Black Otter Bay (32 page)

It was quiet for a moment until they noticed Marcy leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening to Arlene's story. “Well?” Marcy asked, impatience in her voice. “What happened?”

Arlene drew a deep breath, and then turned it into a yawn. The smile returned to her face, along with a soft blush from the fond memory. “Fact is, my big brother Marlon fixed it.”

Abby leaned away, surprise on her face. “Really? How?”

“Well, he ran down to Erickson's—you know, the hardware store—and bought a few dollars worth of cheap light bulbs. Then he snuck out behind the garage and scattered them in a growth of weeds and bushes. It was near the garage, but off the man's property at the edge of the woods.”

“Why, that sneaky Marlon Fastwater,” Marcy said. “Wait until the next time I see him in the café.”

Arlene pointed a long, wide index finger at her. “Don't you dare say a word to him, Marcella. He saved my rear end that day.”

“They believed you?” Abby asked. “It worked?”

“Well, they couldn't very well not believe me. Marlon went with us down to the church, and then we all trooped up to the scene of the crime. Marlon made it look accidental, but he led them straight over to the pile of light bulbs. He'd even broken a couple of them so they looked like they'd been there for a while. The garage owner came out and said he'd never seen the pile of bulbs before, but he swore he'd seen ‘that Indian girl' steal the one off the garage. You know what Marlon said then?”

Abby looked at Marcy, but neither of them had an answer.

“My brother was pretty big, even back then. He stepped up to that fellow and said, ‘Maybe you just don't like Indians.'”

Abby gasped.

“I tell you, Abby, that pretty much ended that discussion.”

“So, what you're telling her,” Marcy interjected, “is that it's okay to lie.”

“That's not at all what I'm saying.” Arlene patted Abby's thigh. “And this young one knows that. This is not about lying, is it, Abby?”

Abby stared at her, a blank expression revealing her confusion.

“Whatever,” Marcy said, waving a hand in the air. “But it sure sounds like lying to me.”

Arlene ignored the comment, focusing her attention on Abby. “As an attorney working in the DA's office, most of the time in the public eye, I've learned a couple of very valuable lessons over the years. You know how everybody repeats the old maxim, ‘know thy enemy'? Well, the reality is that enemies come and go over the course of a lifetime. Our friends, on the other hand, and I'm talking about the type of friends that you can count on when you need them, are often around throughout your life. Like our mutual friend Rose, for instance, whose friendship meant so much to me when I was a child, or my mother, who took my side even though she must have had her doubts. And I'm telling you that a person couldn't hope to find a more loyal friend than my brother, Marlon.”

Arlene took a moment to reseat her large frame on the couch, snuggling in close to Abby. Marcy had started for the door, but Arlene's dialogue delayed her departure so that now she lingered in the entryway, listening. Leaning in close to Abby, with an intimate voice, Arlene said softly, “Another thing I've learned is that it isn't so much the answer to a question that counts, but rather, it's the question itself that's important. For instance, in my case, instead of asking me if I stole the light bulb, they should have been asking who stole the light bulb.” She cocked an eyebrow at Abby. “See what I mean?”

Abby nodded. “I guess.”

“With the right question, it becomes an open-and-shut case; either you lie or you don't.” She scrunched herself around to better face Abby. “Now,” she said. “Do you want me to start asking the questions?”

Abby shook her head, a movement so short and quick as to be nearly imperceptible. She stood up and poured herself another glass of milk, keeping her back to Arlene while looking at the array of animal figures on the side table. Marcy took a step toward her, but at a look from Arlene stopped in mid-stride.

Arlene said, “I admire your loyalty, Abby. Ben couldn't ask for a better sister.”

In a voice hardly more than a whisper, Abby said, “It's my fault that they took him.”

“Well, I really doubt that,” Arlene said. “But the fact is, you know what happened to him, even if you don't know where he is.” She paused to hold a hand up at Marcy, again stopping her from going to the girl. “I'll tell you something else, Abby,” she continued, still talking to her back. “The sheriff has spoken to me several times about the case. He knows you haven't been telling him everything, but the big galoot is too kind to press you on it. And you can thank him for keeping the federal investigators off your back. Now, don't get me wrong. Sheriff Fastwater knows which questions to ask. He just doesn't want to hurt you anymore.”

With that, Abby turned around to face her. She saw the truth all over Arlene's face. She remembered her talk with the sheriff at the kitchen table shortly after Ben disappeared. Now she understood what should have been obvious: the sheriff had tried to give her an opening to let him help. He'd led her right to it, but she'd been too stubborn to see. Acknowledging the possibility that good people like Arlene and her brother could share her burden opened the spillway to her emotions. She stood in an exhausted slouch, trembling gently with her tears. She faced Arlene, but cast her looks and thoughts inward. Marcy finally broke free to come to her, wrapping the distraught girl in a protective bear hug.

Arlene rose to her feet with a grunt. She moved slowly, stretching her neck and back while clearing her throat. With her hair pinned up and the flowing, colorful housedress billowing about her, Abby pictured a Native American opera singer preparing to perform.

“You need to go home,” Arlene said. “Right now, Abby. Tonight. I'll call Sheriff Fastwater to let him know you're on the way.” She cleared her throat again, narrowing her eyes to a confidential squint. “There are unsavory elements infiltrating our local law enforcement, and they could present a danger for
you. Until we figure out who Randall is working with, it's not safe for you in Duluth.”

Abby tried to think, tried to focus on Arlene's words, but exhaustion had stolen her ability to concentrate.

Adjusting a couple of the large, flashy rings on her manicured fingers, Arlene said, “We're pretty sure the Chicago mafia is here. Of course, for years they've worked the trade unions and the harbor, but they were always quiet, staying in the background. Lately, we've been hearing about sums of cash paid out for cooperation—politically, legally, and in the network of small local businesses. Randall Bengston has shown up on our radar, but so far we don't know who is involved, or why.” She paused to soften her official bearing with a gentle smile. “Bottom line, Abby, is that I wouldn't trust your welfare to anyone in Duluth right now. You need to go home, and you need to talk to my brother.”

Marcy said, “Speaking of Randall, I'll run down and grab that file folder for you. It might point a finger at some of these bad guys you're talking about.”

Arlene nodded her agreement, and when Marcy left she took her place at Abby's side.

“What about my mother?” Abby asked.

Arlene shrugged. “I really don't think Jackie is a player in all this. I mean, she must be involved, but I really doubt she's calling any of the shots.” She sighed and gave Abby a squeeze. “Your mother is a tough cookie, Abby. She can take care of herself. On the other hand, we don't know Randall's Chicago connection, so we're just watching and waiting to see who comes around.”

From outside came the sound of muffled voices, but Abby was thinking about Big Island Lake and a black luxury sedan. She said, “On the day Rosie died, I saw a car with Illinois license plates. I think the man driving it was one of the guys chasing us tonight.” Before she could explain further, however, the voices outside turned into shouts, and in the next instant Abby broke free from Arlene's grasp and darted to the window.

Down below, off to the right, the big sedan had Marcy's car cornered against the curb. As she watched, Marcy came sprinting up the front lawn, arms pumping wildly, the file folder flapping from her fingertips. Behind her, the two men from the motel gave chase.

Arlene finally joined her at the window. “Oh, my God,” she muttered, stepping closer. “That's . . .” She grabbed Abby by the arm. “Let's go!”

They ran to the entrance off the breezeway, but as she opened the door for Marcy, Arlene pushed Abby across the room. “That way, Abby, through the kitchen. Run! Downstairs.”

Abby did as she was told. She didn't have time to admire the large kitchen with its flagstone flooring or the racks of stainless steel pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, because halfway through the room the lights went out. Beside her, the refrigerator clattered to a stop. Her momentum took her across the open space, and then, more than seeing it, she sensed the wide stairwell opening into a pitch-black chasm before her. Gingerly, she eased herself forward, located the hand railing, and lowered herself into the void. Behind her she heard the breezeway door slam and the deadbolt latch.

It was cooler at the bottom of the stairs. Behind her, she heard voices and footsteps crossing the kitchen floor. A light suddenly flickered around the stairwell, and then Marcy appeared on the steps above her. Arlene came next, wielding a flashlight and pulling the kitchen door shut behind her. Soon they were all standing on the concrete basement floor, Arlene's new hybrid sedan waiting silently in the shadows on the far side.

“They cut the power,” Arlene cried, breathless. “Come on, this way,” she panted, pointing the flashlight beam at the car.

They'd hardly set out, however, when the whole house shook from a thundering crash upstairs. And then another smashing impact, this time with splintering aftershocks as the breezeway door gave way. “Run!” Arlene yelled, and they were moving, dashing between stacks of boxes, garden tools, and old furniture.

The flashlight briefly illuminated the obstacle course that made up Arlene's storage room. The light bounced around helter-skelter as she ran, revealing the haphazard stacking arrangements of a pack rat. The ceiling hung low overhead, causing Marcy to run crouched over like a soldier darting through the trenches. A lone garage door stood at the far end, with the hybrid tucked in snugly behind it.

“Go! Go!” Arlene called, running to the driver's side of the car. Abby dove into the backseat just as Marcy swung too wide around the front fender, toppling a stack of boxes containing giveaway clothes. Climbing back out, Abby swiped a pile of clothing off the hood, and then reached a hand out to help Marcy up.

The hybrid electric motor hummed to life, immediately followed by the crushing explosion of the stairway door above them in the kitchen. Abby directed Marcy into the front seat, and as she reached for the back door she once again saw the flicker of flashlight beams in the stairwell. She ducked into the car, the headlights came on, and Arlene reached up to push the overhead garage door opener. Then she pushed it again, and then a staccato rhythm of frantic jabs as she proclaimed, “It doesn't work! There's no power!”

“I'll get it,” Marcy called.

“There's no time!” Arlene yelled before Marcy could even grab the door handle. Arlene put the shifter in reverse and, bracing herself against the steering wheel, floored the gas pedal. “Hang on!”

Abby spotted the glint of a flashlight playing over the car before she flew head first into the back of the front seats. Marcy caught herself against the dash, and then there was an ear-shattering explosion when the blunt rear end of the hybrid blew the old wooden garage door to pieces. They emerged on the other side, bounding recklessly downhill in reverse on the long concrete driveway.

A deafening screech pierced the night as Arlene fought to maintain control. A section of the splintered garage door had
lodged under the vehicle, grinding against the driveway and jerking the car around at odd angles. Abby slapped her hands over her ears until she was thrown against the ceiling when they bounced out of the driveway into the street. Arlene swung the steering wheel around and stomped on the brakes. A moment later they shot forward, and with a clatter and jolt the garage door panel was ripped out from under them. Finally free of its anchor, the spunky little car quietly shot out into the dark.

“Yee-haw!” Marcy yelped, bouncing like a rodeo rider in the front seat.

Abby tried to look behind them at the house, but Arlene soon turned a corner, and with the house completely lost to view, the wide panorama of the harbor and Canal Park lit up before them.

“I've been meaning to replace that old door for years,” Arlene said. “Never got around to it, but I guess I will now.”

Marcy laughed, offering up a high-five across the front seat. “Give me your cell phone,” Arlene said.

“I don't have one.”

Arlene opened the storage space between them, but slammed the lid after a quick inspection. “Damn it, mine's back home in my purse. We have to get in touch with my brother.”

Abby caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “Who was that guy back there? You know him.”

Arlene focused on her driving, turning onto Skyline Parkway and aiming them for the expressway north. “It was dark, Abby. It could have been anyone.”

“But you saw him. You know him.”

Arlene suddenly swerved into another turn, throwing Abby across the backseat. They entered another tree-lined residential street. “I guess I'll just have to take you to my brother myself,” she said, changing the subject. She checked her mirrors, looked around to get her bearings, and to Marcy said, “We'll take the back roads. They won't be but a couple of minutes behind us. I'll never outrun them on the freeway.”