Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

  She sat forward to take a closer look. Turning the volume control produced a loud crackling of static. Once again she pushed the microphone button, and this time the static stopped. Intrigued, she unclipped the microphone, held it to her mouth, and pushed the button again. “Hello? Hello?”

  No response. She turned the volume way up, pushed the button, and said, “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

  Nothing. Looking through the back window, she saw the antenna held down along the length of the truck box by a hook just behind the cab. She got out, unhooked the antenna, and let it whip upright from its base. Now she knew why Rose kept it clipped down; it was too tall to fit through the garage door.

  She reached across the seat and grabbed the microphone again. “Hello? Hello? Is anybody out there? Can anyone hear me?”

  The static resumed its noisy monologue. Abby climbed up to hook the microphone back on the dash when the CB suddenly roared in her face. “Breaker one-nine. Breaker one-niner.”

  Abby grabbed at the volume control and turned it down, then sat back, dumbfounded, staring at the little box mounted under the dash.

  “Breaker one-nine,” came a woman’s voice again. “Are you still there? Over.”

  Abby couldn’t hold back a grin. This old thing still worked!

  “Breaker one-nine, this is Thunderbird. How about it out there, you still got your ears on?”

  Abby picked up the microphone. She had no idea what to say. This was crazy! “Thunderbird?” she ventured. “Is that you, Mrs. Bean?”

  “Ten-four, young lady. Abby?”

  “Mrs. Bean! I’m so glad—”

  “You have to hold the button down the whole time you talk, Abby. You’re breaking up.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Bean, I mean, Thunderbird.” Abby giggled. The name “Thunderbird” didn’t exactly slide off her tongue, especially when addressing Mrs. Bean.

  “What’s your twenty, Abby? Where are you?”

  Abby could barely hear again, so she turned up the volume. “I’m at the bait shop. The phone doesn’t work here. Could you call Sheriff Fastwater to go pick up Arlene and Marcy? Our car went in the ditch on the back road up from Duluth. They’re not too far from town.”

  “Is everybody okay?” The volume continued fading, so Abby kept turning it up.

  “We’re fine. I mean, I think so. I’m just really tired. Would you also call my dad to come get me?”

  “Of course. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Mrs. Bean’s voice faded to a whisper as the radio drained the old truck battery. Abby turned the volume all the way up, but could barely even hear the static anymore.

  “I’m losing power. Thanks for your help, Mrs. Bean.” And then the radio was dead. Abby shut it off, replaced the microphone, and sat back again. At least she’d called for help for her friends. Mrs. Bean would know what to do.

  Drawing a deep sigh, Abby felt the disappointment of the evening seeping into her, weighing her down and making it difficult to move. She slid off the truck seat and closed the door. Aiming the flashlight around the room one last time, she made a final inspection, looking for something she knew wasn’t there, and then, feeling defeated, headed for the door to await her father’s arrival. On the way she passed the minnow tanks sitting silently in the dark. Without water pumps, she figured they’d all be dead by morning.

  Abby set the flashlight on the counter, and then stepped over to the door. Broken window glass crunched underfoot. She grabbed the tarp and lifted it to reach the door handle, but as she pushed it open she spotted the flash of headlights flickering against the treetops on the other side of the house.

  She slammed the door and pulled just enough of the tarp aside to peer outside. A car was coming. By watching the lights among the trees, she could tell when the vehicle dropped off the highway to follow the driveway down around the house. As it approached, the glimmering lights played along the trees and brush, but when the car rounded the house, the headlights fell full on the bait shop.

  Abby dropped the tarp and sucked in her breath. No need to lock the door, she’d already broken the window! Two quick steps brought her back to the counter, where she retrieved the flashlight and held it in both hands like a baseball bat. At the door again, she watched as the reflections from the headlights slid slowly across the tarp. Then it stopped.

  A moment later it disappeared.

  Abby stood behind the door, clutching the long, heavy flashlight like a weapon. She focused all her attention into listening. It was much too soon for her father’s arrival, plus he would have left the lights on and the motor running. She couldn’t hear anything, and when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she once again reached for the tarp.

  Not twenty feet away stood the big car, the same car she’d seen so long ago out at Big Island Lake, the car that had chased them up from Duluth. She wondered if the man’s presence here meant he’d left Arlene and Marcy alone. The back road wound much farther up north before looping back down to Black Otter Bay, so it was entirely possible that she could have beaten him here on foot by cutting cross-country while he circled around up north on the back road.

  Then another thought occurred to her: maybe Ben was in the car! Could she have been right after all? Was he just now being brought up here? She heard a car door close, quietly, like someone trying to be sneaky. In a sudden panic, she ran back around the counter to hide in the dark. Her heart resumed its frightened pounding, making it difficult to breathe or react sensibly. What was she thinking? She couldn’t hide here. If that was indeed Ben outside and they brought him in here, she’d simply get caught and be of no use at all.

  She stood up, scrunched her face into a grimace, and marched back around the counter to stand behind the door. She took a firm grip on the flashlight, wrapping her fingers around it tightly. Holding an ear at the edge of the tarp, she listened and waited while nervously gripping and kneading the flashlight, ready now to take the offensive.

  A minute later she still couldn’t hear anything. Then, silently and barely moving, with her resolve fading away, she inched the tarp aside to look out at the driveway. The big car sat there, a brooding menace outside the door. Then she saw a light out ahead of the car, and pulled the tarp away in time to stick her head through the broken window to see a lone figure carrying a bound and gagged body over his shoulder. Abby’s thoughts immediately went back to Big Island Lake and the man in the waders carrying Rose’s body. She watched as he followed his flashlight beam around the side of the bait shop.

  The boathouse!

  “Oh, my God!” Abby muttered out loud. Of course it was the boathouse! Nobody ever went down there anymore. She opened the door and stepped outside. With the flashlight still off and her eyes accustomed now to the dark, she scooted along the front of the bait shop to the path leading through the aspen grove to the beach. Up ahead, she spotted the bobbing glow of the man’s flashlight as he unsteadily trekked along under the weight over his shoulder.

  Abby paused as a million thoughts rambled through her exhausted brain. She was certain it was her brother on the man’s shoulder, and he wasn’t dead, because she’d clearly seen the duct tape over his mouth. She turned to look back at the bait shop doorway. She couldn’t call for help because both the telephone and radio were dead, and there was no way of knowing how long it would take her father to get here. She aimed her flashlight back at the car. Nothing moved, no heads ducked out of the way. It was just a big, broad vehicle blocking the driveway.

  Abby shut off the flashlight and took a deep breath. She realized now that she’d been right, that she really had figured out Randall’s riddle. Something big was happening here tonight, and it included her little brother. She had no choice. She was completely alone, there was no help to be had, and this was her last chance to make it right with Ben.

  She looked back at the footpath and the quickly disappearing light up ahead. After reaffirming her grip on the heavy flashlight, Abby set out on the narrow trail to the beach, trusting her mem
ory to carry her safely over the rocky path in the dark to a reunion with her little brother. And this time she was determined that he wouldn’t slip away.

  • • • • •

  Between the office phone and his cell phone, Sheriff Fastwater had taken more calls tonight then he usually received in a week.

  “Fastwater,” he said, grabbing the office phone off his desk.

  “Marlon? I just talked to Abby.”

  “Mrs. Bean?”

  “Abby is down at the bait shop. She said Arlene and Marcy are in the ditch out behind town.”

  Fastwater sat back. The bait shop! Why on earth would Abby think that Ben was down there? They’d searched that whole area a thousand times.

  “Did you hear me, Marlon? Your sister went off the road.”

  “I know. Leonard is bringing them in.”

  “Abby called me on Rose’s old CB radio.”

  “Did she say why she’s down there?”

  “No. But she asked me to call Matthew to pick her up.”

  “Can you raise her on the radio again?”

  “No. It’s dead.”

  Fastwater shoved his cell phone and car keys in his pockets, patted his utility belt, and let his gaze fall on Gitch, lying on his rug looking up at him expectantly. Into the phone, the sheriff said, “Okay then, thanks, Mrs. Bean. Go ahead and call Matthew if you want, but I’m on my way down to the bait shop now. I’ll bring Abby home if he wants to wait for her there.”

  “Okay, Marlon. I’ll call him.”

  Fastwater wanted to run, felt the need to find Abby as soon as possible, but when he reached out to hang up the phone, he heard the postmistress still talking.

  “What? What’s that, Mrs. Bean?”

  “I was just asking if everything is okay.”

  “Everything’s fine now. I’ll just run down and pick up Abby. Leonard is bringing Arlene and Marcy in, and he’ll get the wrecker out there to retrieve the car. I have to go now, Mrs. Bean. Thanks for helping.” He didn’t give her a chance to say more, but hung up and grabbed his SOO cap off the desk. “Come on, Gitch,” he said. “Time to saddle up, buddy.”

  The big dog bounded to his feet and joined the sheriff already striding through the door. Outside, they found the fog piled up against the ridge like enemy armies amassing along a walled fortress.

  “Jesus Christ,” Fastwater muttered while opening the back door of the squad car for Gitch. He paused to look out into the black void over the lake. It was like the town below him and the stars above had completely disappeared. “What a night to go chasing around in the woods,” he commented. And then he climbed in and pointed the big car down the hill. As an extra precaution, he turned on the emergency roof rack of lights, and they flitted silently through the deserted streets of town like a gaudy one-car parade on their way out to the bait shop down Highway 61.

  • • • • •

  Abby shivered. It felt like the fog inundating the aspen grove had a weight to it, cold and wet, and almost smothering in its density. Young saplings crowded in against the path, further obscuring her line of travel in the dark. But she knew the twists and turns in the trail by memory, and her tired feet carried her over rocks and tree roots. The bobbing light up ahead was gone and she didn’t dare turn on her own flashlight, so she carefully crept along in the dark, reaching out into the fog to feel her way forward.

  Randall had said that Ben would soon return. She wondered if that meant he’d simply be set free from the boathouse, or if they’d haul him up into the forest somewhere to be found. And if Ben did come home safely, how could Randall expect that neither one of them would talk? She had to consider that once again Randall was lying, that he had no intention of letting her brother go. If Ben did come home, Randall’s leverage over her would be lost. He couldn’t risk either one of them talking to the authorities, which would explain the chase through Canal Park to Arlene’s house and up the back road from Duluth.

  No one ever used the back road anymore. Other than some locals, no one even knew it existed, so how had the man in the big car found them? There were just too many questions without answers, making it too risky to leave Ben’s fate in the hands of Randall. With a frown, she admitted to herself that the one thing she knew for sure was that none of this would have happened if she hadn’t made Ben skip school to go fishing.

  An exposed tree root caught her toe and sent her careening down the path, the flashlight clattering to the ground as she swung her arms to keep from falling. Finally regaining her balance, she crouched in the pathway, silently berating herself. Pay attention, dummy!

  She paused to listen, but the forest maintained its brooding silence. From down on the shore Abby heard the incoming surf splashing over the beach. It was a gentle lapping, with the soft sound easily carried to her through the fog. She backtracked a few steps, feeling around on the damp ground for the flashlight. Ready again, she continued on her way, treading slowly along the twisting pathway leading to the boathouse.

  Lake Superior acted like a natural air conditioner down here along the shore, and the sweat she’d worked up running through the woods from the back road had dried against her skin so that she trembled now in the damp fog. She heard voices up ahead, and the banging around of equipment being moved in the boathouse. The square-hewn log structure soon materialized out of the fog, but with no windows to peek through, Abby just slid her fingertips along the well-worn logs and tried to listen.

  The voices were a jumble of words against the surf. The open wall facing the lake provided the only access, so she crept forward over slippery rocks, letting her fingers lead the way along the smooth log surface. Reaching the front corner, she squatted sideways against the building to listen. She could smell the lake here, the cold, deep water, wet rocks, and driftwood underfoot. And then a hand slipped around her face and a mighty force yanked her off her feet.

  Abby fought and kicked, twisted and squirmed, but the big hand over her mouth choked off her breath, leaving her helpless to fight back. Within seconds, she quit struggling and went limp, settling back against the bulky form behind her.

  “Hello, Abigail,” a voice close in her ear said.

  That voice! The day Ben was taken she’d heard that voice on the telephone.

  “I had a feeling we’d meet face to face one day,” he said, and a moment later she was heaved around the front of the building and set down inside. A large open boat with a center console, unlike anything Abby had seen before, rested on the boat ramp. Light from an overhead lantern reflected off a glittering metal-flake fiberglass finish. The prop from an enormous outboard motor protruded into the water. Randall stood in the boat behind the console, a coil of rope in one hand, the gun in the other, wearing a huge grin on his face. In the bow of the boat sat Ben, duct tape wound around his head to cover his mouth. His hands were tied behind him. He jumped to his feet at the sight of Abby, but Randall casually swung the gun up and leveled it at his face.

  “Sit down,” he commanded.

  Abby jerked against her assailant, but the large man clamped down on her with a vise-like grip. At a nod from Randall the hand over her mouth was removed, but still he held her body tight against him, restraining her arms at her sides with his overpowering size and grip.

  Randall leaned over the far side and handed down the coil of rope. “Come over here and help secure our guest,” he commanded. When he stood up and looked back at her, he smiled. “This is just wonderful, Abby. How nice of you to drop in on us.”

  Abby interjected, “How did you get here so fast? I just saw you in Duluth.”

  Randall chuckled. “On the water it’s less than fifty miles as the crow flies.” He patted the leather-wrapped, oversized steering wheel. “I made it up here in just over half an hour.” He wore his thinning shoulder-length hair tied back in a short ponytail under a Greek fisherman’s cap. Abby thought he looked like a middle-aged father taking his family on vacation up north. “Come on, Danny,” he called again to the third man in the boath
ouse. “Get over here and lend a hand.”

  Abby looked at her brother, who watched everything with an incredulous, wide-eyed stare, but she nearly choked up when his gaze fell on her. He wore his tear-stained, naïve little brother expression, and the glitter of expectation in his eyes said that he believed she could fix all this. He frowned at Randall’s friend coming around the front of the boat and leaned away when the man reached over the railing to pat his shoulder. When Abby finally saw the man, she gasped out loud, “Uncle Dan!”

  He looked up at Randall in the boat. “Let them go,” he said. “That was the deal, Randall: no harm to the kids.”

  So that was how they knew about the back road! Abby studied her uncle. She hadn’t seen him in a long while, years probably. He’d always been the fun one, the adult bending all the rules, the family vagabond blowing through town with outlandish stories and silly gifts. Despite the present circumstances, she couldn’t hold back a little thrill at seeing him. He wore his old brown leather jacket over khaki trousers, and his thick hair, dappled with gray now, was brushed back in a tousled, carefree style. He still reminded her of the old Indiana Jones character.

  Daniel Simon stood close to her, and she could feel the intensity rattling through him as he directed his glare at Randall. The set of his jaw was just like her father’s. She’d recognize the family resemblance anywhere, no matter how many years he stayed away.

  Randall seemed to be enjoying his position of leadership, standing above everyone high up in the boat. He ignored Daniel’s request, instead smiling down at the girl. “I knew you’d show up, Abby. I always told your mother that you’re a clever one.”

  “Come on, Randall,” Dan interrupted. “Let them go.”