Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  “For me?” She was dumbstruck. “You did all this for me?”

  “Well, you’re such a good cook yourself, I didn’t want to show up with tuna fish.”

  “You silly man.” She leaned up on her tiptoes, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, and brushed her lips against his cheek. He was happy.

  “Everything is delicious, Doc,” said Lew, “but this peach pie is the best. Umm. I can’t believe you made this yourself!”

  Osborne looked at her. “I didn’t … I thought you made it.”

  “Me? I bake bread, not pies. What do you mean you thought I made it?”

  “Someone left a warm pie on my deck this morning. At first, I thought it was Ray. When he said it wasn’t him, I thought for sure it must be you.”

  “Not me. Maybe a neighbor?” Lew pushed the very last crumb of pie onto her plastic fork with her finger, swallowed with a look of intense satisfaction, then waved her fork at Osborne. “About that Schultz case—I would appreciate it if you would take the time to look over the file for me. All that happened just before John Sloan took over as chief of police from old man Raske and you know what a razzbonya that guy was.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Osborne, the naming raising an ugly memory. “Raske was a real nogoodnik. I always felt sorrier’n hell when he got his hands on some of those young Indians from the reservation. The man was merciless—he went too far and there was nothing you could do to stop him.

  “He was a patient of mine, too. Never paid his bill, of course. I finally told his wife I didn’t need their business, which was none too smart on my part. That arrogant son-of-a-bitch. I just kept my fingers crossed that no one in my family would need help from the police so long as he headed up the department.”

  “He wasn’t just a bully—he was lazy as hell,” said Lew. “The state of the files from those days is pathetic. If he had a crime scene and no easy answers, or if it involved a friend of his—hell, he wrote it off as a misdemeanor. That man had the cleanest desk north of Wausau and south of the Canadian border. I’ll tell ya, Doc, if you’re up for it? When you finish looking at the Schultz file, I’ve got a half-dozen more we can check out. Chief Sloan was always going to get around to it but he never did.

  “Plus, it’ll take your mind off the other situation.” Lew scrambled to her feet to help clean up.

  “I hope so. I sure don’t know what to do about that.”

  “Hey, Doc, when we get over to the other shore, I’ve got a little camp stove, some plastic mugs, another bottle of water, and a couple of those one-cup coffee bags in my pack. I can make us each a cup of coffee if you like.”

  “I thought you needed to get back.”

  “No more than you needed to make me this lovely dinner.” She grinned.

  Osborne knew full well he had fins on his boots but he could have sworn they were wings—his float tube seemed to fly back. And when he and Lew reached the other shore, which had western exposure, they were just in time to enjoy a peach and periwinkle sunset.

  And so they sat, shoulder to shoulder against a fallen log, sipping their coffee in silence. The lake so still they could hear the flutter of a loon’s wings from the far shore.

  “About your daughter,” said Lew, her voice low and her eyes on the glowing sky. “She has to work this out herself, you know.”

  “I know, I just worry so.”

  “She’s a big girl.”

  “I don’t want her to end up like her old man.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Alone. Alone with three kids to raise.”

  “You’re not alone.” Lew cocked her head and looked at him in mock disbelief. “You have Ray.”

  He threw her a look.

  “C’mon, be real, Doc—you are not alone.”

  She looked around. “Where’s your pack?” Spotting it, she jumped to her feet, zipped it open, and pulled out the checked tablecloth. She waved it in front of him as if she were a magician about to perform: “You may call it a tablecloth, Dr. Osborne, but I call it…. ” She shook it open, then spread it on the sand and grass in front of the log. Dropping to her knees in the center, she smoothed the edges, then sitting back on her heels, she reached for his hands and said, “I call it a bedspread.”

  The invitation in her eyes was something he had never expected to see again in his lifetime. But given the opportunity, he did not hesitate.

  ten

  “You can’t say enough about fishing. Though the sport of kings, it’s just what the deadbeat ordered.”

  —Thomas McGuane, Silent Seasons

  The sound of footsteps crashing through the forest brought them upright in an instant, grabbing for clothes. Osborne made a snap decision to forgo underwear, yanking his khakis up both legs even as he had one arm in his shirtsleeve. With seconds to spare, he was able to buckle his belt and shove the tablecloth into the pack along with his jockey shorts.

  “I thought you said no one knew about this place,” he said, keeping his voice low as he reached for his boots.

  “I didn’t say absolutely no one,” muttered Lew, moving fast herself. “Must be coming in to fish a late hatch.”

  By the time the noisemakers had emerged from the woods, he and Lew were tucking away the final few items of fishing gear. The sun had set but the sky was streaked with backlit clouds, making it easy to see the intruders.

  The first of the two approached—instantly recognizable as the type that Osborne’s McDonald’s coffee crowd nicknamed a “Jack pine savage”—jack pines being the ugliest trees in the northwoods and savage a word that needs no explanation.

  The man was medium height, thickset, somewhere in his thirties or forties, and wearing the “savage” uniform of grimy jeans, a faded green-and-white-plaid flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to expose the elbows, and the shirt front mashed down into his waistband. The latter was belted in a fruitless attempt to restrain the droop of an expansive beer belly.

  A soiled Green Bay Packer baseball cap was crammed low on a head of hair that looked like he cut it himself, which was very likely as there was no doubt as to who chopped at the beard hiding his face from the sideburns down. Beer belly was carrying a spinning rod and a box of tackle that looked like it had been slamming around in the open bed of a pickup for years. A wad in his cheek hinted at the state of his teeth: black-brown with tobacco stain.

  His companion was a little more sartorial, having selected his wardrobe to match his five o’clock shadow. He was shorter in stature than the first man, and his slumping shoulders sported a well-worn black corduroy jacket decorated with a large red stain on one shoulder. Unbuttoned, the jacket framed a black T-shirt emblazoned with a garish Harley-Davidson logo—all the more visible because it stretched taut across the man’s barrel chest.

  His pants, also black, looked like they could stand up by themselves and were complemented with matching black tennis shoes, though on closer examination Osborne could see they were actually white tennis shoes: filthy white high-tops with rubber soles and no support, the old-fashioned kind. He carried a spinning rod and a six-pack of MGD.

  Something about the second man made Osborne uneasy. He made a mental note to keep his can of Deet close at hand. A little of that in the eyes can stop you in your tracks. Osborne finished sliding the sections of his fly rod into their canvas sleeves, then folding the sleeves lengthwise to slip into his rod tube, all the while watching the two from the corner of his eye. Nothing too remarkable about beer belly, but that other guy …

  Meanwhile, the two men had paused about twenty feet away, set down everything they were carrying, and strolled down to the shoreline. They didn’t appear to be aware of Lew and Osborne, who were screened from the winding path by a small stand of young balsam. That was odd. Hadn’t they seen Lew’s fishing truck?

  Osborne continued to puzzle over the appearance of the shorter man. Granted he was wearing all black, but even so he looked unusually pale. From the side, his face appeared soft and pulpy and oddly dimpled—as if so
meone had taken a fork to his cheeks. The man stopped at the water’s edge and turned his head away to look south. As he did so, it dawned on Osborne: The guy’s hair grew in the wrong direction.

  Actually, it wasn’t growing at all. Instead, it was brushed up, forward and down over the top of the head. But unlike many baldies, who nurse their hair forward from the top of their skull, this guy was more inventive. He started all the way from back of his neck at a spot that was just below his ears. As he turned to face west, Osborne was fascinated by how the hair flattened out, mat-like, over his ears to end in a hunk plastered low on the forehead. Probably literally plastered—you’d have to do something to secure that floating bog.

  Just then Lew hoisted her pack up onto her shoulders. The rustle of her movements caught their attention and the two turned to peer past the stand of trees. They took a couple steps in the direction of Lew and Osborne.

  “Where the hell you from?” said beer belly, his manner a little too abrupt.

  “Loon Lake,” said Lew, unfazed. “Wisconsin.”

  No one said anything for a few beats.

  “Where are you from?” said Osborne, keeping his voice low, cool, and professional—the tone he found effective while administering root canals.

  Beer belly backed off. “Up near Manistique. My buddy here is from Mercer over in yer neck of the woods. How the hell you find this place?”

  “I fish here pretty often,” said Lew. “How’d you find it?”

  “A fishing guide over in Marquette, cousin of mine. He told me about it. Big trout, he said. How many you get?”

  “Not a one,” said Lew. “No luck tonight. This is a tough spot, y’know. Fish here are too damn smart.” She turned so Osborne could hook her float tube onto her pack. Then she did the same for him. He could see she wanted out of there as soon as possible.

  “Yeah, Loon Lake, huh? I been hearing ‘bout that tournament you got goin’ down there next week. That bass tournament? Big purse, huh? A million bucks? That’s a lotta dough.”

  While beer belly talked, Osborne watched the guy with the bog on his head walk over to pick up his rod and six-pack. He didn’t look so good from the rear either—the black pants so baggy in the seat that it looked like he had a frying pan stuck down there. Real cute these two.

  “Yep,” said Lew, agreeing with beer belly as she moved backward to exit the clearing and the conversation, “we expect quite a turnout.”

  “Might see you folks around next week. I’m hoping to hang out and see how the pros do it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Lew, pulling at her straps as she headed toward the path. “Well, enjoy the evening.” Beer belly moved off to let her by.

  “How long you been livin’ in Loon Lake?” he said as Osborne walked past.

  Osborne resisted the impulse to pretend he hadn’t heard the question. He wanted out of there as badly as Lew, but once courteous, always courteous.

  “Little over thirty years.”

  “Yeah? I’ll bet you know a friend of mine.” Beer belly rocked back on his heels. “Dickie Plyer—ring a bell?”

  Osborne saw Lew stop and turn slightly.

  “Oh, sure, I knew his father. I’m retired from a dental practice in Loon Lake and Dickie’s father and I had some patients in common. I remember Dickie growing up. Haven’t seen him in years. What he’s doing these days?”

  Beer belly chuckled. “You mean when he’s not in the hoosegow? Last I heard, he’s into boats.” The hoosegow? Osborne wondered if that’s why bog hair was so pale.

  “Boats?” said Osborne. “Well, isn’t that interesting. I ran into his older sister the other day. She’s in the custom dock business—”

  “Docks, boats, you name it,” said beer belly. “They’re always into something, those two, that’s fer sure.”

  Lew gave Osborne a slight nod.

  “Boats, huh? So Dickie is building boats. Well, I’ll be,” said Osborne, trying his best to sound like a benign grandfather type. Then, not to seem too curious, he said, “Y’know, when you live in a little place like Loon Lake with all of three thousand people, you end up pretty familiar with the comings and goings of folks. His sister told me she’s living up in Presque Isle. I wonder if Dickie isn’t up there, too.”

  His speculation was met with silence. Bog hair watched his friend. Beer belly shrugged. “Dunno, just heard he’s into boats.”

  As if to change the subject, bog hair spoke up. “I know someone in Loon Lake—ever hear of Ray Pradt?”

  “My neighbor,” said Osborne without thinking. Then he kicked himself, hoping he hadn’t just made a horrible mistake.

  “Oh yeah?” The man set down his six-pack and spinning rod and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I owe Ray. Now you talk about a good man…. ”

  “He has his moments,” said Lew. “But I’ll tell you, when it comes to the hoosegow, Ray Pradt’s seen every one in a four-county region.” She watched beer belly kneel to open his tackle box, then walked back to look over his shoulder. “You might try that bass popper”—she pointed—”the Frenzy. These big trout go for flash and I’ve had luck with a Frenzy myself.” Beer belly picked up the lure.

  “I mean it—that Ray’s a good man,” continued bog hair. “I was up ice fishing on Trout Lake couple years ago and my ATV went out on me. I was about froze to death trying to get it started, when Ray pulled up in that old truck of his. Almost ran me down! Does he still have that big walleye leaping off the hood?”

  Osborne laughed. “That’s our Ray, door’s been jammed closed on the driver’s side so he has to crawl in the window of the damn truck—but he’s got himself an expensive, custom-designed hood ornament.”

  “He gave me a ride into town. My feet were so cold, he had me wear his Sorel boots. Made me take ‘em with me. You know how much those things cost? You say ‘hi’ from Bert Kriesel, will ya?” Smiling, bog hair stepped forward to shake hands.

  “Will do. Paul Osborne.” He took the man’s hand. As if bad hair, bad shoes, and baggy pants weren’t enough, Osborne couldn’t help but note that the guy’s upper jaw sported two of the longest canines he’d ever seen. Too bad some dentist somewhere hadn’t offered to file ‘em down—would take only a few minutes and would make the poor guy look a hell of a lot less like a carnivore.

  Beer belly jumped to his feet and walked down to thrust a hand at Osborne. “Harold Jackobowski, pleased to meet you both.” He turned to Lew, who had followed him down.

  “Lewellyn Ferris,” she said as he pumped her hand. She glanced at her watch, then started toward the path again. “Tight lines, boys.” She waved.

  “Say, you two,” said Harold, “we got a nice rig parked back there. Feel free to take a look if you want. Cold beers in the fridge, help yourself.”

  Lew and Osborne marched through the darkening forest in silence. The float tube was rigged higher this time and bounced much less, so Osborne kept up with Lew’s pace easily. What a day this had been. His heart was so full, he didn’t know what to say, much less where to begin. He opted for silence. They both did. It wasn’t until they’d reached the bend that took them into the birch and maple woods that Lew paused for a moment.

  “Goddam worm fishermen,” she said, looking back down the path toward their new friends. “They’re gonna catch a couple big trout and eat ‘em, goddamit.”

  Osborne shifted his pack slightly. “You think so, huh.” It was a rhetorical question.

  “I know so. I checked out their equipment—all they got are lures with barbed hooks. I can guarantee old Bert and Harold are not into catch-and-release, that’s for sure.”

  It was nearly pitch black when they reached the parking area. Lew’s truck was still the only vehicle in the small clearing.

  “What the—I wonder where those two parked?” she said as she unlocked the truck. Working fast with the help of a flashlight, they stowed the float tubes first, then loaded the rest of their gear. Once inside, they hadn’t driven fifty yards down the rutted narrow lane whe
n they discovered why the two men had been so surprised to see them.

  The latecomers had parked before reaching the end of the lane in a wider clearing and for good reason—they were driving a huge brand-spanking-new RV.

  Osborne whistled. “That bus must cost at least a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “How the hell can those two cheese balls afford a rig like this?” said Lew.

  She turned off the ignition, but left the headlights on as she reached for the flashlight. Osborne followed her out of the truck and around the RV. Lew ran the flashlight across the clearing where the RV was parked. Sure enough, a path led off in the direction of the lake. Not only that, but the beam picked up signs of other vehicles having parked there previously as well.

  “Looks like that fishing guide from Marquette is taking over the place.” Lew was not happy. “I’m going to ask Ralph to give him a call—tell him to back off with the worm fishermen.”

  “Good luck.”

  “No, Doc, if he gets a call from someone like Ralph, someone who owns a sporting goods store and could potentially send clients his way—maybe he’ll listen. Worth a try anyway. This was a good place to fish. Jeez, this thing is at least forty feet long!” She walked around the front of the RV.

  “What’d I tell you?” She pointed to a deluxe gas grill set up on the grass outside the door leading into the RV. “Dammit!”

  A metal canopy had been pulled forward from above the door to the RV. Alongside the door, it appeared that a section of the humongous vehicle had been pushed out from the inside to expand the interior space. An inner door stood open behind the closed screen door. Lew tried the handle—it was unlocked.

  “Harold invited us …” she said, opening the door and stepping back for him to go first. “After you, Doctor…. ”

  “Would you leave a vehicle like this unlocked? I sure wouldn’t,” said Osborne, hesitating on the top step. He felt uneasy entering but Lew was determined to see the inside of the RV.