Black Otter Bay (12 page)

But no one asked.

Local white folks boasted about their Norwegian heritage, or Swedish, Finnish, or German; but to them, the sheriff was simply a Native American. Two or three hundred years ago, the Ojibwe had come down over the top of Lake Superior and pushed the native Sioux tribe south, out onto the prairies. The Ojibwe themselves were being pushed west by white settlers in the east. But Fastwater's family never moved. This had been their home since the first days. They assimilated themselves into the new tribe, helping the newcomers overcome the harsh realities of life on the north shore of Lake Superior. And when the white folks arrived, they assimilated again.

Together, but apart.

Of course, everyone in town thought his cap referred to the Soo Line Railroad, and again, if anyone had asked, he would have admitted that was probably what the cap had been designed for. But he preferred his made-up meaning, and the subtlety of it satisfied the sheriff just fine.

When Abby took a seat across from him at the table, he asked, “Are you planning to do any fishing this year?”

Her answer was evident in the abrupt change in her countenance: from a relaxed and easygoing teenager to an expressionless stare. Matt's coffee preparations suddenly resounded in the silence.

“Abby is the best fisherman in these parts,” Matt said.

“I know that,” Fastwater answered, holding Abby's stare. “Have you gone after any steelhead this spring?”

When Abby still didn't respond, her father said, “We haven't done much river fishing for a couple of years now. Abby tends to like lake fishing better.”

Fastwater sat back, settled into his chair, and let a warm smile spread across his face. “You know, I remember when Leonard was just a little guy. I'd take him up fishing for rainbows.” Abby's expression didn't change. Fastwater took off his sunglasses and carefully set them on the table. “I used to laugh out loud watching him try to hook those feisty little critters.”

A trace of a grin showed up in the corners of Abby's eyes. “That's because their mouths are so soft,” she said. “The hook just pulls through if you're too rough.”

Fastwater pointed at her and said, “Bingo! But do you know the best bait for rainbows?”

“Red worms,” she answered promptly, as if taking a test.

Fastwater nodded. “Red worms are good. But I know something even better.” He leaned forward slightly, like he didn't want to be overheard. “A couple kernels of corn on a bare hook.”

Abby looked skeptical. “For real?”

The sheriff grinned. He could see her thinking it through.

“Of course!” she exclaimed. “It makes sense. The yellow color would show up better in dark water.” Now she began thinking out loud. “And rainbows locate most of their food by sight.” Abby turned her avid concentration back on the sheriff. “I bet a fresh kernel of corn would stay on the hook better than a soggy old worm, too.”

“That's right,” Fastwater agreed. “But there's more to the secret, and Leonard is the only other person who knows about it.”

Matt came to the table and set out cream, sugar, and an open package of store-bought cookies.

“Don't tell me about slip sinkers,” Abby said. “That's about all I use. Best set-up out there.”

Fastwater laughed and nodded. “Hey,” he said, “ if you're not fly fishing, then slip sinkers are a given for rainbows. But I'm still talking bait.”

Matthew leaned against the counter, a smile resting easily on his face, enjoying the banter between his daughter and the sheriff.

Fastwater sat forward, Abby's attention completely his. “After you have that kernel of corn on the hook, and maybe just a piece of red worm for scent, you coat the whole thing in a thick gob of spit.”

Both Matthew and Abby burst out laughing as the sheriff mimicked spitting on a hook. With a twinkle in his black eyes, he added, “Hey, it works. It's good luck, too. Just try it sometime when the fishing slows down.”

Just then the phone rang and Abby jumped, letting out a startled “Oh!” Her reaction wasn't lost on Fastwater. Matt reached over to grab the cordless phone.

“It's Marcy,” he said, walking to the other side of the kitchen.

The sheriff continued watching Abby. In an instant she'd gone completely pale, her half-eaten cookie forgotten. He
calmly took the grocery bag from his lap and set it on the table between them. “There's another thing that's unique to fishing around here,” he said. From the grocery sack he pulled out the freezer bag of fish. “I taught this one to Leonard, too. You bring your lunch with you in a zippered plastic bag, and after you've eaten, you use the empty bag to haul your catch home. Keeps the fish smell off your gear and clothes, especially when you're on foot.” He pushed the bag across the table. “I believe these are yours. Leonard found them the day Rose died, not far from her minnow seines.”

The insinuation couldn't have been clearer. Abby didn't move. That explained the footprints at the water's edge, she thought. Leonard always wore cowboy boots.

The sheriff spoke quietly, intimately. “I know that Rose didn't drown, Abby. And I believe you know that, too.”

The tough guy stare was back.

Fastwater said, “It's too early in the season to seine minnows. Rose's stock of bait came from the wholesalers. It always has this time of year. Also, when I found her, she wasn't wearing waders.”

Abby studied her hands resting on the bag of frozen fish. She vaguely recalled an image of the big man struggling to move in waders that fit way too tightly.

“Not even you would go out in the water this time of year without waders,” the sheriff added.

“How did you find out Rosie was dead?”

“We got a call down at the diner.” Before he could say more, Matthew returned to the table and handed the phone to Abby.

“Marcy wants to talk to you about the memorial service.”

She took the phone, gave the sheriff a parting glare, and left the kitchen.

Matthew picked up the bag of fish. “What's this?”

“Abby was with Ben out at Big Island the day they skipped school. Looks like they had some luck. Leonard found
the bag along the shore. I've been keeping it in the freezer in my office.”

Matt took Abby's chair across from the sheriff. “She never said they went fishing.”

“I think there's a few things she hasn't told us.”

“Like what?” Matt's voice rose as he stood up again. “Do you think she knows what happened to Ben?”

“Sit down, Matt.”

“I'm going to get her back in here. Abby!”

The sheriff stood up, cutting off Matt's access to the front room. He let his size take command of the situation. “Sit down, Matthew. Please. The one thing we know for sure about Abby is that she isn't going to tell anyone anything right now.”

“But if she knows something . . . Sheriff, time might be against us.”

“Listen to me, Matthew. Abby is one of the smartest and bravest kids I've ever known. If she had any knowledge of Ben's whereabouts, she'd tell us. I'm not sure what she knows. But the fact that she won't talk about it says she believes Ben is safe.”

Matt's look was incredulous. “But if she knows anything—”

“I don't think she knows much,” Fastwater interrupted. “But did you notice how she acted when you came home today? Think about it. I'm in charge of the overall search, and you've been spending eighteen– and twenty-hour days out there. All of a sudden, with no explanation, we both come home when the search should just be heating up for the day. Don't you think she'd want to know if we'd found something or had some news? But she went straight to Gitch—never asked anything about the search. I think she knows he isn't out there.”

Matt sat down again, studying the sheriff, shaking his head. “She's just a kid. What you say makes sense, but if he's not in the woods . . .”

“He's someplace safe, Matthew. You'll have to trust me on this. Abby probably doesn't know where he is, but she has some reason to believe he's safe.”

Matthew worked the bag of fish back and forth on the table, considering this new information. Fastwater looked at the coffee pot, spotted the mugs on the counter, and stepped over to pour a cup for each of them. When he sat down again, he said, “She took a couple of phone calls the night Ben disappeared. Wrong numbers. Remember?”

Matt fingered the cup. “Yeah. I wasn't home, though. The FBI asked her about them.”

“Did they tell you the calls were traced to a cell phone out of Chicago?”

“Chicago?”

“It belonged to a man who died six months ago.”

Matt shook his head. “I don't get it. What are you saying?”

“That I don't think they were wrong numbers. Abby is hiding something.” Fastwater swung around in his chair to look through the kitchen doorway. At the far end of the front room, he could just make out Abby through the screen door, sitting on the front stoop talking on the phone.

“Whoever called here was using a stolen phone,” he continued, turning again to face Matt. “They knew you were out when they called, which means they probably called from right here in town. They were calling specifically to talk to Abby. When they were done, they coached her to say the calls were wrong numbers. After all, she wouldn't know we could trace a cell phone call. She probably wouldn't have suspected we'd even know about the calls in the first place. If she had said a friend called, we would have checked it out, and known she was lying. This way, we can't know for sure.”

Matt's eyes were wet, his voice soft. “My poor little girl—”

“She never flinched,” Fastwater interrupted. “I was there. When the FBI suddenly asked her about the calls, she immediately said they were wrong numbers, like she expected the question.”

There was a pause, then Fastwater said, “I thought maybe Jackie would know something. She's from Chicago, right?”

“Yeah. But that was years ago. Besides, she wouldn't pull a stunt like this.”

“And the custody issue from your divorce hasn't changed?”

“No.” Getting exasperated, Matt said, “The FBI went through all this, Sheriff. Jackie gave up custody—signed the papers and never said another word about it.”

“Most abductions are by non-custodial parents.”

“I know that!” Matt said through clenched teeth. “But Jackie would never do that to Ben. She wouldn't use Abby this way, either.”

Another pause, and the sheriff asked, “But the kids have visited her in Duluth, right? Stayed with her there overnight?”

“Sure, but not for a while now. They don't like it there. Especially Abby.”

Raising his coffee cup, the sheriff blew at heat vapors swirling above the mug. He heard the front screen door close behind him.

Matt shook his head, and said, “Jackie wouldn't take Ben. Not like this.”

Abby sauntered back into the kitchen and dropped the phone on the table. She seemed to have regained some of her teenage swagger. “Marcy is picking me up to go to the service. We're going to walk.”

Matt couldn't find any words. He looked at his daughter like he would a stranger, so Fastwater said, “That sounds great. You need to get out of the house for a while.”

Abby picked up her half-eaten cookie. The sheriff watched as she studied her father, probably wondering why his eyes were moist, or could they just be bloodshot from lack of sleep? She said, “What were you guys talking about?”

Matthew still hadn't found his voice, so to fill the void, Fastwater said, “Leonard is coming up from Duluth with his mom, Arlene. I hope there's a good turnout for Rose.”

Abby's countenance began to darken. She leaned against the counter, crossed her arms in front of her, and nibbled on the cookie.

Fastwater continued to carry the conversation. “Your dad and I were talking about going to the service, too. It should be okay to let the search go for a few hours, don't you think, Abby?” He had to give the kid credit. When she put on that insolent mask, there was nothing to be read in her face.

Ignoring the sheriff's comment, she said, “Okay, so really. I heard you guys talking in here. What's going on?”

Matt finally spoke up. “The sheriff thinks you know something.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe you know where Ben is.”

Abby scoffed. Fastwater was surprised to see tears rise so quickly in her eyes. He seized the moment. “Or maybe you know the connection between Ben's disappearance and Rose's death.”

Even Gitch jumped under the table when Abby stomped her foot on the floor. She stalked off toward the back door, then spun around and paced back through the kitchen.

Matt said, “Abby, please . . .”

She stopped and glowered at the sheriff. “Just what are you suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, Abby. I was just saying to your father—”

“Oh, my God!” she interrupted. “You think we killed Rosie.”

Both men were shocked into silence. Abby said, “Is that why you ordered an autopsy?”

Fastwater tried to say something, but Abby's anger, punctuated with a nasty sarcasm, overrode him. “How about this one, Sherlock. You already figured out that we were at the lake, so I'll just tell you. My little brother killed Rosie, and then took off to lead a life of crime. I'm covering for him because he's only eight years old.” She turned to leave the room.

“Abby, stop,” Fastwater called. “That's not what I meant.”

Abby grabbed the kitchen entryway and spun around. The rage flashing in her eyes looked to Fastwater like heat lightning
on a summer night. When she faced her father, however, the despair on Matt's face seemed to diffuse her ill temper like sunlight through a thundercloud. He beseeched her with his stare, begged for a word of encouragement in this dark hour. Fastwater saw her softening. Abby dropped her gaze down to Gitch, and drew a deep sigh.