Sheriff Fastwater knows which questions to ask. He just doesn’t want to hurt you anymore.”

  With that, Abby turned around to face her. She saw the truth all over Arlene’s face. She remembered her talk with the sheriff at the kitchen table shortly after Ben disappeared. Now she understood what should have been obvious: the sheriff had tried to give her an opening to let him help. He’d led her right to it, but she’d been too stubborn to see. Acknowledging the possibility that good people like Arlene and her brother could share her burden opened the spillway to her emotions. She stood in an exhausted slouch, trembling gently with her tears. She faced Arlene, but cast her looks and thoughts inward. Marcy finally broke free to come to her, wrapping the distraught girl in a protective bear hug.

  Arlene rose to her feet with a grunt. She moved slowly, stretching her neck and back while clearing her throat. With her hair pinned up and the flowing, colorful housedress billowing about her, Abby pictured a Native American opera singer preparing to perform.

  “You need to go home,” Arlene said. “Right now, Abby. Tonight. I’ll call Sheriff Fastwater to let him know you’re on the way.” She cleared her throat again, narrowing her eyes to a confidential squint. “There are unsavory elements infiltrating our local law enforcement, and they could present a danger for you. Until we figure out who Randall is working with, it’s not safe for you in Duluth.”

  Abby tried to think, tried to focus on Arlene’s words, but exhaustion had stolen her ability to concentrate.

  Adjusting a couple of the large, flashy rings on her manicured fingers, Arlene said, “We’re pretty sure the Chicago mafia is here. Of course, for years they’ve worked the trade unions and the harbor, but they were always quiet, staying in the background. Lately, we’ve been hearing about sums of cash paid out for cooperation—politically, legally, and in the network of small local businesses. Randall Bengston has shown up on our radar, but so far we don’t know who is involved, or why.” She paused to soften her official bearing with a gentle smile. “Bottom line, Abby, is that I wouldn’t trust your welfare to anyone in Duluth right now. You need to go home, and you need to talk to my brother.”

  Marcy said, “Speaking of Randall, I’ll run down and grab that file folder for you. It might point a finger at some of these bad guys you’re talking about.”

  Arlene nodded her agreement, and when Marcy left she took her place at Abby’s side.

  “What about my mother?” Abby asked.

  Arlene shrugged. “I really don’t think Jackie is a player in all this. I mean, she must be involved, but I really doubt she’s calling any of the shots.” She sighed and gave Abby a squeeze. “Your mother is a tough cookie, Abby. She can take care of herself. On the other hand, we don’t know Randall’s Chicago connection, so we’re just watching and waiting to see who comes around.”

  From outside came the sound of muffled voices, but Abby was thinking about Big Island Lake and a black luxury sedan. She said, “On the day Rosie died, I saw a car with Illinois license plates. I think the man driving it was one of the guys chasing us tonight.” Before she could explain further, however, the voices outside turned into shouts, and in the next instant Abby broke free from Arlene’s grasp and darted to the window.

  Down below, off to the right, the big sedan had Marcy’s car cornered against the curb. As she watched, Marcy came sprinting up the front lawn, arms pumping wildly, the file folder flapping from her fingertips. Behind her, the two men from the motel gave chase.

  Arlene finally joined her at the window. “Oh, my God,” she muttered, stepping closer. “That’s . . .” She grabbed Abby by the arm. “Let’s go!”

  They ran to the entrance off the breezeway, but as she opened the door for Marcy, Arlene pushed Abby across the room. “That way, Abby, through the kitchen. Run! Downstairs.”

  Abby did as she was told. She didn’t have time to admire the large kitchen with its flagstone flooring or the racks of stainless steel pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, because halfway through the room the lights went out. Beside her, the refrigerator clattered to a stop. Her momentum took her across the open space, and then, more than seeing it, she sensed the wide stairwell opening into a pitch-black chasm before her. Gingerly, she eased herself forward, located the hand railing, and lowered herself into the void. Behind her she heard the breezeway door slam and the deadbolt latch.

  It was cooler at the bottom of the stairs. Behind her, she heard voices and footsteps crossing the kitchen floor. A light suddenly flickered around the stairwell, and then Marcy appeared on the steps above her. Arlene came next, wielding a flashlight and pulling the kitchen door shut behind her. Soon they were all standing on the concrete basement floor, Arlene’s new hybrid sedan waiting silently in the shadows on the far side.

  “They cut the power,” Arlene cried, breathless. “Come on, this way,” she panted, pointing the flashlight beam at the car.

  They’d hardly set out, however, when the whole house shook from a thundering crash upstairs. And then another smashing impact, this time with splintering aftershocks as the breezeway door gave way. “Run!” Arlene yelled, and they were moving, dashing between stacks of boxes, garden tools, and old furniture.

  The flashlight briefly illuminated the obstacle course that made up Arlene’s storage room. The light bounced around helter-skelter as she ran, revealing the haphazard stacking arrangements of a pack rat. The ceiling hung low overhead, causing Marcy to run crouched over like a soldier darting through the trenches. A lone garage door stood at the far end, with the hybrid tucked in snugly behind it.

  “Go! Go!” Arlene called, running to the driver’s side of the car. Abby dove into the backseat just as Marcy swung too wide around the front fender, toppling a stack of boxes containing giveaway clothes. Climbing back out, Abby swiped a pile of clothing off the hood, and then reached a hand out to help Marcy up.

  The hybrid electric motor hummed to life, immediately followed by the crushing explosion of the stairway door above them in the kitchen. Abby directed Marcy into the front seat, and as she reached for the back door she once again saw the flicker of flashlight beams in the stairwell. She ducked into the car, the headlights came on, and Arlene reached up to push the overhead garage door opener. Then she pushed it again, and then a staccato rhythm of frantic jabs as she proclaimed, “It doesn’t work! There’s no power!”

  “I’ll get it,” Marcy called.

  “There’s no time!” Arlene yelled before Marcy could even grab the door handle. Arlene put the shifter in reverse and, bracing herself against the steering wheel, floored the gas pedal. “Hang on!”

  Abby spotted the glint of a flashlight playing over the car before she flew head first into the back of the front seats. Marcy caught herself against the dash, and then there was an ear-shattering explosion when the blunt rear end of the hybrid blew the old wooden garage door to pieces. They emerged on the other side, bounding recklessly downhill in reverse on the long concrete driveway.

  A deafening screech pierced the night as Arlene fought to maintain control. A section of the splintered garage door had lodged under the vehicle, grinding against the driveway and jerking the car around at odd angles. Abby slapped her hands over her ears until she was thrown against the ceiling when they bounced out of the driveway into
the street. Arlene swung the steering wheel around and stomped on the brakes. A moment later they shot forward, and with a clatter and jolt the garage door panel was ripped out from under them. Finally free of its anchor, the spunky little car quietly shot out into the dark.

  “Yee-haw!” Marcy yelped, bouncing like a rodeo rider in the front seat.

  Abby tried to look behind them at the house, but Arlene soon turned a corner, and with the house completely lost to view, the wide panorama of the harbor and Canal Park lit up before them.

  “I’ve been meaning to replace that old door for years,” Arlene said. “Never got around to it, but I guess I will now.”

  Marcy laughed, offering up a high-five across the front seat. “Give me your cell phone,” Arlene said.

  “I don’t have one.”

  Arlene opened the storage space between them, but slammed the lid after a quick inspection. “Damn it, mine’s back home in my purse. We have to get in touch with my brother.”

  Abby caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “Who was that guy back there? You know him.”

  Arlene focused on her driving, turning onto Skyline Parkway and aiming them for the expressway north. “It was dark, Abby. It could have been anyone.”

  “But you saw him. You know him.”

  Arlene suddenly swerved into another turn, throwing Abby across the backseat. They entered another tree-lined residential street. “I guess I’ll just have to take you to my brother myself,” she said, changing the subject. She checked her mirrors, looked around to get her bearings, and to Marcy said, “We’ll take the back roads. They won’t be but a couple of minutes behind us. I’ll never outrun them on the freeway.”

  Abby studied the lights and skyline and harbor spread out for miles below them. It was beautiful, and at this distance looked peaceful and safe. She moved over against the door, avoiding Arlene’s sightline in the rearview mirror. Now that the adrenaline rush had passed, she felt the heavy cloak of exhaustion wrapping itself around her. Ultimately, it didn’t matter who was chasing them. Arlene was in charge now.

  Abby let her head loll against the seat, half-heartedly picking out landmarks in the dazzle of lights below. As beautiful as it was, she’d had enough. She closed her eyes, rocking against the headrest and door, her thoughts moving forward in anticipation of the relative safety and familiarity of the great forests back home.

  SEVENTEEN

  Marlon Fastwater

  The postmistress laughed and tossed her crib cards at the cribbage board. She’d won again, making whatever points she might have in the crib meaningless.

  “I swear, Mrs. Bean,” Sheriff Fastwater declared, “your luck is absolutely unconscious.” The outcome may have already been decided, but he picked up the crib cards anyway just to see what was there, “Look at this,” he said. “Another eight points.” He threw the cards down, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Now, don’t start in with your whining,” Mrs. Bean scolded, eyes twinkling as she gathered up the cards. “What is it that’s so upsetting, the fact that you’ve been playing for about thirty years longer than me? Or is it because I’m a woman?”

  He scoffed. It irked him when she talked like that. “It’s your unconscious luck, that’s all. You have no strategy, but then you get all the cuts anyway.”

  “Well, don’t forget you’re the one who taught me to play.” Mrs. Virginia Bean slid an index finger along the cribbage board to count up her margin of victory. “Thirty-one cents, Marlon,” she announced. She moved some of her dinner dishes out of the way to locate her bank, an old cough lozenge tin full of coins. “You barely made it off Third Avenue this time,” she added.

  Ignoring her last smart-aleck comment, the sheriff opened the middle drawer of his desk and counted out change from the pencil holder. “I’ll have to write you an I.O.U.,” he said, fingering the coins. “There’s only eighteen cents here.”

  “I broke the bank?” Mrs. Bean clapped her hands and laughed. “You know, you really shouldn’t be gambling if you can’t afford to lose.”

  At the sound of her clapping, Gitch got up from his rug beside the desk and walked a slow lap around them. He ended up at the door, looking back at Fastwater. The sheriff eyed him while commenting to the postmistress, “Even Gitch is happy to have his office back. I don’t know how many times his tail got stepped on when this place was overrun with federales and volunteers. What a circus.”

  “I think we’re all grateful for a little peace and quiet,” she said.

  Fastwater got up to let the dog out. The crock-pot on the desk still emitted the glorious aroma of meatballs in barbecue sauce, even though they’d shut it off some time ago. Gitch had eaten a fair share of them himself, probably adding to his lethargic behavior this evening. When the sheriff stepped away from the desk, Mrs. Bean did a quick straightening up, collecting napkins and paper plates for the trash.

  Standing in the doorway, Fastwater inhaled the fresh breeze off Lake Superior, letting the cool night air caress him. Gitch plodded into the parking lot, keeping his nose down as if some exotic scent had captured his interest. The sheriff knew this game, and resigned himself to letting it play out. The big dog moseyed along, occasionally swinging his head far enough around to keep an eye on the sheriff to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He sniffed along the side of the squad car and then paused near the rear wheel, lifting a leg to do his business against the tire.

  “Real funny, you old mutt,” Fastwater called. “Just see how many meatballs you get next time.”

  Gitch gave him a last look, then wandered off to inspect the perimeter of the parking lot. Fastwater continued standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, the door propped open against his shoulder. Behind him, Mrs. Bean asked, “What do you hear from Matthew? He hasn’t picked up his mail in a day or two.”

  The sheriff took a final deep breath of the cool, damp air, and then rejoined the postmistress inside. “I think he’s just trying to focus on work and staying busy. They say that can help.”

  “That’s a load of you-know-what,” she said, suddenly standing up and becoming more animated in her housekeeping. The sheriff stood back, watching while she stuffed the trashcan and used a napkin to scrub at spilled barbecue sauce. “I can tell you what that man needs,” she continued, as if talking to herself. “He needs someone to look after him, and I don’t know why he can’t see Marcy standing right there in front of him.”

  “Now, Mrs. Bean . . .”

  She waved him off and turned to face him with a withering glower. “All you men are just alike, so macho and self-sufficient. I suppose he expects Abby to keep that place running.”

  “Matthew does a good job with those kids.”

  Mrs. Bean glared at him, but didn’t dare utter the thought that came to both of them. She seemed to back off then, and took her seat beside the desk with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Marlon. I just feel so bad for them.”

  “Well, we all do.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that Marcy could be such a comfort to him right now. And Abby—who is she supposed to turn to?” Mrs. Bean paused to take a breath, looking a little lost amid the clutter of the sheriff’s office. “All I’m saying is, Matthew and Marcy belong together. They’re just alike, and neither one of them will ever leave this town. She’s not like Jackie, who was trying to get away from here as soon as she arrived.”

  Fastwater remembered the looks Marcy gave Matthew in the café. Maybe Mrs. Bean was right about them, but he doubted that Matthew had a clue. “Now, don’t be so hard on Jackie,” he said. “You know that Abby is staying with her for a few days.”

  “In Duluth? Are you kidding me? Abby hates Duluth.”

  “Well, it was her idea.”

  “And Matthew is okay with it?”

  Fastwater shrugged. “I suppose. What’s he going to do, forbid her from visiting her mother?” He started for the door again, but stopped to add, “Marcy took her down there. She and Abby convinced Matthew that it would be okay. They�
��re kind of hanging out together.”

  It took a moment, but the smile finally bloomed on Mrs. Bean’s face. She started to speak, but the sheriff cut her off. “Now, don’t go making more out of it than it is. Marcy is just trying to be a good neighbor, and a friend to Abby.”

  The postmistress closed her cribbage coin tin, a self-satisfied grin lighting up her face. Fastwater could see her mind whirling as she adjusted items on the desk. He couldn’t stop the rebuke. “All you women are just alike, so conniving and meddling.”

  She pulled her woolen postal sweater off the back of the chair and draped it over her shoulders. Flipping her hair away from her neck and out over the collar, she sat up straight and fixed him with her merry blue-eyed gaze, as if everything was once again right with the world. “Okay, Marlon, fair enough. Touché.”

  He shook his head and went back to the door to watch for Gitch. For the most part he enjoyed the evenings he spent with the postmistress. She could be a little pushy at times, perhaps a bit too opinionated for his quiet nature, but the fact remained that he looked forward to sharing a dinner with her, or a walk down along the shore. He appreciated her companionship, and the intimacy of sharing their daily exploits and gossip. He even had to admit that as irritating as it was to lose to her, he enjoyed their cribbage games over his desk in the office. She’d picked up on the subtleties of the game very quickly, and although he’d never admit it to her, she was a good player.

  He spotted Gitch sitting by the entrance to the parking lot, gazing down the hillside toward Lake Superior. The dog tipped his nose up, as if picking up on a scent or listening to a strange sound beyond the sheriff’s ability to hear. A sudden gust of wind blew past, and a chill rattled down Fastwater’s spine. He shook himself as goosebumps rose on his arms. Peering into the darkness around the side of the office, up into the woods and the graveyard beyond, his intuition warned of ill tidings roaming the forested countryside. Whatever it was, evil motives or just bad news, he knew that it was coming his way.