Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  “You sure got Parker’s attention for that ‘Fish ‘n’ Fry’ idea,” said Rob. “I heard him on the phone to New York yesterday afternoon before it all hit the fan. Sounds to me like you might have a deal.” He dropped his voice to say out of the corner of his mouth, “With or without Hayden.”

  Ray beamed.

  “What’s the story with Edith?” said Osborne to the cameraman. “She seems so much happier than when you folks arrived earlier this week.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that, too. I dunno, maybe it was when she found out Jennifer was coming.”

  “Oh, so she knew ahead of time.”

  “I think so. I know I heard her on the phone with Jen. But hell, who knows what makes women happy.” Osborne laughed with him.

  A pistol shot at seven started the parade pouring down Main Street. Osborne searched the crowd from his seat on board Ralph’s float. He had been handed a bucket full of hard candies and given a metal folding chair to sit on. Midway through the parade, he caught sight of Erin, Mark, and the kids under the time and temperature sign at the corner of the First National Bank.

  He waved and shouted. They waved back but he knew they couldn’t hear him. Oh well, he’d catch up with them at the house shortly. Several times, as the float moved past intersections, he saw some of the deputies Lew had corralled from neighboring towns and counties, but no sign of her.

  The parade ended at Loon Lake Beach, a large public swimming area and boat launch. In front of the boat launch was a baseball field. Today it was filled with tents and booths draped with banners announcing the stead-man pro-am bass tourney and budweiser. To no one’s surprise, the beer was already flowing.

  As his float rounded the corner, Osborne could see two blocks down past the tents to where the lead cars had pulled up next to the boat launch. Striped awnings decorated a nearby stage where the opening ceremony for the tournament was scheduled to take place as soon as the entire parade had wound its way down.

  Osborne’s float came to a standstill while the Loon Lake High School Band high-stepped their way through a rousing march. The smell of brats on the grill wafted up from the tents as he watched the kids in the band. His bucket was empty and the morning sun felt good. It was one of those small moments in life that he loved.

  Looking down toward the water, he saw movement in both the lead cars. Parker sat alone in the Caddy, its metallic streamers framing him with flashes of sunlight as Jen walked off toward the concrete block building housing the ladies’ rest rooms. The Thunderbird behind the Cadillac was empty.

  He heard the BOOM right through the music. Seconds passed, maybe two, and the Cadillac levitated, flames bursting with enough force that two men standing twenty feet away were knocked to their knees. Later the fire chief would estimate that the fire was so intense it had burned at a temperature over 2,000 degrees Farenheit.

  Flying down the baseball outfield, Osborne saw the three women come running out of the rest rooms. Jen’s arms reached for the sky and he could see the howl on her face. Edith was close behind. A second explosion and the women fell back, covering their heads. Sirens were screaming. People ran down the field from every direction.

  A hundred feet from the burning car, Osborne saw Ray.

  “Doc, you stay back!” he shouted. “That other car might go.”

  Osborne did as he was told. “Where’s Lew?”

  “I have no idea—you stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Ray—where are you going!”

  “I’m damn sure that was fired from across the lake. I want to see what’s there before it’s too late.”

  Ray ran toward a police cruiser that had just pulled in. It was Lew. Ray jumped into the front seat with her and they took off across the baseball field.

  Jen was hysterical. It was all Osborne and Edith could do to restrain her from going too close to the flaming wreckage. Hayden stayed back, her face drained of color and her mouth slack. Two firemen were brave enough to put the Thunderbird’s standard shift into neutral and push it back out of danger.

  Osborne, arm firmly around Jen’s shoulders, watched the fire. He couldn’t help but think of the irony of Parker Steadman’s death: No amount of money could save his life. Sure his daughter would be wealthy but all she would have of her father now would be a handful of gold fillings, several slumped porcelain crowns, and maybe some dental posts.

  twenty-six

  “… until a man is redeemed he will always take a fly rod too far back…. ”

  —Norman Maclean

  Twenty minutes later, Lew and Ray were back, Lew threading the cruiser down the baseball field through people, bicycles, and baby strollers. It seemed like all of Loon Lake was descending on the beachfront, anxious to view the smoldering remains of the man who had just led the biggest parade in the history of their little town. Leaving Jen in Edith’s care, Osborne hurried over to where Lew had parked.

  Ray was right: The salvo had been fired from across the lake, off Walkowski’s Landing. A ten-year-old kid walking down to see where the music was coming from had stumbled onto a man setting up what sounded to the two adults like a shooting bench, a bipod and a spotting scope.

  “He said the gun was much bigger than his dad’s deer rifle,” said Ray. “And he thought it was pretty heavy because the guy had to carry it upright and he grunted when he was moving it around.”

  “We caught the boy running down the road to his house as we drove up,” said Lew. “Scared to death, poor little guy. He said at first he thought the man was out for target practice aiming at the old warehouse down by the bridge. Then he saw the explosion.”

  “Had to be a .50 caliber sniper rifle to take out a car from that distance,” said Ray, shaking his head in disbelief. “I know some nuts around here that own those. You know, Doc, the same ones who own AK-47s and Uzis. One guy used his on a deer last year. The bullet entered the chest, traveled the whole body, and blew off the entire right hind leg. All he had left was two pounds of hamburger.”

  “I know those guns are out there,” said Lew. “They make the damn things right over in Waunakee and you can buy one just as easy as you can a .22 for shooting squirrels.”

  “But the explosion?” said Osborne. “How the hell do you hit a fuel tank from that distance?”

  “Doc, it’s a military gun. It uses bullets tipped with phosphorus that explode on impact,” said Lew. “With a scope, sighting his target from that distance was a piece of cake. All he had to do was hit the car.”

  “Did the boy say what the shooter looked like?”

  “He was too impressed with the gun—and the guy’s vehicle.” She gave a grim smile. “Fortunately the kid was smart enough to stay hidden behind an RV that was parked there. A big RV. Bruce Duffy’s from the sound of it. I’ve got an APB out for what it’s worth—too much traffic. The few cars I’ve got available are crawling.”

  Hayden, making a remarkable recovery, insisted on taking charge. The tournament goes on, she demanded, giving directions every which way.

  “Edith, call NBC! Network news should be covering this. This is a national story.”

  Edith ignored her. She remained right where she was on a bench near one of the tournament tents, her arms around Jen, who had collapsed into her shoulder. An ambulance pulled up beside the tent, and Osborne watched as two EMTs dashed over to the women. He recognized the one who knelt beside Jen—Jessie Lundberg. Jessie reached over to give Edith a quick hug; apparently the two knew each other.

  “Lew, is Marlene on the switchboard?” said Ray. “Why don’t you have her give Father Vodicka a call. I don’t know if Steadman was Catholic or not but the good priest will know how to help these women get things under control.”

  “Tell you what, Ray. Go ahead and use the radio in my car and you call Vodicka—okay? You know him, I don’t,” said Lew.

  She turned to Osborne. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you the bad news. The DEA is still having a turf war with Customs over the situation out at Webber Tackle.
They put a hold on everything until Wednesday.

  “But you saw Duffy’s RV parked out there yesterday, right? So this isn’t ‘interstate,’ ‘international’ anything anymore, Doc. This is murder—and Loon Lake is responsible. I am responsible and I want Bruce Duffy in custody. As far as Patty Boy and his operation, I’ll just have to play it as I see it.”

  “You can’t go in there alone,” said Osborne.

  “Of course not. I’m going to ask Roger to take over here. I’ll have him reassign all deputies and officers on duty to traffic control only. Of those, we’ll put two teams on roadblocks up on Highways 45 and C. That way at least I can keep people out of the area. Then you and Ray come with me. But I want you armed.”

  “My gun’s in the back of my truck, Chief,” said Ray, “parked back at the Lutheran school.”

  “Doc?”

  He threw his hands up. “Lew, I want to help but I have got to get over to Erin’s. She and Mark think they’re picking up that motorcycle out there. I have got to tell her what’s going on. I can’t let them—”

  “No, you’re right, you’re right. C’mon, I’ll drop you two by your vehicles, then meet up with me at my office. Ray, you got more than one gun? Anything Doc can use?”

  “Twenty gauge okay?”

  “Fine with me,” said Osborne, jumping into the back seat of the cruiser. Never good with a pistol, he was comfortable with a shotgun. Not only that, at close range a shotgun is deadlier than a revolver, which anyone who knows guns knows. And if anyone knows guns, it would be the Ply er boys.

  Shotgun in hand, he would feel competent. Safe was another question. But if Lew had to take the risk, he sure as hell did not want her out there alone.

  “So we’re going by your office first,” said Ray, confirming the plan.

  “I need to get the Wausau lab boys up here right away.” She looked over at the smoke pouring from the wreckage. “They’ll have to handle this.”

  The front door to Erin’s house was wide open when Osborne pulled up in front. Before bounding up her front steps, Osborne realized he was still in his fly-fishing vest and waders. He’d forgotten he was wearing the damn things.

  “Erin! Mark!” he called through the front door. He could hear kids squealing and laughing in the back. A young girl he recognized as one of Erin’s baby-sitters came running through the living room.

  “Hi, Dr. Osborne. If you’re looking for Mr. and Mrs. Amundson, they left already,” she said. “Someone called a little while ago and told them they had to pick up their motorcycle early, that the afternoon party was canceled.”

  twenty-seven

  On bass: “This is one of the American freshwater fishes; it is surpassed by none in boldness of biting, in fierce and violent resistance when hooked.”

  —W. H. Herbert (Frank Forester), Fishes and Fishing, 1850

  “You’re right, we go in from the back,” said Ray after Lew had laid out a plan. They were standing over her desk with a well-worn Wisconsin Gazetteer open in front of them. “You’ll have the roadblocks out here, right?” He pointed.

  “Right.”

  “But have them hold back until we have a chance to go in. Otherwise Patty Boy and his people will be warned and outta there before we even arrive.”

  “You think he knows another way out?”

  “I know he does. That’s why he picked this location in the first place. Doc, you remember old man Plyer had a cottage up on Shepard Lake?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, he did. Those kids grew up out there. Something not many people know about because it’s not on any map

  is there’s a tributary from Shepard Lake into Willow Creek. Right here.” Ray stabbed a finger on the map.

  “It runs through a four-foot-wide culvert under the old railroad trestle and empties into Shepard Lake. You can’t walk the wetlands to get there, but you can wade in easy or use a canoe. I know it well because every spring I seine minnows downstream from a big beaver dam that’s back in there.”

  “So why isn’t it on the map?” said Lew.

  “Same reason you got roads with no fire numbers, Chief,” said Ray. “Lazy humans make those things. And I don’t have to tell you the rest,” he said. “Once you hit that lake, you’re home free. If you have a boat waiting, it’s a straight shot across to the landing and the highway. Even if you don’t have a boat, Shepard Lake is shallow enough; you can wade along the shoreline to a point where someone can pick you up. Then you can just hustle on up those back roads. Not likely anyone can find you once you’re north of Eagle River.”

  “Can the three of us fit in your truck?” Lew headed for the door. “Doc said they have a partial view of that road into Willow Creek—so we sure as hell don’t need to arrive in a cop car.”

  In less than half an hour, they had pulled off the gravel road at the point where Osborne had walked in the morning before. A distinct rumble of motorcycles could be heard off in the distance. They checked their watches. It was almost nine and Lew had given directions for the roadblocks to be held off until nine forty-five.

  “Is this the section of the road you could see when you were upstream yesterday?” said Lew as she yanked on her waders. Like Osborne’s, her waders came up to her chest with wide straps over the shoulders. They made carrying a gun in a holster impossible.

  “No. They can see the stretch of blacktop but that pine plantation hides this area,” said Osborne. “We’re well hidden wading, too, until we reach that bend in the creek where they’ve cut back the brush.”

  “Good.” Lew threw her belt with the holster for her .40 caliber SIG Sauer onto the seat of Ray’s truck. She would wade in gun-ready.

  Ray was messing around in the bed of his pickup, which was always a disaster area. First he found his hip waders and pulled them on. Then, stepping between a stack of plastic buckets and several long-handled fishnets, he picked up a tangled mess of seining equipment. Under that was a locked metal cabinet. Watching Ray, Osborne kept a lid on his impatience. He knew better than to let his worry over Mark and Erin bungle everything. Determined to make fear work for him, Osborne inhaled and relaxed, letting a fierce calm override the panic.

  Leaning over the side of the truck, Ray handed Osborne the .20 gauge side-by-side and a box of shotshells. He kept the deer rifle for himself. Osborne crammed eight shells into the inside top pocket of his waders. Two more went into the gun. He checked the safety.

  They waded into Willow Creek, keeping to the right as much as possible. Osborne looked back. A Great Blue heron stood watching, grave and skeletal. Grasshoppers popped up and down along the bank. The rumble of motorcycles rose and fell. No one spoke as they moved forward. The creek had a nice burble, enough to cover the sound of their wading.

  Just as they neared the final curve in the creek, Osborne, who was in the lead, felt a tug on his sleeve. It was Ray, pointing off to their left.

  A swath of grass and brush along the creek bank was trampled and muddy, the mud marked with footprints. Osborne, eyes intent on seeing Patty Boy’s house before the house saw them, hadn’t even noticed. Ray touched one of the prints—”Wet, maybe less than an hour ago given how warm and sunny it is.” He stepped up and over the boulders lining the creek to take a look.

  Walking in about six feet, he stopped to peer over a healthy stand of tag alder. He waved at them to follow. Grabbing a branch, Osborne hoisted himself up onto the bank, then held out a hand to Lew.

  “I’m afraid you’re down a couple witnesses,” said Ray, his voice low.

  Osborne stared at the two bodies. He felt like he always did around death: numb. Numb and inept.

  When he had got the news that Mary Lee had died on the operating table, all he could think in those first few moments was who to call to cancel the bridge party she had planned for the next day. Right now all that came to mind was the fact that Bert Kriesel would never have to worry about having those black pants laundered.

  Osborne inhaled, then exhaled slowly, feeling the w
eight of the shotgun in his arms. This was not going to be easy.

  Lew moved closer to the bodies. Harold lay across Bert. No movement. A cicada shrilled. An edge of paper stuck out of one rear pocket of Harold’s jeans. Lew tugged at it. Out popped a fishing lure still in its clear plastic wrapper. She glanced at it quickly then held it out for Osborne and Ray to see.

  A new Frenzy Diver, Medium. Looked like the Craw-dad pattern but Osborne couldn’t be sure. Lew tucked the lure back into the dead man’s pocket.

  “Poor guy,” she said.

  “Bert wasn’t all bad,” said Ray as if he were giving a eulogy over the grave. “He had a good sense of humor.”

  Osborne’s eyes raked the ground around the bodies, looking for signs of blood or tissue. “Hard to tell if these two took it from the front or the back—”

  “I can answer that for you,” said a familiar voice. “After you set those guns down. Ver-r-y slowly.”

  They spun around.

  Bruce Duffy stood in the water, lips tightened into a grim smile. He was wearing Neoprene chest waders, which may or may not have been why he was sweating so profusely. A blood vessel running up his left temple throbbed—but his right hand was steady. And in that hand was a .357 Magnum revolver. It was pointed at them and there was no question: The gun was loaded.

  “Do exactly as he says,” said Lew, her voice even. Osborne had no plans to do otherwise.

  “Now empty your pockets, and I better see knives.”

  They obeyed. Osborne and Lew worked the tops of their waders down slowly, carefully, until they could reach their pockets. Ray didn’t have to. When they were finished, three utilitarian pocketknives rested in the grass by the guns.

  As Duffy waved them into the water, Osborne could see deep circles under his eyes, which were flat and hard. The face so ruddy the night before was ashen gray this morning. He looked like a man teetering on the brink of the DTs or coming off a drug high. Whichever it was, he looked dangerous.