Black Otter Bay (16 page)

Beyond the bait shop stood the clapboard-sided house. A couple decades ago it had been painted white, with white trim, but much of the siding had weathered to a bare gray, with curled patches of peeling paint hanging in neglected disrepair. Looking beyond the house, Marcy saw where the driveway dropped off sharply from the highway, past a sign announcing, R
OSIE'S
B
AIT
S
HOP
—O
PEN
24 H
OURS
. At the bottom of the hill, the driveway split to make a circle around the house. Another homemade sign directed traffic to stay to the right. On this right-hand side, a rubber-coated buzzer wire lay across the driveway. It functioned like the ones used in old-time full-service gas stations: when a vehicle rolled over it, a doorbell-like chime sounded inside the house and bait shop.

But there were no customers here today. Abby crossed the driveway to peek in the kitchen window. To Marcy, the place had the overrun, weather-beaten look of desertion. Near the side of the house was evidence of a long-ago garden bed. Having not been tended in years, it was now an overgrown jumble of weeds and shrubs, highlighted by captured pieces of litter that had blown in off the highway. A white plastic bag fluttered against the house from its mooring on an aspen sapling sprouting up next to the foundation. Bits of Styrofoam from broken bait buckets stuck out like small patches of snow.

The windows of the house were covered with heavy draperies against the recent cold weather, although many of the first-floor windows were obscured by untrimmed vegetation. The surrounding forest was quickly reclaiming what had once been a lawn.

Marcy turned her attention to the front of the bait shop. A single-stall overhead garage door was closed, as well as the
small service door next to it. On the plywood panels of the overhead door, a faded mural depicting a fisherman and his canoe could still be seen. A small sign tacked on the service door revealed it to be the home of R
OSIE'S
B
AIT
.

Abby recrossed the driveway and tried the small door. When it opened, she looked back at Marcy, and said, “Come on, let's take a look.”

“We shouldn't go in there, Abby.”

“Just for a minute. I want to show you something. No one's around, and Rosie wouldn't mind.”

“It's trespassing.”

“You wait here, then. I'll be right back.” She scooted inside, but left the door open.

Marcy stuck her hands in her pockets and looked around the property again. It was peaceful and quiet, and the sunshine felt so warm and friendly here away from the lake. But it didn't take long for the stillness of the woods to work on her nerves. “Abby?” she called. Peeking inside, she found a large open room filled with shadows and, she guessed, cobwebs and little scurrying feet. The only light came from the open door. The minnow tanks hummed their insistent drone of life support.

“Abby?”

“Over here. I'm looking for the light switches.”

Straight ahead, Marcy discerned the form of the cash register on the counter. Abby's voice came from behind it. “Okay, Marcy, I found it. Come on in and close the door.”

Marcy did as instructed, only closing the door after the bank of fluorescent lights over the counter came to life. They emitted a pale, sickly glow, as if reluctantly, and didn't illuminate the corners of the room so much as enhance their crepuscular mystery. The building appeared much larger from inside. It extended well beyond the reach of the lights, where Marcy detected stacks of equipment and supplies, as well as Rose's old, dented and rusted-out pickup truck.

Abby came around the counter to grab Marcy's hand. “Look at this,” she said, pulling her over to the cash register.
Abby pointed at a photograph from among dozens taped under the glass of the counter.

“That's me,” she said. “Ten years ago.”

Marcy looked at a picture of a grinning little girl holding up a crappie hardly bigger than her hand.

“And here's another one.” Abby pointed at a photo of her family standing in front of the bait shop's mural. Ben and Matthew held a stringer of walleyes between them, while Abby and Jackie stood behind, looking on.

“Jackie doesn't look too happy,” Marcy commented.

“She never liked fishing,” Abby replied. “She didn't like camping, either, or the woods.” Still holding Marcy's hand, she turned to look at her. “I'm sorry she was so rude to you today.”

“It's nothing, Abby. I'm sure this whole episode would push anyone off center. Do you think she's happy living in Duluth?”

“I don't know. I guess so.”

“I grew up with Randall. He's older than me, but I've known him all my life. He always was a little odd. It's weird though, seeing him with Jackie.”

“Yuck!”

Marcy laughed. “Well, you have to admit, he's got some money.”

“Sure. And he's also got pals in the casino business, which makes Mom really happy.”

Marcy frowned and withdrew her hand. She'd heard the gambling rumors to which Abby alluded. Feigning interest in the photographs, she leaned over the counter while saying, “You can't be sure about that, Abby. People say all sorts of things.”

“You sound like my dad now.”

Marcy followed Abby along the length of the counter. “So, how's your dad doing?”

Abby stopped at the first tank of minnows. “I think this is killing him. But he doesn't talk much, so I don't know. He's been out in the woods every day with the search teams.”

“You know, I grew up with Matthew, too. His older brother, your Uncle Dan, was Randall's age. Dan was everyone's heartthrob, but I always kind of liked your dad.”

Abby continued on to the next minnow tank, then stopped to stare into the darker recesses of the room.

“Your dad and Leonard Fastwater were best friends in school. Did your dad ever tell you we went on a few dates in high school?”

When Abby didn't reply, Marcy figured it was because a teenager wouldn't want to talk about her father in that way. Looking at the girl's long, thick braid lying heavily against her back, Marcy concluded, “I think we were just too much alike.”

Abby still didn't move, so Marcy stepped in closer behind. “Abby?”

“That's the truck,” the girl said, staring into the darkened garage bay

“What truck?”

Abby turned to grab Marcy's hand again. “Out at the lake, when I ran away from that man. Remember? I saw a pickup truck coming in on the access road. That's the truck. I knew there was something familiar about it!”

When the bait shop buzzer suddenly rang, they both jumped. Abby ran back along the counter to peek out the window of the small door. “It's Randall,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “And Mom.”

By the time she returned to the shadows near the truck, they heard a car door slam and a voice raised in anger. “Quick,” Abby said, nearly pushing Marcy up over the side of the pickup truck bed.

“The lights, Abby. What about the lights?” But before she could answer, the bait shop door crashed open, and they flattened themselves against the bed of the truck.

“I don't give a rip,” Randall yelled into his cell phone. “We had a deal.”

Amid the racket of things smashing to the floor, Marcy pressed herself as hard as she could against the truck bed.

“That's your problem,” Randall yelled. “Tell them to wait.”

Abby pulled herself up over the wheel well to spy on Randall as he ransacked drawers and shelves behind the counter. Tackle and supplies toppled to the floor.

“Screw you!” he bellowed. Then, following a long pause, he continued in a calmer, nearly normal manner. “Listen to me. We just had a memorial service for my mother. Now, I'm holding up my end of this thing, so you'll just have to be patient and back off. I need a couple weeks.”

With one hand he extracted a small handgun from the till in the cash register drawer and held it up to the light. Abby watched as he used a thumb to pop open the cylinder. Satisfied that the gun was loaded, he slammed the cylinder shut with a deft flick of his hand, then grabbed a box of ammunition from the drawer and stuffed it in his pocket.

“That's right,” he said into the phone. “Everything will be fine. If anything does go wrong, we'll just put it on Jackie. Either way, the deal goes through.”

When he hung up, he stood still for a moment, staring straight ahead as if listening, or perhaps replaying the conversation in his mind. The gun in his hand hung limp at his side. He looked around, then at the counter and the floor. Slowly, his head tilted back until he faced the overhead fluorescent fixture. When he unexpectedly spun around, Abby ducked and closed her eyes tight against her arm.

“Damn it!” she muttered to herself.

The only sound beyond the pounding of their hearts was the suddenly amplified hum of the minnow tanks. Ears straining, they awaited discovery. Then the bait shop door opened again, and Jackie called, “Randall?”

“Shhh!”

“What is it? Come on, let's go.”

“Shut up!”

Marcy grabbed Abby's hand. Over the humming tanks she heard the faint scrape of a hard-soled shoe on the concrete floor.
There it was again, closer, and then the loud click of the gun being cocked. Several seconds ticked off before Marcy sensed Randall standing at the driver's side door of the pickup, peering through the darkened window. He slid to the front end of the truck, and it was quiet again as he scrutinized the shadows in the back of the shop. The silence became so intense that Marcy involuntarily held her breath.

Jackie called, “Come on, honey. You probably heard a mouse or something.”

Randall, returning to the counter, said, “Do mice turn the lights on, too?”

“You probably left them on this morning. Can't we just get out of here? I hate this place.”

“Not as much as I do.” Randall suddenly turned and fired a round at the back wall of the shop. The sharp report was deafening, like thunder right overhead, and surprised and hurt like a punch to the face. Jackie's yelp of surprise covered Marcy's cowering whimper. He fired again, the round whining over the truck bed to pucker into the side wall of the shop. Abby squeezed Marcy's hand as she scrunched up into a fetal position. Jackie ran for the door.

“Stupid idiots!” Randall yelled, swiping the contents of the countertop to the floor. He let out a string of epithets, knocked over a display of fishing lures, and then all the lights went out. “They think they can do whatever they want,” he muttered through clenched teeth. The bait shop door closed, and Marcy opened her eyes to the comforting cover of darkness.

Car doors slammed and tires spun on the gravel driveway. Abby was up and over the side of the truck bed before Marcy even lifted her head. When she looked over the wheel well, she saw Abby framed in the light from the small door's window. The girl turned to face Marcy and quietly said, “They're gone.”

Marcy collapsed in a flat-out heap on the truck bed.

“That fool,” Abby said, running back to the truck. Looking in on Marcy, she added, “He could have hurt someone.”

The absurdity of Abby's understatement ignited a chuckle in Marcy. The laugh felt good, so much better than the frightful river of tears that had been amassing. She let it all out then, a snorting belly laugh that ultimately released the tears anyway, a wall of tension flooded under waves of relief. Abby caught the mood and joined in. When Marcy finally managed to sit up, they hugged over the side of the truck, still laughing, still crying.

“Okay, help me out of here,” Marcy said, climbing back to her knees. Abby helped her over the side, and then led her through the mess strewn across the floor. At the door, they looked out the window at the vacant driveway.

“I'm going to Duluth,” Abby suddenly announced.

“You're what?”

“You heard him. Randall is in on this.”

Incredulous, Marcy asked, “You think Randall killed his own mother?”

“I don't know. But I saw Rosie's truck at the lake, and she wasn't driving it.”

“What about that other guy you saw?”

“I know, I know. But Randall is in on this somehow. I'm guessing he knows where Ben is.” Suddenly Abby's mouth popped wide open, and she grabbed Marcy by the shoulders. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “That's it! I bet it was Randall I saw in the backseat of the car with Ben. That's why the man assured me he would be safe. Mom probably even knows where he is!”

“That's ridiculous.” Marcy opened the door and cautiously looked up the driveway. “I have a better idea, Abby. Let's just tell Sheriff Fastwater what we know. Let him handle it.”

“No. I told you, that's not an option. Mom wants me to come to Duluth, so I'll go. And while I'm there, I'll look for Ben.”

Marcy pulled the bait shop door closed behind them. The air smelled so fresh out here, and the sunshine felt warm and
pleasant after the damp, terrifying darkness of the shop. Abby led the way along the side of the building, back down the path toward the beach. It was good to be moving again, to work the tension out of taut nerves and muscles.

“I'll take you,” Marcy said as they trotted down the slope. Abby stopped so abruptly that Marcy collided with her backside. “You'll do what?”

“You need a ride, don't you?”

“I'll take the Greyhound.”

“And you're going to tell your dad about this? You think he'll just let you get on a bus when his only other child is missing?”

“What's the big deal?” Abby shot back. Marcy's questions were interfering with her plans. She walked slowly down the remainder of the pathway, stopping at the entrance to the cobblestone beach.

“You know,” Marcy said, “I've never spent any time at the casino. Never had any interest before.” Abby looked at her, puzzled. Marcy shrugged her shoulders. “Hey, these mafia dudes could be connected to the casino. And they sure won't let you in there.”