Dead of Winter (28 page)

“This is very complete,” he said.

Bjork gazed at him over the frosty glass. “You sound surprised.”

“No, I just...”

“We run a very professional department here, Officer Kincaid,” Bjork said.

“I didn’t mean —- ”

“Do you know how many Yoopers it takes to screw in a lightbulb?”

“Pardon?”

“None. We don’t have electricity here.”

Louis smiled weakly.

“You hear about the Yooper who saw the billboard that said ‘Drink Canada Dry’? He’s been trying to ever since.”

Louis gave a chuckle.

She smiled. “We know what you think of us up here. We know you think we do nothing but hunt deer, drink and go bowling. That’s how you trolls see us, right?”

“Trolls?”

“Yeah, all you folks who live under the bridge.”

Louis laughed.

“Eat up, Officer Kincaid,” Bjork said. “And I’ll take you to meet Millie.”

“Call me Louis, please.”

She gave him a curt nod. “Only if you call me Bjork.”

They rode in Bjork’s Jeep. Leaving Houghton, they passed over an old iron bridge that spanned a partially frozen river. Abandoned shipping berths loomed to the south, framing the river like a giant rusty chain. Hancock on the other side was not nearly as pretty as its sister-city Houghton and faded quickly as Bjork steered her Jeep up a hill and out of town. Five or six miles later, they saw the state-issue, green metal sign for Dollar Bay.

The town had a haphazard look, as though it had come together out of plain bad luck rather than some neat chamber of commerce design. Even the streets seemed an afterthought — no names, just numbers that intersected letters. The town’s core was a clump of buildings: a general store, a beauty parlor, a bar and further on, a ramshackle lumberyard.

Louis stared at the rows of shingled houses that made up Dollar Bay’s residential area. Gray..everything here was gray. Even the damn snow. The place smelled of dirt, rust and defeat. Coverdale’s profile came back to him in that moment.
The blue-collar dream gone gray.

They passed a two-story school of old brick and just as Louis was wondering why they needed a school so large, Bjork told him that it drew students from all around the area.

“So Lacey went there?” Louis asked.

“Me, too.”

“Did you know him?”

She nodded. “There were only ten in my graduating class. So yeah, I knew Duane.”

“What was he like?” Louis asked.

“Quiet. Skinny. Skipped school a lot, ya know? I never took him to be dangerous, though. He was just one of those weird guys who took shop class, smoked in the john and lurked around the edges of everything.” She reached down and pulled out a thin blue book. “Here’s our yearbook. Make sure you get it back to me.”

Louis took it and opened to the seniors. He quickly found Lacey’s picture. He was thin-faced and unsmiling, his odd watery eyes unsettling even then. He looked like some kind of feral animal, like a stray cat or ferret. There was nothing listed under his name except “Audio-Visual Club.” The yearbook editors had used popular song titles for future predictions and in a stroke of cruelty some smartass had stuck Lacey with Chuck Berry’s “No Particular Place to Go.”

“Duane wanted to go to college,” Bjork said.

“College?” Louis said.

“Yeah. He applied to Tech but didn’t get in. Couple months later he got arrested, joyriding with some older kids in a stolen car. Judge told Lacey to shape up or he was headed for jail. Recommended he join the service.”

“Lacey have a juvenile record?”

“Yeah, but it’s sealed.”

Louis nodded. “Judges think if parents can’t straighten a kid out, the service will.”

“Well, all I know is we were glad he was somebody else’s problem for a change,” Bjork said, swinging the Jeep down a side street. “He was gone for eight years, on and off. Then one day, I saw him in town, standing outside the Rexall. He was discharged but still wearing his uniform, boots, the whole shot. He wore his fatigues and hair shaved off for months.”

“Lots of vets were raw around the edges,” Louis said.

Bjork shook her head. “It was more than that. Duane was always weird but he was downright creepy when he got back. Always talking about how the government was screwing everybody over.” Bjork glanced over at him. “I mean, lots of folks around here feel the same way, that their freedoms are being chipped away and they want authority off their backs.”

She shook her head again. “But Duane seemed to take it personal. I remember one day he walked into the post office, cut up his driver’s license and social security card and threw the pieces at the poor woman behind the desk.”

“Was he ever involved in any organized anti-government groups?” Louis asked.

“He joined the Michigan Militia. But we keep an eye on them and they’re pretty harmless,” Bjork said. “They sit in their trucks, get tanked up on beer and bitch a lot. But next morning, they go back to work with hangovers and forget about it.”

“And Lacey?”

Bjork shrugged. “Not enough action for him. He dropped out after six months.” Bjork slowed the Jeep. “This is it.”

Louis looked up. It was a narrow, two-story, gray-shingled house, just like all the others. There were peeling wooden flower boxes beneath the front small windows, tendrils of dead plants snaking out through the snow. As he got out of the Jeep, Louis peered around the side of the house. No red truck.

“We checked the house this morning when we heard the BOLO but Lacey wasn’t here,” Bjork said. “Since then, we’ve had Dennis down there keeping an eye out. Lacey hasn’t shown up.”

As Louis closed his door, he saw a Jeep sitting a block down the snowy road.

Bjork trudged to the porch through knee-high drifts and knocked hard on the door.

“Have you spoken to his mother?” Louis asked, following.

“Usually she’s three sheets to the wind. Maybe we’ll have better luck hitting her this early in the day.”

Bjork banged again and the thin curtain in the small window moved slightly. “It’s okay, Mrs. Cronk, it’s just me,” Bjork called.

The door cracked and a pale single eye, embedded in shriveled skin, peeked out at them.

“Cops again?”

Bjork opened the screen and gently pushed against the wood door. Millie Cronk moved backward and let them enter.

The house was dark as a cave and smelled of stale liquor and cigarettes. Dust and smoke floated in a ray of yellow light from a torn window shade.

Millie was small, a humped shadowy figure huddled near the bottom step of a long, steep staircase. The top disappeared into darkness. Bjork reached in front of Louis and flipped on a switch. A weak overhead lamp lit up the foyer. Millie withdrew like a mole unused to sunshine.

“You sober today, Millie?” Bjork asked. “I need to talk to you about Duane.”

Millie’s lip curled and she shuffled off toward the living room, her hand on the wall. They followed her and Bjork flipped up the torn shade, flooding the room in sunlight.

Louis glanced around. The tables were old mahogany stuff that almost looked valuable, except for the glass rings and dust that covered them. Millie’s couch was, what, green, maybe? It was covered in frayed afghans and doilies yellow with nicotine stains.

Louis forced his attention back to Millie. She had slumped down on the couch, her hands clasped between her knees. A cotton housedress, splashed with ugly daisies, hung over her knees. She had on calf-high stockings and dirty pink fur slippers with little pig snouts and plastic eyes.

She combed her bleached hair with shaking fingers. She looked up, her eyes slithering to Louis’s face. “Who’s he?”

“He’s from down under, Millie. He’s looking for Duane.”

“What’s he done now?” She asked. Her voice was husky, scarred with years of smoke and booze.

“Officer Kincaid thinks Duane might have caused some trouble there and he just wants to ask you some questions, ya know?” Bjork said.

Millie raked her hair. “I don’t like cops. Never did.”

“Millie...” Bjork said

“Why can’t you just leave him alone? Why ya always gotta cause him trouble?”

Louis had to remind himself this was Lacey’s mother. She was entitled to believe he was harmless.

“Mrs. Lacey — ” Louis began.

“Cronk!” Millie spat. “My name is Cronk. I ain’t been a Lacey in years.”

“I’m sorry. We need to find your son. If we can locate him peacefully, no one will get hurt.”

“Peaceful...right,” Millie said with a sneer. She turned and reached for a pack of Pall Malls on the end table. A book of matches slid to the floor and Bjork picked them up. She took one look and passed them to Louis. The front said: Jo-Jo’s Tavern, Loon Lake, MI.

“When’s the last time Duane was home, can you tell us that?” Bjork asked.

Millie sucked on her cigarette, her gray skin pulling over her high cheekbones. “Last Tuesday or Wednesday,” she said, smoke drifting from her mouth as she talked. “It was, no, wait, about a week before Christmas. He came home ‘bout the first of the month and stayed ‘til...hell, I don’t know. Days get mixed up, ya know?”

“He left around the first of December?” Louis asked.

“’Round then, ya.”

“Where did he go?” Louis asked.

“Don’t you know?” Millie asked.

Louis stared at her. She had the same weird eyes as Lacey, only hers were clouded with cataracts, more milky than watery.

“He don’t tell me things, ya know?” Millie went on. “He was gone a coupla days. When he got back he started drinking and talking about things that made no sense, ya know?”

Louis stepped forward. “What did he say?”

Millie glanced around the room. Bjork watched her then went to the tiny kitchen, returning with a bottle of Beefeater’s Gin. She set it loudly on the end table.

Millie picked it up and twisted off the cap. She looked back at Bjork. “What? Ya think I got no class?”

Louis saw a glass on the coffee table and reached down to take the bottle from Millie. He poured her half a glass and handed it back.

Millie looked up at him. “I ain’t never had no black man in my house before.”

Louis glanced at Bjork, who rolled her eyes.

“Mrs. Cronk, did your son say anything when he got back from his trip?” Louis repeated.

“He was talking about things not goin’ right. He said it was all fucked up. All fucked up.”

Louis frowned. “Did he say anything else? Mention any names?”

“No, no, said he needed to think things out.” She gave a little snort. “Like he could think straight. He ain’t been right in the head since...since, shit, who knows?”

“Did he take anything with him when he left?” Louis asked.

Millie’s eyes were closed.

“Mrs. Cronk?” Louis said.

“What?”

“Did your son take anything with him when he left here?”

“Clothes and food. Cleaned out the kitchen, took all the Dinty Moore and Spaghettios. Took my truck, too.” She puffed furiously on the cigarette.

“Anything else?” Louis pressed.

“His guns. And snowshoes. I remember he went down and got ‘em out of the basement.”

Louis glanced at Bjork then back at Millie. “Mrs. Cronk, may we look at Duane’s room?” he asked.

“You need a warrant for that, eh?”

Bjork pulled a paper from her jacket. “Got it right here, Millie.”

“Well, just don’t tear anything up,” Millie said, falling back onto the couch.

Bjork led Louis up the gaunt staircase, pushing open several doors as they walked the narrow corridor. There were only two bedrooms and a tiny dingy bath. Bjork stepped aside so Louis could enter Lacey’s room.

Louis stopped at the door. It was a small room, smelling of soiled clothes and cigarettes. The wallpaper was a drab yellow with what looked like flowers, but were little figures of cowboys and bucking horses. The furniture seemed undersized -- a narrow single bed, a tiny nightstand, a small desk and an old four-drawer bureau with DUANE carved prominently on the front. It was kid’s furniture, a little boy’s room. Until you looked more closely.

Louis’s eyes went from the taut army blanket on the bed to a framed photograph hanging above the desk. It was of three bare-chested soldiers.

He went to the desk. It was covered with junk — papers, a few books, beer cans, an overflowing ashtray and several
Soldier of Fortune
magazines. Louis carefully sifted through the papers.

There were brochures from gun shows, including one flyer that shouted “Get Yours Before It’s Too Late.” There was an ad for fully dressed AK-47s, “Visa and MasterCard accepted,” and another for flak vests and rifles with infrared scopes. A flyer hawked burial tubes to hide guns and food in preparation for “The New World Order.”

Louis turned his attention to the small stack of books. There was a paperback called
How to Create a New Identity
and a guide to Third Reich daggers. Another was a poorly bound paperback that detailed homemade bombs. Louis picked up the last book, titled
The Turner Diaries,
by a man named William Pierce. His gut tightened. He had heard about the book before. It was a novel set in the future, the late 1990s, about a race war in the United States. The hero, Earl Turner, leads a group of Aryan warriors who dole out justice by lynching or shooting Jews, blacks, journalists, politicians, feminists and race-mixers.