Frozen Assets

by Lee Schultz

  I finally threw in the towel. I wasn’t going to find Daniel easily.

  I had lunch with Cal at O’Reilly’s a couple of days later, and over a three-napkin cheeseburger brought him up to date on our research into my neighbors. He frowned so hard I thought his eyebrows were going to get tangled together and he would forever after sport a unibrow.

  "Molly, I don’t like this. If these people are after you, you’re as good as dead. Remember a few years ago when the gas station guy was charged with price-fixing? How even with six other station owners willing to testify that he threatened them if they didn’t keep their prices below his, he walked? Or how the guy who owned all that property on Sunrise Lake skated when the guy who was suing him ended up shot? Molly, you’ve got to be careful. These people have money that we can’t even imagine, and money talks. Money buys people. Money hires people to do your dirty work for you."

  I was stunned. I don’t think I’ve heard Cal put that many words together at once as long as I’ve known him. I just stared at him, open-mouthed, wide-eyed. I wanted to ask, who are you and what have you done with Cal?

  His face a study in serious concern, he continued, "I spent enough time in law enforcement to know that, despite all the talk about equality under the law, if you’re poor, you get the gas chamber, if you’re rich, you get richer. You give lots of money to charities, your wife chairs committees, you sit on boards of directors, and when the mud starts to fly, you’ve got all these people to take the splatters so you stay clean. The dirt never sticks to you. You can, for all intents and purposes, do whatever you damn well please." He lowered his eyes and smiled wryly. "Sorry. Got a little excited there." His eyes bored into mine. His concern for me was palpable. He reached across the table and took my hand in both his great paws.

  I felt like I’d eaten rocks for breakfast. This sort of stuff is way out of my league, and I could feel my carefully constructed life coming unraveled. My little Eden was suddenly overrun with poisonous vipers and rotten apples. And I felt totally helpless to do anything about it. It was all I could do to keep the tears from welling up and sliding down my face.

  31

  You might be a Yooper if you install your snow tires in September.

  The next week was uneventful. That didn’t keep me from waking up at every noise, or looking over my shoulder wherever I went. Whether I was at home or in public, I felt like I had a bull’s-eye painted on my back. I wanted to go find a really big rock and hide under it where nobody could find me. But instead I went about my business, breakfast at the Circle Café, trips to the post office and grocery store, dinner with the Friday Foursome. The girls (when you’re my age, you can call yourself a girl and get away with it) insisted on staying with me in shifts so that one was with me at all times. When I protested, their position was that maybe they couldn’t stop what was happening, but they sure as hell could witness it and call for help. I swallowed my pride and accepted. Everybody was armed with cellphones, and the two of us who worked the ambulance carried our two-way radios at all times.

  It helped, a little. Wednesday night Cal stopped by with foot-longs from Subway and a bottle of Lambrusco, and after we polished off the sandwiches, we went to bed. I spent the night enfolded in Cal’s still-strong arms and felt safe - almost - for the first time in weeks.

  32

  Friday morning Holy Wah, Jeezo Petes and I were soaking up some rays on the front deck. My face was turned up to the sun and my eyes were closed. Though it was still fairly cool, around 40 degrees, the winter sun seemed to penetrate to my bone marrow and I could feel myself relaxing into it. The cat purred on my lap, and a mug of coffee steamed as I held it in my hand.

  Then I heard the sound of a vehicle coming up my road. Damn! I thought, scrambling to shag the critters back into the house. From the window I watched that damned real estate guy’s red Miata make its way to my front door. He minced his way through the snow and the occasional pile of H.W.’s business and when he stepped onto the deck, I opened the door.

  "What!" I said sharply. I didn’t want to encourage the creep. This time he was dressed to the nines again, with an expensive looking silvery suit and vest with a purple and mauve rep tie. His shoes had enough shine you could use them to focus laser beams. Definitely a city type.

  "Ms. Meagher, I’d like to come in and talk to you a little. My clients wish to make you another offer." He held out a sheet of paper. I took the paper and looked at the number on it. Three hundred thousand dollars. I gasped.

  Then I got pissed.

  "Who’s this from, anyway? Mr. Olds? Ms. Kaye? Why are they so hot to have my little piece of the woods?"

  His eyes widened and he took a step back. "Oh, I, well – " he stammered, then straightened up. "My clients are anonymous and wish to stay that way. I don’t know where you came up with those names, but they have nothing to do with my client’s offer to you. My client is being extremely generous in its offer which is much higher than the market value of similar properties. I should think you’d be happy to make such a profit on your land."

  The worst part was, intellectually I agreed with him. I should have been ecstatic at the thought of getting nearly three times what I paid for my property. In my other life I’d have jumped at the chance to make that kind of profit. If I did, could go buy myself another piece twice as big, and build a cabin twice as nice. So why wasn’t I grabbing the chance? My Committee was arguing in full force. "Grab it and run!" "No, stand your ground." "But if you take it they’ll leave you alone." "They’ll still come after you." And on and on.

  I finally said, "Mr. Wilson, you need to understand something. This isn’t about money. I fell in love with this piece of land. It speaks to me." He rolled his eyes. I continued, "A large part of this cabin was built with my own hands. There’s a lot of me in this. I’m too damned old to start over again. I just want to spend what years I have left here, in this spot. I just want to be left alone. Can’t you understand that?" I hated myself for the note of whiny pleading which had crept into my voice.

  Mr. Wilson looked at his feet. "So you are refusing the offer?"

  I nodded. "Please tell your client that I am no threat to him - them - whoever - that all I want to do is mind my own business and get on with my life."

  He turned his hands palms upward in a gesture of surrender, turned on his well-shod heel, and walked to his car. As he opened the door, he turned. "Please, Ms. Meagher, think about this some more. It’s important that you consider all aspects of the deal." He looked like he wanted to say more, but he got into the car, carefully turned around in the small driveway, and headed away down the road.

  I tried really, really hard to ignore the pressing urge to turn around to see what nasty something was gaining on me.

  33

  Two years after I turned my back on my old life, the dog and I wound up in Iron County. It was hunting season, so I looked up my old pal Bernie Cotter. His cell phone was always with him, like another appendage, and he had an antenna setup an electronics geek friend of his had made for him, so he could boost his cell phone service no matter where he went. He was delighted to have me stop by for a visit, with the caveat that until he filled his tag, he’d be out the door at sunrise and back after dark. I said that was just fine with me, I just wanted to get out of the motor home for a couple of days while I figured out what to do next.

  Bernie’s "camp" is a log structure on a secluded lake, that would probably sell for a couple million anywhere but the UP. Even so, it probably cost him a good half mil to buy the land and build the house. As warned, Bernie was absent when we arrived, so we went in and made ourselves at home. I stirred up the fire in the fireplace and H.W. promptly flopped down in front of it and sighed noisily as she put her muzzle on her paws and closed her eyes. I think she was as buttsore as I was after two years as nomads. I took in some groceries out of the RV and set about making a meal. Bernie walked in looking sour just as I was putting a couple of slabs of beef on the grill.
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  "Hey, Mol, how the hell are you!" he crowed, throwing his arms around me. He nearly squeezed the breath out of me, but turned me loose just before my face turned blue. "I was so surprised to hear from you! Everybody said you’d dropped off the face of the earth after...." His voice trailed off uncertainly and he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  "Hey, Bern, don’t worry about it. Everyone was right - I dropped out and tuned in, as it were. I’ve been living in a motor home and never staying more than a month in any one place. I’m at a point now of having to figure out what is next. And I haven’t the foggiest idea, so I thought what the heck, maybe I can chill at Bernie’s while I decide what to do with the rest of my life."

  "So, " he ventured, "how are you doing after – you know - getting attacked like that?" I could see him eyeing the left side of my face and neck, where a thread-thin scar bore witness to events. Without those skilled surgeons, the scar would have been the size of my little finger. All I would have needed was a couple of large bolts sticking out the sides of my neck and I’d have been ready for trick or treating. As it was, two years’ worth of healing and a little sunshine and you almost had to know where to look.

  I gave him the Readers Digest version of my life the last three years, the long months fighting my way back to health, the decision to mostly bag the practice of law, and some of the events of my two-year odyssey.

  When I finished, he took a deep breath and blew it out noisily. "Wow. I don’t know what to say, Molly, except to tell you that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want, even after I go back to Detroit and the daily grind. "And, " he continued, looking over at the sleeping dog, "your friend is welcome, too. What is he, a wolfhound or something."

  I said "Tell you over dinner. How do you like your steak?"

  Over steak, salad and risotto, I filled Bernie in on what I had come to think of as The Dog Saga. He made appreciative noises and looked over at H.W. several times. When I had completed the tale, he nodded. "Sure was her lucky day it was you she ran in front of and not a semi, eh?" Although Bernie is a born-and-bred city guy, an investment banker, when he’s in the U.P. he sort of lapses into the whole Yooper thing.

  We took our brandies out onto the deck overlooking Fortune Lake, a lovely deep lake with several small peninsulas jutting out into the water. I scanned the far shore, thinking that the tax revenue from this lake alone should support the county for a year. Lots of hugely expensive mini – and not so mini - mansions, most used only part of the year by people who escape their city lives, only to recreate them here in the north.

  I closed my eyes, inhaling a mixture of brandy fumes and pine, listening to the faraway cry of a lone loon and the twitter of a few small birds in the trees around the cabin, as they settled in for the night. It was so peaceful and calming, I could feel the few remaining ragged edges of my soul knit themselves together.

  Here, I thought, is where I want to be.

  The next day Bernie introduced me to the realtor who had sold him his lake property.

  34

  I was fidgety, not my normal tranquil self. I felt like I should be doing something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what I should be doing. I picked up one of my ongoing knitting projects, a wool afghan done in Viking textured patterns. When I needed something to knit that didn’t take a lot of concentration, I just figured out another square to knit. When one of the local bars threw a benefit for a child who needed an organ transplant, I donated an afghan for raffle. But even figuring out a new project didn’t calm my unquiet soul. I kept replaying my encounter with the FBI agents at the ambulance garage, and each time I pictured it, Agent became more and more the focus. He really did make my nose run.

  I spent more time on the computer, looking for a clue to Daniel’s whereabouts. Zip.

  Then I read in the paper that an old law school classmate of mine, Elizabeth Brzoznowski, was conducting a murder trial in Marquette. The murder had been quite sensational and covered by national media.. A prominent citizen had hired a hit man to kill her husband. The problem was, she went for cheap instead of quality, so instead of hiring a professional, she hired a hunter she was acquainted with. He was supposed to make it look like a hunting accident while she was in New York at a fashion show, but, amateur as he was, he blew it. It took the state police all of two days to zero in on him, after he celebrated his momentary riches by getting drunk in a bar and bragging about how "this rich cunt is gonna pay me for the rest of my life." Duh.

  I asked the girls to look in on the critters for me, packed a small bag, and headed north. I took a room at an older motel that has kitchenettes in all the rooms. I like being able to make myself a cup of tea when I feel like it. After I unpacked - a five-minute job, I like to travel light - I went out in search of food. Marquette has a lot of nice restaurants, the usual complement of fast food places and bars, and the ubiquitous Holiday Inn. I opted for the Border Grill, a no-frills place that serves great Mexican food. I gave my order and paid, took my number over to a small table in the corner, and took a paperback novel out of my bag. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  I whipped my head around, startled. It was the FBI Agent Teddy had described as "eye candy." Nate Walters. He was sitting at the next table.

  "Hey, Agent, how you doing?" Master of witty repartee, that’s me.

  He smiled a slow, lazy smile which made the corners of his eyes crinkle like the Marlboro Man. Not at all like the last time we had met, at the ambulance garage. His eyes were a really dark blue this evening. "I was having a really lousy day until just now."

  God help me, I felt myself blushing. I was saved from further humiliation by the arrival of the nose-ringed waiter with my food. I took a couple of deep breaths then turned back. "Well, hopefully you’re done for the day and can recharge your batteries."

  He picked up his tray, set it on my table, and stood across the table from me. "You mind?"

  Oh, yeah, I’m going to say yes, I mind, go back to your own table. If you believe that I’ve got a really long bridge to sell you.

  I nodded . "Sure, have a seat." He sat.

  I decided to simply not try to make conversation. My Committee was at it again. "What makes you think he’s interested in YOU, you fat old thing!" "Oooh, I think he likes you." "He just wants company, anyone will do." Sometimes I wonder if this is what happens to people who claim they hear voices. So far my committee hasn’t told me to go out and shoot anyone, but you never know.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. I hate having someone watch me eat.

  Finally, he leaned back and said "So what brings you to our fair city?"

  I told him about the trial. "I figured it’s free entertainment, and you never know, I might learn something,."

  "Do you ever miss practicing criminal law?" He actually looked like he was interested in the answer.

  I thought a moment before answering. "Not really. Most of my clients were patently guilty but didn’t want to have to take responsibility for their actions and choices. I got tired of having to keep a straight face while arguing to the judge that gee whiz, my client wasn’t thinking when he did what he did, so the court should give him a slap on the wrist and send him out to do worse things."

  He grinned. "They get pretty creative, don’t they? Sometimes I wonder if there are any truly innocent people in the system - so many of them say they are, but..."

  I nodded. "I got pretty good at figuring out who really did what they were accused of, and who was really being railroaded. It was about 95 to one." My chicken quesadilla was starting to burn my mouth, so I got up and refilled my large glass of iced tea. He got up and followed me to the drink machine. While he waited his turn at the iced tea spigot, he stood so close to me I could feel his body heat. Damn the man! He’s probably doing it on purpose, having a good laugh at getting the old broad worked into a lather. Bet he has women falling all over him. I clenched my jaw and mentally squished those thoughts up into a
ball and stuffed them back into their closet.

  I got back to the table first and had regained my composure by the time Agent Nathan Walters returned. I looked out the window. I hadn’t been this uncomfortable since my first date, what, forty-five years ago? I decided a long time ago that getting really involved with someone was not worth the effort it takes to maintain a relationship. My relationship with Cal was, for the most part, nothing more than friendship, a mutual agreement between two people who liked having someone to go to dinner with, and to have occasional sex with, but with no strings, no commitments, no obligations, no where-were-you-and-who-were-you-with kind of stuff. The kind of stuff that was so disturbing - that frisson of excitement, the surge of lurid imagination, the sudden clamor from bits of me that I hadn’t heard from in years - had not been a part of my life for the last twenty or so years. Ever since my third marriage collapsed when my husband began to require me to account for my time and to resent the long hours I spent in my office preparing cases for trial. When he accused me of cheating on him because I hadn’t been home before midnight three nights in a row, I’d had it. He was just another example of my lousy taste in men.

  So now, sitting across the table from Middle-Aged Hottie of the Year, I was more than a little confused by my reaction to him. I realized that while I tried to quell the storm inside my head, he had been watching me with those deep blue eyes and a slightly amused tilt at the corner of his mouth. Yummy mouth. Eminently kissable - oh STOP IT!