The Dead Season

by Tessa Wegert

  The transition from kitchen to outside world was jarring. Neither of us mentioned Doug, or questioned the wisdom of leaving Swanton without seeing Harmison, while I drove Tim back to the field to pick up his car. Somehow, we’d both decided to abide by an unspoken rule: put the baggage in the back and face forward. Now, the path forward led along three connecting routes to New York.

  We three-way called Mac while we drove, Tim’s car visible in my rearview mirror. She told us there had been a handyman working on Heart Island when Trey disappeared, something to do with the castle’s pipes. He had given his statement to Tim already, but it wasn’t until he heard the news report about a man dumping a tarp full of leaves in the river that he remembered something else about that day.

  “The handyman saw a guy docked by the gazebo on the channel side,” Mac said. “He thought it was castle staff, but he remembers there was a tarp spread on the floor of the boat, with something bulky underneath.”

  There was no record of a second worker at Boldt Castle that day, according to its manager. When Mac looked into the handyman’s claim, she found the boat matched the description of a vessel that was stolen.

  A memory bobbed to the surface of my mind: Tim and I chatting next to the coffee bar at Nelly’s while his lady friend—Kelly, was it?—waited in the next room. An elderly woman named Miss Betty kept calling Tim about that boat. The thief had taken it from the RV park near the Price Chopper. The store that abutted Swan Bay.

  “An hour ago,” Mac said, “that boat was spotted at Dingman Point, docked outside the little rental cottages they’ve got over there. They’re closed for the season, but the owner lives in one of them year-round. When he walked down to the water to investigate the boat, he was attacked by a man who fits Bram’s description. Bram left him where he lay, and the owner—grandpa type in his seventies, lives alone—sustained a head injury. By the time he came to and emergency services got out there, Bram and the boat were gone. We searched the other cottages, and it looks like he and Trey might have been holed up in one for a bit. Bram looted the owner’s fridge and pantry before he left.”

  “That’s a good sign, right?” I said hopefully. “That food could be for Trey.”

  “Or it could be for him. With that composite sketch all over the news, he’s gotta fly under the radar. Either way,” she said, “we’re going full-court press out there. I’ve been on this lead all day, and I’m not leaving anytime soon. The islands are deserted this time of year, and we’ve already got people out there looking. If that boat’s on the river, we’ll find it.”

  We agreed to meet at the station once Tim and I were back in A-Bay. Within seconds of us hanging up, Tim was calling me directly.

  “Sol and Bogle have centralized all the data we’ve got on this,” he said. “Witness statements, chronology of significant events, everything. It paints a pretty clear picture, so I’m thinking you should look it over and see if something jumps out. If anyone asks about your eval, or why you’re wading through evidence when you’re supposed to be suspended, make something up. They’ll all be preoccupied with looking for Bram anyway.”

  “You want me to stay at the station while you and Mac search for him? Like hell,” I said.

  “The guy’s a family member, Shana. He’s your cousin.”

  “That only makes me want to put an end to this more.”

  “I don’t doubt that, okay? You’re probably more motivated than any of us, but have you thought about how big a problem your relationship could be if we actually find him? If we catch him, and he goes to trial, his attorney could use it against you. They could easily claim prejudice and bias. They’ll pore over every interaction you’ve ever had with Bram—including what happened in New York. Do I have to remind you that the last time you had a chance to detain him you let him go?”

  “Wow. So much for Mr. Understanding.”

  Tim made no reply. The rush of my tires speeding down the frozen highway filled the car. I was driving too fast, but my need to be back in the Thousand Islands had me wound up so tightly it hurt. I was tired of feeling divided between wanting to keep Bram masked and needing to see him exposed for his crimes. It was like battling a second personality for the upper hand; both had their claws out, and both had no intention of relinquishing control.

  “It has to be me. I have to play by Bram’s rules.”

  “Fuck his rules!”

  “Yeah,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “Fuck Bram. Except he’s still got Trey Hayes. I never said I had it all figured out. I’m just trying to stay afloat.”

  My vision blurred, and the landscape blurred with it. Tim said he had another call coming in, and we hung up. I stole glances at him in the rear mirror after that. Saw his lips move when he answered the call, and go still when the conversation ended. It was a long time before he called me back.

  “McIntyre again,” Tim said. His voice was solemn. “They’ve got eyes on the boat. It’s on the northeast shore of Deer Island, abandoned. There are buildings there. Places to hide.”

  I pulled in a breath. If Bram was on Deer Island, and Mac called in the cavalry, there was no telling how he’d react. He’d already attacked one person today; if he felt threatened, he could do a lot more damage. He wouldn’t hurt me, though. Not yet. And as long as he wanted me alive to watch his plot unfold, Mac and Tim needed my help.

  “Tell her to give the island a wide berth. Please, Tim. Don’t let anyone tip him off.”

  “You’re a stubborn woman, you know that?” he replied, but I knew he’d do what I asked. He’d had time to think it over, and his conclusion was inevitable. I was going after Bram with or without him, and we were better off as a team.

  Easing the gas pedal downward, I said, “Tell her we’re on our way.”

  THIRTY

  By 5:00 p.m., all three of us were huddled on a police boat, hurtling into the icy wind. To my left, Boldt Castle was more visible than I’d ever seen it now that the trees surrounding the manse were stripped of their foliage. It was only a ten-minute boat ride from Heart Island, where Trey’d gone on his field trip, to Deer Island. Mac said she thought Bram hid in the cottages for a while, but had they been right under our noses on this island, too?

  I never fully understood the magnetic draw of natural beauty until I started calling the North Country home. Even desolate and cold, the river put me in a state of awe. With no other boats around to disturb its numinous splendor, the surface of the water was a lustrous, level plane. We glided over it, past islands bordered by cliffs of gneiss and pink granite and crowned with eastern red and white pines, their trunks bent to dramatic angles by centuries of wind. Reflections of stone and cedar homes, all empty for the winter months, twinkled on the water like eventide ghosts. By the time we got close to our target, the sun was balanced on the horizon, and when Tim cut the motor the sound of geese calling echoed for miles. I could feel the water all around me, and it strengthened my resolve. This was a place unlike any other. And I wanted Bram out.

  From our southwest vantage point, the forty-acre island appeared to be nothing but forest. I would have assumed it was uninhabited, and I would be right, but it wasn’t always that way. When Deer Island was active as a summer retreat for Yale University’s Skull and Bones Society, stewards served elaborate dinners to former American presidents while their fellow Bonesmen walked its bucolic trails and made use of its tennis court. Now, the place was just a pain in Tim’s ass. In summer, local kids home from college liked to use it for parties. According to Tim, calling it a death trap was generous. Of the four original structures on the island, three now lay in ruins. Only the society lodge was still habitable.

  That’s where we found the stolen motorboat. Located on the channel side of the island, the lodge was the most visible of Deer Island’s structures, its dock a neon arrow pointing the way in. I didn’t like that at all. If someone was trying to hide, tying up here wasn’t the way to do i
t.

  Aside from the tarp, the boat was empty. There was nothing in it that appeared to belong to our missing boy or to Blake Bram. Stepping out of our own vessel, I transferred my gaze to the lodge. There was no smoke coming from its towering chimney. I pictured Trey Hayes in the jacket he’d been wearing the day he disappeared, which had been described to me as lightweight. It was a lot colder now than three days ago, and it seemed impossible that McIntyre and I had sat outside at Nelly’s just last weekend. If Trey was here, this derelict building would provide little warmth.

  Tim tied the police boat to the dock. McIntyre drew her weapon and a flashlight, Tim did the same, and with the two of them in the lead, we ascended the steps to the lodge’s front porch.

  All the while, I hammered away at my memories of Bram. What was the significance of this place? Proximity to Heart Island wasn’t enough of a motivating factor. Why come here? Abe and I never spent time in a cottage in the woods or went to sleepaway camp. With its Canadiana style of architecture, all cedar shakes, swooping roof, and fieldstone, the lodge looked nothing like the homes in Swanton. The Bram I knew was meticulous in his planning. If he’d chosen Deer Island, there was a reason.

  The decking creaked underfoot, and when Mac got to the lodge’s massive door, she lifted two fingers. Stop. Hang back. Tim turned his head to look at me, and I registered his expression of surprise a second before I realized what I was hearing. Bird cries. An osprey, perched on the roof above us, shattered the silence with a strident screech. I scanned the woods for movement or a flash of color. Tim raised his eyebrows, and I nodded. All clear. McIntyre pushed open the door.

  The lodge must have been impressive once, when the paint wasn’t peeling and the woodwork wasn’t cloaked in dust. It had soaring ceilings, and hulking beams some interior designers would surely sell their firstborn to acquire. Now, it looked like a frat house left to rot. Several windows were wide open, others smashed. Shards of glass, dried leaves, and crumpled beer cans littered the floor, and I was pretty sure the animal droppings scattered about the room didn’t come from a dog. The place was dark and filthy and stank of mold. I flicked the nearest light switch. Nothing.

  We spread out to search, Tim and I going one way while Mac went the other, all of us trying not to disturb the debris on the floor. The place felt unoccupied to me. Hollow. Despite all the rubble, it lacked substance. I felt sure there were no bodies inside this building but our own. None that were breathing, anyway.

  McIntyre was down in the kitchen when Tim and I got to the second floor. There were bedrooms up there, lots of them. We searched them one by one. Because Tim was in front of me, he entered the room at the end of the hall first. “There’s something in here,” he said, and I called down for Mac to come upstairs. I barely needed to raise my voice. The silence on Deer Island was absolute.

  McIntyre made her way up the cracked and crooked staircase to meet us. Neither Tim nor I had approached the object that lay on hardwood planks in the center of the near-empty room, illuminated by the beam from his flashlight. Tim didn’t understand what we were looking at, but I did, and it paralyzed me. The object was the same size and shape as the cat in the woods. This time it wasn’t wrapped in plastic, but cloth.

  Mac’s expression was complicated as she drew near it, a potent mix of bewilderment and fear. She pinched a fold of the gray fabric. There was an odd smell in the room now, a scent I knew was called Summer Meadow. Doing my laundry at Mac’s house, I’d come to love it. In the lodge now, it made me gag.

  My police academy T-shirt was one of my favorites. The last time I saw it, it was in my suitcase in the corner of Mac’s living room. Now, it was here. When Mac pulled the fabric back, all three of us gasped. My shirt was wrapped around little Whiskey.

  “No.”

  Mac dropped to her knees beside the dog, and I stumbled forward, heaving. Whiskey is here. The lodge tilted and slipped toward the river. There were times when I thought about Bram’s crimes and wondered how much farther he could take this. Now I knew. He’d gone into Mac’s house, invaded her life and laid waste to her world. Visions of the bodies he left for me in Manhattan crowded the space behind my eyes, that gray skin and those bruises, matted hair, limbs akimbo, and vacant expressions. The ghosts of those women came up behind me and ran their cold fingertips down my neck. The panic I’d felt on Tern Island, the same all-consuming dread my ex-fiancé swore I’d never overcome, was back. No, I thought. It never left.

  Mac’s shaking hands hovered over Whiskey’s body. There was blood behind his left ear and his eyes were closed, but Tim said, “He’s breathing, we have to move fast,” and bundled the dog into his arms. I listened to their boots pound down the hall, but still I couldn’t move. Off in the distance, a boat engine rattled to life. I recognized the sound immediately, and in that moment it was the only thing that could have brought me to my feet. I could still hear Tim and Mac downstairs. They hadn’t yet reached the door. I dragged myself upright, and I ran.

  The path down to the river was firm and dry, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Bram’s bait had ensured we’d be far enough away from the dock that no amount of physical exertion would get us back there quickly enough. By the time we all reached the river’s edge, Tim still clutching Whiskey in his arms, the stolen boat was in the channel and racing back toward A-Bay. As the sun slipped below the glittery horizon, I could just make out a single hooded figure sitting stoically inside.

  In seconds Mac was on her phone, yelling at troopers on the mainland to get their asses to the river, but I think she knew, as I did, we’d find the boat empty. If Trey wasn’t with Bram now, it was unlikely the boy was ever on Deer Island. The place had served its purpose.

  I’d been warned.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Riverboat Pub sat near the ferry dock at the edge of the St. Lawrence, but it was too late in the day to appreciate the water view, and I was too sloshed to notice it anyway. The ice in my third gin and tonic was cold against my bottom teeth, and the pungent scent of juniper stung my nostrils. Tim didn’t say anything when my sips got bigger and I leaned into the bar’s pleather bumper.

  I’d never been out with Tim in town before, and was taken aback by the happy greetings and claps on the shoulder he got from the pub’s patrons. Having grown up in A-Bay, Tim knew everyone—including my ex. I wondered if his reluctance to join me in my drunken haze could be attributed to the attention he was generating, or if it was something else. He didn’t try to match my pace, not even when Matt gave him a beer on the house. He’d been nursing that same bottle for an hour.

  As far as I was concerned, my keen desire to deaden the pain I felt was justified. I’d been desperate to go with Mac to the animal hospital. Whiskey’s breaths were shallow, and he wasn’t responding to her voice. When she told me she wanted to be alone with him, the rebuff sliced like a dagger to the heart. Tim had come back to Watertown with me, taking pictures of Mac’s broken backdoor window for the B&E report, while I inched a zipper around my bulging suitcase and tried to tell myself she didn’t blame me for what had happened to her dog. There was no way I was staying at her place anymore, not after what Bram had done. On the boat ride back to shore from Deer Island, I’d closed my eyes and hoped the rhythm of the waves on the hull would pacify me. Instead, my mind produced a picture show of friends and family in various states of demise. No matter how hard I tried to control my breathing and clear my head, I couldn’t shake the visions of the people I loved left to die.

  And now, I couldn’t look Tim in the eye.

  “You’re gonna burn through your savings pretty quick at that inn,” he said, rolling his bottle of Fat Tire between his palms.

  “Sure, but it’s within stumbling distance of this place. I call that money well spent.”

  “I don’t think this behavior is healthy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Isn’t your evaluation tomorrow?”

  Fuck.<
br />
  Gil Gasko had taken every opportunity to emphasize the importance of this interview. I couldn’t return to work without a formal all clear. After shooting a witness on my last case, I’d be lucky if I got reinstated at all. Weeks ago in Oneida, when I debriefed Lieutenant Henderson about Tern Island, he’d insisted that I focus on my mental health. Instead, I’d forced my way into not one new case, but two.

  If I learned anything from my time with Carson, it was that I craved this job like a drug. I needed to be back at the station, rummaging through fresh case files while drinking coffee so strong it could beat Tim in an arm-wrestling match. What if Gil and Lieutenant Henderson deemed me unfit to return to duty altogether? If the past few weeks were any indication, I wasn’t sure I could survive an extended suspension. Tomorrow was about demonstrating reliability and consistency. I was supposed to prove I was of sound mind and could be trusted to perform my duties, under even the most taxing of circumstances. How the hell was I going to do that?

  I wasn’t.

  “I really thought we had him this time, Tim,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I plucked the lime wedge out of my drink and squeezed until it was a mass of dry pulp. “I could leave. If I went somewhere else, he’d follow me out of here.”

  “Maybe. But what about Trey?”

  “Bram wants to hurt me, or punish me, or whatever, and that means nobody’s safe while I’m around. So what am I supposed to do?”

  “You focus on these two cases,” Tim said. “Catch up with him before he can do any more damage.”

  I gave that some thought. “Every time we’ve gotten close to Trey, it’s because Bram left a clue. If we haven’t found him yet, maybe I missed something.”

  Tim said, “Okay, then let’s talk through what you did find.”

  I pushed my drink aside and waved down Matt for a glass of water. “We found Trey’s hat and the bloody message off Swan Hollow Road. The boat was stolen from Swan Bay. My shirt from the police academy—the place I went to after leaving Swanton—was on Deer Island. He’s drawing parallels between Alexandria Bay and Swanton, my new town and our old one. Connecting the present with the past.”