Figure Eight

by Jeff Nania

  “Doc, I thought that you were going to wait to remove that slug. I thought it was too dangerous until the, the uh … rest of the damage was healed,” croaked John. His mouth felt like he was sucking on cotton balls.

  “Nothing has changed, John. There are certain risks involved. Our choices are limited, but we must do something. The risks are far greater if we don’t,” the doctor explained. “John, I want you to be aware of the risks. Do you have any next of kin that we can talk with about this surgery? A wife, son, daughter?”

  “I really have no one. No one at all.”

  It was then John realized exactly how this was playing out. The hospital chaplain had entered the room and came to sit by John’s bed.

  “Mr. Cabrelli, I am Pastor Steve Martin. Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable? Is there anything you want to talk about? Anyone you want me to contact?”

  “Steve Martin? Like the comedian? I could definitely use a comedian right now.”

  With that, John went to sleep. The pre-surgical anesthetic had been administered, and he was on his way to surgery. The last thing John remembered was Nurse Holterman holding his hand. His last thoughts were of her sawing it off at the wrist.

  John came to, maybe hours, maybe days later. The first face that greeted him was a vision of loveliness: Nurse Holterman had been replaced, and another nurse that was infinitely more pleasing to the eye was there, and she even smiled.

  “Mr. Cabrelli, welcome back.”

  “I am glad to be back. How did I do?”

  “You did very well considering the circumstances. The doctor wanted to be notified as soon as you were awake, and he will fill you in.”

  A few minutes later Dr. Árnason came in. “Mr. Cabrelli, how are you feeling?”

  “I have definitely had better days. How did I do?”

  “Things went very well considering the extent of the damage. We successfully repaired an area of the intestine that had been damaged by one of the bullets. This was the source of the infection. When the bullets entered your body, they fragmented, and we were able to locate several small pieces and remove them. I am sorry to say we were not able to remove the second bullet lodged next to your spine at this time. With the current complications, we determined that the risk factors were too great. Once your immune system and the antibiotics do their work, you should start feeling much better, and we can make plans to remove that bullet. For now, just take it easy and concentrate on getting well.”

  “Doc, how long do you think it will be?” John fell back asleep before the doctor answered.

  It was a full three days before John was back to a recognizable form of himself. The narcotics were reduced, and he was able to self-administer the pain medication by pushing a button. He was anxious to see Bill Presser again, but visitation was restricted to immediate family, of which he had none. So no visitors. He broached the subject with Nurse Holterman, asking if Presser could visit. She responded as expected.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Not one to waste a chance to dish out a tongue lashing, she continued, “We at the hospital are trying very hard to give you the best care possible. You must be part of your care and do as instructed. Much of the staff is feeling pressured by your presence here. The press calls to the nurse’s station are to the point that they are taking time away from the care of other patients. It seems that the news is out: John Cabrelli is at our hospital, and there is a rather disturbing rumor circulating that you have died.”

  “I don’t think I’m dead. What are they saying?”

  “Clearly Mr. Cabrelli, you are very much alive. I do not choose to participate in gossip about you and your situation. I do not care what brought you here. My only responsibility is caring for you while you are here.”

  “Nurse Holterman, please listen to me, just for one second. Just listen.”

  “Very well, go ahead.”

  “I have got to see Bill Presser. It is important to me. I need to see him. You make the rules. I’ll handle it however you want it handled. Just let me see him.”

  She said nothing and just fixed him with that loving look of hers, kind of like an ice cube down your shirt.

  “We’ll see, Mr. Cabrelli. We’ll see.”

  A day later, Bill Presser was ushered into the room by Nurse Holterman. He looked like a schoolboy being sent to the principal’s office. He rolled his eyes, just as the nurse looked at him.

  “Do you have an issue, Mr. Presser?” Nurse Holterman demanded.

  “No ma’am, no issue at all.”

  “I thought not,” she said.

  “You may spend as much time with Mr. Cabrelli as I determine is consistent with best healthcare practices. If you choose to attempt to thwart my authority or ignore my orders, I will make absolutely certain that you will never enter this hospital again, unless it is for emergency surgery. Are we clear?”

  Both Cabrelli and Presser nodded their heads at the same time.

  Nurse Holterman did a crisp about-face and left the room.

  “Jeez, John, sounds like you’re in for a long haul. I heard them say they’re going to have to operate on you again to get that second bullet out. You do look a little better though, I mean compared to the last time I saw you. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yeah. Sit down and get ready. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  7

  Cabrelli

  I went to the mailbox. It was a warm sunny day. I got a letter from Derek Anderson, Attorney at Law, 115 Main St., Musky Falls, Wisconsin. The letter stunned me.

  Dear Mr. Cabrelli,

  I am the legal counsel for Nicholas John Cabrelli, now deceased. I have been charged with the execution of his will. Mr. Cabrelli has named you as his sole heir. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

  Sincerely,

  Derek Anderson, Attorney at Law

  Uncle Nick was not really my uncle. He was like my father’s cousin or something. He had lived on a lake in Musky Falls for as long as I could remember. We had often gone there in the summer when I was a kid, swimming, fishing, running around in his boat. He was a good guy. He had been married to Aunt Rose since they were kids. They didn’t have any children. Uncle Nick was some sort of engineer and had moved to Musky Falls to work for a forest products company.

  I used to love it up there. The air smelled so good. Aunt Rose would make these cinnamon rolls that would melt in your mouth. I can still smell them. After my father died, we had lost contact. A few years ago, I was in the area and stopped by his place. No one was around, so I left a note but never heard anything back. I figured that if I was his sole heir, then Aunt Rose must have also passed away.

  I’ve got to be honest. After I got the letter I was kind of excited. I felt guilty about feeling that way, but it was how I felt. I had always enjoyed my time with Uncle Nick and Aunt Rose, but they hadn’t been part of my current life for many years. They had had a good run living, I was sure, well into their eighties, although I didn’t know how long ago Rose had died.

  They had a small but very nice house, kind of like a log cabin but with squared timbers for the walls. The thing I remembered best about the house was the fireplace. The kitchen and living room were all one area. The centerpiece was a huge fireplace that Uncle Nick had built himself with smooth round stones he had collected in the area. Even on our summer trips up to Musky Falls it sometimes got pretty cool at night, so we took full vocal advantage of our discomfort to get Uncle Nick to build a fire. As soon as the fire was going, Aunt Rose would bring out a covered pan with a long handle filled with popcorn, which we’d shake as we held it over the fire. Boy, I loved sitting in front of that fire munching popcorn with Uncle Nick telling me stories about the Northwoods, his and my favorite being those that involved close encounters with bears. I even saw a bear right in his yard one morning. I had gotten up early to go fishing when I heard a loud noise back by the trash cans. I went and took a look, to be met head on by a huge black bear. I was sure he
weighed at least 1,000 pounds. Uncle Nick was on my heels as I went out, and he yelled at the bear. It sauntered off into the woods. He told me that I needed to be careful.

  “Black bears will leave you alone most of the time. They are as afraid of you as you are of them. That is unless they feel like they are cornered. When they feel cornered even a yearling cub like that one can do some real damage.”

  I took exception to the description of this behemoth as a yearling cub; clearly Uncle Nick’s vision was failing.

  Now that I was thinking about it, some of my best childhood memories centered around a visit to Musky Falls.

  I called Laura and told her what I had received from Counselor Anderson. She was excited for me.

  “John, some of these northern lake properties in Wisconsin are worth a fortune. The market is driven by buyers from the Twin Cities, Milwaukee, and Madison. I have a friend who’s been trying to buy a place up north for a least a year. Nice places on good lakes are hard to come by.”

  “Well, I’m going to take a few days and go up to see this guy, check the place out, and see what he has to say.”

  “Do that. It would be good for you to take some time off. We don’t really have anything pressing until the Crather case comes up in two weeks. Take all the time you need.”

  I started packing my zippy little sports car five minutes later. I looked high and low through my clothes, and other than blue pressed jeans, one flannel shirt, and a Swiss Army knife, I didn’t have much in the way of backwoods gear. And if I do say so myself, I had become a little more in tune with fashion. So even though I put on the jeans, I also slipped on my custom Italian loafers and headed out the door. I figured what the hell, it’s not like I am going bushwhacking. I am going to meet with a lawyer; my loafers would do just fine.

  So on a sunny day in mid-June, I headed off on the interstate toward Eau Claire. The trip was uneventful. I watched my speed pretty closely. Troopers don’t have the same sense of humor regarding speeding that city and county cops do.

  I had not taken this trip in a long time, and as I traveled along, fond memories of days long past flooded back. Days of pure innocence and happiness. Swimming in the lake, fishing for muskies, sitting by the fire at night. In everybody’s life there are those places and memories that bring comfort. This was certainly mine. At Eau Claire, I jumped on Highway 53 North toward Superior. What I remembered as a narrow meandering Northwoods road had been widened to four lanes and a 65 mile-per-hour speed limit. Had it all changed? In my absence, had the north country succumbed to the urban pressure, turning quiet roads into super highways? Unfamiliar businesses lined up as box containers filled strip mall after strip mall. What I recall as small white signs with pointing arrows had become big green signs: “Exit 89 Jim Falls.”

  About an hour later, I turned east onto the old St. Croix River Highway. The road narrowed and slowed. Within five miles, I had been transported from the rush of super travel to the scenic beauty of Northern Wisconsin. A road sign read “Musky Falls 22 miles.” I crossed the fast flowing Namekagon River, a river in which I had fished for trout as a boy with my uncle. I used to love wading into the current in my shorts and tennis shoes, feeling the press of the water against my legs. Walking along the river seemed like a trip through the uncharted wilderness. No one for miles, the river all my own, fish waiting to be caught.

  The Northwoods of Wisconsin, while changed, remained largely intact. The integrity of the landscape had been protected by acts of Congress creating the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. In addition, thousands of acres had been protected in perpetuity by state land purchase. Northern Wisconsin, a place so special, people from across the country had seen fit to protect it. I always thought it was pretty cool that Minnesota had the “Land of 10,000 Lakes” on their license plate, yet Wisconsin is home to 15,000 lakes. Maybe more importantly, Wisconsin had the Packers, and Minnesota was stuck with the lowly Vikings.

  I pulled into Musky Falls at about 1:30, just in time to meet Counselor Anderson on Main Street at the Fisherman Bar and Grill for lunch, just as we’d arranged. Parking a couple of blocks away, I walked past the shops to the restaurant. As I passed the fudge shop, I couldn’t help but stop in front and watch what appeared to be the same old gal I remembered, still stirring fudge in two big copper bowls both at the same time. I am not much for sweets, but, God, I love that homemade fudge. I could eat it by the pound. Many of the stores had changed; Main Street Bait and Tackle was now the Irish store. However, the flavor of the town remained the same.

  Musky Falls was a community of 2,500 people, a population which, during the summer months, grew to 25,000. They came from Madison, Minneapolis, Chicago, and Milwaukee to escape their self-imposed prisons of constant movement. Never enough, never fast enough, never enough time to stop and smell the roses, people wishing their lives away, looking forward to retirement only to find they no longer had the will to slow down.

  I was definitely that guy. I loved the fast-paced life—something happening, danger, challenge—first as a cop, then as an investigator for a lawyer. High speed, intense, make it happen. Carry a gun, be ready for anything, be tough, be the man, be ready.

  For whatever reason, for the first time in many years, I felt the weight of my chosen life bear down on me as I walked down Main Street in Musky Falls, Wisconsin. I knew then and there I could walk away, should walk away, from leading the life I no longer needed or wanted. It was time for a change, time to regroup, time to make decisions about the next half of my life. No bullshit. I decided this all in two blocks. John Cabrelli was moving on.

  8

  Cabrelli

  I walked into the Fisherman Bar and Grill. This was the perfect Northwoods restaurant with mounted wildlife covering the walls interspersed with hunting and fishing artifacts. Several people were sitting at the long wooden bar, and most had tap beers sitting in front of them. I found Attorney Anderson at a back table. I pegged him immediately as a lawyer, kind of slick looking, big fish in a small pond sort of guy. He looked forty or fifty—hard to tell, every hair in place and exactly the same color, wearing high-end golf casual clothes. I walked up to his table.

  “John?” he inquired.

  “Yeah, John Cabrelli, at your service.”

  “Glad to meet you. I hope you had a pleasant trip. I know the traffic from Madison to Eau Claire can be a beast.”

  “The traffic wasn’t bad,” I responded. “As a matter of fact, it was a very pleasant drive. Lots of things have changed since my last trip up. Lots of things have remained the same.”

  “This remains a unique paradise. People from big cities have moved in and driven lakefront property values through the ceiling. Once they’re here, they fight like crazy to prevent the next guy from building. Time and again, they come here and try to close the door behind them. The tougher they make it for the next guy, the higher values become on existing properties, like your uncle’s Spider Lake property, for example. Your uncle expressed to me many times that he couldn’t believe how much his property is worth. Yes, indeed, you have inherited a real gold mine.”

  The lawyer had a look on his face kinda like a fisherman who had just put out a baited hook and leaned back in his chair, waiting to see what John would say.

  “I guess I never really thought about it being valuable until a friend of mine mentioned that lake properties had become scarce.”

  “Not only is your property valuable, but I also have very, very good news. I have with me an offer to purchase the property. An out-of-state buyer has offered the appraised value for the property with no contingencies. As a matter of fact, he can close on it within thirty days after you accept the offer,” the lawyer said.

  With that, the good counselor pulled out the offer and dropped it in front of me. He pointed to the top line, and I almost gasped. When people said the property was valuable, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that it meant seven figures. But there they were, right in front of me.

  Cops, like my
self, are very clever at remaining in control in the face of the unforeseen. Basically whirling on the inside while remaining cool on the outside. I have got to say though, it was hard. Here in front of me was a million and a half bucks. I would be set for life, see the world, no worries. It was dazzling. It was also clear that Attorney Anderson fully expected to dazzle me with the flourish with which he delivered the offer. Another lesson in the book of lessons I will someday write: Never make the deal in the room the first time you see it. If it is a straight deal, it will be there tomorrow. Take your time.

  “That is impressive, Counselor. I’ll take it and look it over and let you know,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t let this offer linger too long. I know this buyer is looking at a number of properties in the area. If you don’t act quickly enough, this opportunity may be lost.”

  He handed me a menu and said he was going to have the Fisherman burger, a Leinenkugel’s on tap, and a side of deep-fried cheese curds.

  The waitress walked up, and we just had her double the order. “You know, John, that property is really something. However, if you choose not to sell it to this buyer, I think you might have a hard time finding someone else willing to pay top dollar, even though lake properties are hard to find on any lake much less one of this quality, a Class A musky lake to boot. I would be more than willing to handle the details of the sale. We could finish up the legal paperwork today, and tomorrow you could return home, get on with your normal life, and just leave all the details to me.”