Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  “No, they’re advertising?”

  “Not exactly. It’s a coded message. They’ll broadcast the time and place the same way they do the raves. That’s how he said it, too—’the same way they do the raves.’“

  “Amazing.” Osborne leaned back in the seat. “Brazen enough that no one would even notice.”

  “First commandment of the profession,” said the man renowned in the northwoods for his ability to eschew the cover of darkness (“that’s when they’re waiting for you”) and do his best poaching in broad daylight.

  “Lew was wondering how the word got out to all these kids in such a short time. Help Your Neighbor, huh?”

  Osborne had to admire the chutzpah. Help Your Neighbor was heard every morning at eleven on the Loon Lake AM and FM stations as well as being picked up by other stations across the region. Popular with locals and tourists, it served as a bulletin board for anyone with something to sell. No businesses were allowed to advertise, strictly individuals.

  You want fresh raspberries? Home-grown tomatoes? A baby-sitter for Saturday night? Sell your boat? Wife throw you out and you need to rent a room? Help Your Neighbor had it all. For twenty-five years the radio program had been one of the most popular morning minutes of listening in the region. Who would have thought it would serve as a clearinghouse for drug dealers?

  “Bert said to listen for someone looking to sell ‘boats and bikes’ and I’d be able to figure it out from there.”

  “Boats and bikes? Sounds pretty damn innocent, doesn’t it.”

  “Last thing, Doc? When I walked out of the Pub with them, over to their vehicle—a rented pickup with an extended cab—I could see two cased guns in the back seat. Shotguns or rifles, I couldn’t tell, but I warned ‘em. I said, ‘You want a smashed window, boys, you just keep a gun or a good fishing rod right out in the open like that.’ Honest to God, Doc, I wonder how they got this far in life.”

  “You didn’t happen to get the license number on that rental?”

  Ray handed Osborne a scrap of paper.

  Osborne studied the number on the scrap of paper, his mind elsewhere. “I find it hard to believe a professional would risk fishing a major tournament with a couple dumyaks like those two.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, does it,” said Ray, his eyes much more serious than usual.

  The car neared the airport entrance, then nosed its way into the No Parking zone.

  “Unless…. ”

  Osborne waited, hand on the door handle.

  “He has to use those guys.”

  “Ah-h-h,” said Osborne.

  “And they have to work with him. Could be someone else is giving orders?”

  As Ray turned off the ignition, Osborne checked his watch. They were five minutes late. He reached for the accordion file; Ray reached for his hat.

  fifteen

  “She was now not merely an angler, but a ‘record’ angler of the most virulent type. Wherever they went, she wanted, and she got, the pick of the water.”

  —Henry Van Dyke

  She came at them like an oak tree in a forty-mile-an-hour wind. It took Osborne a hazy few seconds to locate the human beneath the shivering foliage, but as she got closer, he could make out two eyes, rimmed white as a black squirrel’s and just as determined.

  “Oops, I think that’s my client,” said Ray, a look of chagrin on his face. It had to be. The only other people in the small lobby, besides the Northwest ticket agent, stood behind rental car desks.

  “Client, hell, it’s a walking duckblind,” said Osborne under his breath.

  They were trapped, the baggage carousel behind them blocking any attempt to back up. Skidding to a stop, the figure reached up to fling off the leaf-hung hood obscuring its face, then planted its feet wide apart as if ready to take on all comers. Fluttering oak leaves spilled down the legs and onto the matching boots. She wore more camouflage than Osborne had ever seen on one person—obviously expensive and quite out of season.

  The exposed face was lush and full with a mouth slashed red-brown over very white teeth. So white they had to be capped. Her hood had hidden the rich russet of her shoulder-length hair, which she swept from her forehead with a dramatic flourish of her right hand.

  The airport lighting was not kind, and two circles of blush caught Osborne’s eye. He knew from years of having excess makeup from the faces of female patients wind up on his sleeves that it was a failed attempt to add bone to chubby cheeks. Half-handsome, half-garish, the face reminded Osborne of the prosperous tourists who came north in the summer with their faces full of money, faces whose size and extravagant coloring had often reminded him of overripe fruit. But fruit or duckblind, this woman sure knew how to make an entrance.

  She stared at Ray, saying nothing, her eyes measuring, calculating, arrogant. Osborne watched her take it all in: the jaunty angle of the stuffed trout hat, the crisp, smooth-fitting khakis, the height, the laughing eyes, the sheer handsome friendliness of Ray Pradt.

  Then she laughed. A loud, delighted laugh. Osborne might be ignorant of many things about women but he was the father of two daughters and he did know the meaning of that laugh: she liked what she saw.

  This could be dangerous. Unlike some women who come on like nibbling, gentle bluegills, this one was different. He would warn Ray to make sure he got paid early and often. Then again, maybe he didn’t need advice—what kind of fishing guide doesn’t know a shark when he sees one?

  “Hayden Steadman,” she said, moving in so close she brushed Ray with her shoulder. “You must be Ray Pradt … my security manager.”

  Ray beamed at the unexpected title. Their eyes met and they were nearly level as Hayden Parker was one tall woman. Tall, big-boned, and overflowing. From where he stood slightly behind Ray, Osborne could see that the camouflage jacket had fallen open to expose a matching shirt, minus fluttering leaves. The shirt was unbuttoned one button too far. Hayden had very nice breasts, large enough to match the rest of her, including her voice. And she knew it.

  “Hey, who are you?” She poked her head around Ray to stare at Osborne. Her manner was so abrupt and challenging that Osborne was caught off-guard. He didn’t know what to say.

  As he stammered, Ray said, “Oh, this guy? He’s my assistant, Dr. Paul Osborne.” Hayden looked confused. “He works for me in my guiding business,” Ray added. “Doc is retired and likes to help out.”

  Osborne extended his hand and tried to smile graciously in spite of the fact Ray made it sound like he spent his days filling minnow buckets for Grand Pooh-Bah Pradt. He’d take it out on Ray later. For starters, he’d let him pay for the damn parking ticket they were sure to get.

  “I, ah, were you planning to wear that during the tournament?” said Ray, watching her leaves flutter.

  “Heavens, no. But isn’t this stuff great?” Hayden executed a quick spin, flinging the jacket over her shoulder as if it were a mink coat and the airport lobby a high-fashion runway. “I’m celebrating our new sponsor for The Fishing Channel and my husband’s newest venture, which debuts in October, The Hunting Channel. This is their product.”

  “Ray, Miss Steadman, excuse me a moment, will you?” said Osborne. He took cover at the pay phone twenty feet away, set the file down between his feet, and quickly punched in Erin’s number. She answered on her remote phone from where she was sitting in her backyard.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” she said after he explained why he was so late. “I’m fine. Mark called an hour ago and we had a long talk. He’s coming in for a visit with the kids and me tonight. And he’s bringing his new bike! Chief Ferris was right, Dad. Her approach is working—oops, gotta go. Cody just fell off the swing.”

  Osborne hung up the phone and retrieved the file from between his feet. He was anxious to take a look at the contents. But to get to the restaurant, he had to walk past Ray and the human duckblind.

  Two people who appeared to be members of Hay den’s entourage had straggled up during his phone call. One was
a young man whom Osborne guessed to be in his late twenties, head shaved and wearing baggy black shorts and a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt. He looked in serious need of a nap and a shower.

  The other was a young woman, slight, thin, and nondescript-looking with black hair caught back in a limp ponytail. Her olive complexion couldn’t hide the circles under her eyes. She wore a simple white T-shirt and jeans and also looked like she needed a good night’s sleep—possibly due to the large black purse and heavy briefcase she had slung over her shoulder.

  As he walked past the group, Osborne glanced more closely at the girl’s face. Something about her seemed familiar. Ray caught his eye and signaled. Osborne paused mid-stride and started over toward Ray.

  “Where’s Parker?” said Hayden, whirling around. It was less a question than a bark directed at the two young people. She made no move to introduce them to Osborne. Obviously, they weren’t important. He wasn’t important.

  “He’s making sure all the luggage is here,” said the young man. “Shouldn’t be long.” His manner was calm and polite and Osborne hoped he was paid well.

  “That’s why we have our own plane,” said Hayden in a petulant voice. “Of course everything is here.”

  The young man shrugged.

  “We’ve been to seven cities in twenty-one days,” said the young woman in a soft voice. “Things can go wrong.” She appeared to be apologizing for Parker Steadman’s absence.

  Eyes back on Ray and ignoring the woman’s comment, Hayden twirled again. “For only eight hundred and fifty dollars you, too, can entertain turkeys in L. L. Bean’s Total Illusion 3-D Camo with patented odor-eliminating technology. State of the art.”

  She paused mid-twirl and looked at Ray. “They’ll be doing forty million dollars in advertising on our channels. I’ll be featured in the ads—and I’m doing the entire lake house in their ‘camo’ patterns.” She gave “camo” a special emphasis as if to imply that the jargon of the hunt was her second language. Ray gave Osborne a quick wink, then looked at Hayden with a questioning expression on his face.

  “The house? You mean that place on Lake Consequence where you folks are staying? How do you wallpaper logs?”

  “Oh, Mr. Pradt, now don’t be silly,” said Hayden, teasing. Osborne shifted from one foot to the other. Forget the restaurant; all he wanted now was a sign from Ray that he could take his car and leave.

  But Ray’s eyes were on Hayden, whose voice kept getting louder as she spoke. Listening with half an ear, Osborne studied the profile of the young woman with the black hair. What was it about her?

  He heard only snippets of Hayden’s chatter: “… ten thousand square feet … full-log construction with the lodge-style décor throughout … we have a million five into it so far…. the furniture is what we’re covering in camo … my interior designer flies in from Manhattan tonight…. ”

  Just then, Parker Steadman entered the baggage claim area. Or rather his stomach entered and he followed. The former was new to Osborne; the latter was not. Parker had always been extraordinarily tall with a long, bony frame. His face, under a shock of prematurely white hair, was flushed. Whether from exertion or booze, Osborne couldn’t be sure. The stomach, on the other hand, carried credentials.

  This was not a Harold Jackobowski beer belly, a slovenly mass adding girth to an already pudgy human frame. No, this was an insouciant protuberance, an emblem of a life lived well. This was a belly primed with martinis, succored with beef tenderloins and oysters on the half-shell, and lavished with single-malt twelve-year Scotch whiskies. No cheap brass buckle restrained this specimen; it appropriated the airspace over sterling silver double G’s by a good six inches—and that was diameter only. Osborne chose not to consider the volume.

  Parker walked toward the group, slightly pigeon-toed and knees straight, the jacket of his business suit open to ease the forward progress of all body parts.

  “Almost home,” he said, looking around with a wide, jovial smile creasing his face. He looked like a big happy teddy bear. “Everything made it here, too.” He thrust a hand at Ray. “You the new security guy? Pradt’s the name, right?”

  “Parker the Predator, how are you?” said Ray, pumping the man’s hand.

  Parker just laughed. “They usually call me that behind my back, son.”

  Osborne shook his head and looked off in the opposite direction. Ray had a way. Boy, did he have a way. At least he didn’t ask Parker if he was expecting.

  Hayden looked amused.

  “Now what the hell do you call that?” said Parker, leaning back on his heels to get a better look at Ray’s head where the stuffed trout was surveying the attempts of the two to short-circuit one another. “That’s the damndest thing—you make that yourself?”

  “Hardly, Mr. Steadman, hardly.” Ray smiled modestly, though Osborne knew he had planned all morning for this moment. Ray removed his hat and tipped it back and forth so everyone could get a good look. The antique muskie lure draped across the front glinted silver in the light.

  “Made for me by an el-der-ly Ojibwa woman, the very same woman who taught me the secrets of birch bark canoes. I traded fresh walleye for wisdom, best deal I ever made.”

  Hayden looked more than amused as she motioned to the black-haired woman, who promptly pulled a notebook from her purse.

  Once again, Osborne looked off into the distance, hoping his grin didn’t show. Ray could really lay it on. Just then he heard his name. “… You remember Dr. Paul Osborne?” Ray was pointing at him.

  Parker gave Osborne a blank look. Obviously not. Osborne extended a hand. “You had an appointment in my office one summer when you were in your teens. I’d be very surprised if you remembered that.”

  “No, I think I do. Wasn’t your office over the bank? Did Catherine Plyer work for you that summer?”

  “Why, yes, that’s right.”

  “Then you must have known my late father-in-law.”

  “Dr. Plyer hunted with us one year.”

  Parker motioned to the tired-looking young man who was standing nearby. “Rob, check and see if our cars are out front yet, will you?”

  Osborne noticed that a flight must be due in as a small crowd was gathering in the lobby area. A number of people appeared to recognize Hayden and had stopped to stare.

  “So”—he turned back to Osborne—”is Ray your son?”

  “Oh, no. No-o-o, nope. We’re neighbors and we do a

  little muskie fishing together.” Osborne hastened to change the subject. “I want you to know that everyone in Loon Lake is looking forward to your tournament. This is a big deal for us—great for the economy.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. If all goes well, I’d like to see it become an annual event; Our advertisers love the location. By the way”—Parker turned to the black-haired woman, who seemed to be doing her best to hide off to the side—”Edith, where are you? Edith is from Loon Lake. She’s Hayden’s executive producer. Edith, do you know Dr. Osborne?”

  The small dark head turned soft eyes to Osborne. She smiled shyly, giving him a questioning, beseeching look, almost as if she prayed he wouldn’t recognize her. But the jaw, the configuration of her teeth, the unmistakable central incisor—identical to the mouth she had at fourteen. All that had changed was the face: Now it was old enough to carry those eyes.

  “Edith Schultz, of course,” said Osborne. “I thought I recognized you.”

  “Excuse me, everyone. Have you forgotten I have ties here, too?” Hayden’s bleat made it sound like she was about to cry.

  “Kitten, I didn’t mean to leave you out. I thought you met everyone.” Parker reached a long arm around Hayden’s leafy shoulders’ and pulled her to him. She nuzzled in like a hurt child. Looking up at Ray, she said, “I went to summer camp in Eagle River.”

  Osborne watched as her expression changed to one of petulance as she pushed herself away from Parker, thrusting his arm off her. “Parker, you haven’t said a word about what’s happening to me!”


  The level of tension in her face and body and voice had ramped up so fast, it reminded Osborne of the day Erin’s three-year-old Cody, while in his care, had burst into unexpected tears.

  “What on earth is wrong, little guy?” Osborne, the befuddled grandfather, had asked.

  “You hurt my feelings,” sobbed the toddler.

  Well, Hayden had thirty-plus years on the kid but her technique was the same. As was its effect: She got everyone’s attention.

  From the corner of his eye, Osborne could see from their faces that Edith and Rob had been here before. Parker, however, looked worried: “Oh, kitten—”

  “Our safety, Parker. My safety—”

  The trill of a spring robin cut her off. Another trill. Hayden’s mouth dropped open. Ray grinned and, hands cupped to his mouth, gave another bird call.

  Rob looked like he was going to explode. Edith turned her face away.

  Hayden gave Ray a baleful stare that eased into a confused smile. “Why? What?”

  “Too many people around. Better to discuss this later,” said Ray with just the right air of warning and authority.

  “Oh, you are so right,” said Hayden, throwing looks of extreme annoyance at the poor souls who had made the mistake of stopping to watch after recognizing her.

  Osborne had to hand it to Ray. He had just outdressed and outperformed a national television personality. And left her charmed. This would make a great story for the McDonald’s crowd.

  “Hey, the cars are here,” said Rob.

  The last Osborne saw of Ray that afternoon was his neighbor folding all six feet five inches into a condensed version of a Range Rover.

  “A Mini Rover, and not just any,” he heard Hayden saying as she threw her camo jacket into the back seat and prepared to ride out to the house with Ray at her side. “This is a Paul Smith Mini, a limited edition of fifteen hundred cars.”

  “I know Paul—he owns Smitty’s Bar up on the river,” said Ray.