Death in Cold Water (20 page)

Cubiak told them what he'd learned from Amelia Pechta about Pickler's job at the Forest Home. “Something happened that made him decide to quit,” the sheriff said. Then he walked them through Pickler's house and shed.

“What you're telling us is that the man's a religious fanatic. There are plenty of them around.”

“Look what else I found there,” the sheriff said as he passed the pamphlets to Moore.

“Pretty disgusting stuff,” Moore said, handing the material to Harrison. “But all this proves is that Gerald Sneider, the exemplary citizen, had some pretty extreme ideas and was a bigot from way back. There's nothing here to connect Pickler to his disappearance.”

“What about the neighbor's suggestion that Pickler took off because he feared being a possible target himself?”

“Why? Because of alleged misdeeds that occurred at the camp decades ago? An incident or incidents that no one has ever actually described? This is like one of those modern-day urban legends that spreads across the Internet. Everyone believes something to be true even though no one can prove it. Does that stop anyone from repeating the story? No. It's taken as gospel when in fact it's nothing more than gossip.”

Moore pinched the back of his neck. “You think I'm being too narrow on this, focusing on the terrorist connection, don't you? But you're doing the same, refusing to see any possible solution that doesn't involve the bones you found on the beach. Not far, as you've pointed out, from the former site of the Forest Home. But also not far from the site of half a dozen shipwrecks.”

The agent looked at Cubiak and hardened his gaze. “And that's not all. I've done my homework, too. Door County has been inhabited by one group of people or another for a very long time. Those bones you found could be the remains from a young logger killed in a drunken brawl or a fire that burned an old bunkhouse. They could be the bones of Native Americans who died before the first French trappers showed up. Tell me this, Sheriff, in all the time Sneider's camp was operational, were there any complaints made to authorities, any reports of misdeeds or foul play?”

Cubiak stiffened. “Not that I'm aware of, but . . .”

Moore's phone rang. “There you go, then,” he said as he tapped the screen and both he and Harrison turned their backs on the sheriff.

C
ubiak wasn't sure which he found more irritating: his humiliation or the fact that Moore was right. They were both being stubborn. The problem was that the federal agent had accumulated a good amount of hard evidence to back up his theories. And all Cubiak had was hearsay. Black and white versus gray.

“Ultimately, it doesn't matter who's right. The important thing is to find Sneider,” he said. He was talking to Rowe, who stood in front of the sheriff 's desk, unsure how to respond.

Cubiak shoved a drawer shut with his knee. Who was he kidding? Of course it mattered. It was human nature to want to be right—at least some of the time.

“Wouldn't surprise me if the whole thing blew up in their faces,” he said. Then, chagrined by his pettiness, he pointed to the stack of papers Rowe carried. “What's the story out there?”

“Front-page news,” the deputy replied, setting them on the desk.

Cubiak skimmed the headlines. Five of the newspapers continued to give the Sneider story top coverage, but there was nothing about the missing man in the first few pages of the
New York Times
.

When the sheriff looked up, Rowe was still standing in front of his desk.

“We're on for tomorrow?” Cubiak asked.

“All set.”

“Whatever comes down later today, we follow through on this.”

“Right, Chief, as long as the weather holds.”

Alone again, Cubiak combed through the
Times
searching for some mention of the Door County kidnapping. What he finally found was a brief paragraph in the Nation section, an item picked up from a news wire.

What the hell was going on with Steve Ross? the sheriff wondered. He checked the time. It was a few minutes to four, almost five on the East Coast. Maybe he could still get a call through.

It took Cubiak several minutes to negotiate the paper's automated answering system, and even after he reached an actual person he was bounced from one desk to another before he finally landed in the news department. The woman who took the call said she was the assistant editor. She had a heavy New York accent and seemed amused to be getting a call from a sheriff in the Midwest. He could almost hear her saying, “Wisconsin, really? Now where exactly is Wisconsin?”—though she was too polite to actually voice the question.

“Gerald Sneider, yes, I'm aware of the situation but we haven't assigned the story yet. We're waiting for further developments,” she said.

“But you have a reporter, a Stephen Ross, who's up here working on it,” Cubiak said.

“Excuse me, whom did you say?”

Cubiak repeated the name.

“There's no one by that name in the news department,” the editor said, adding, “but a lot of people work for the paper. If you hold on a minute, I'll check the directory.”

Cubiak heard the familiar click of her keyboard. A few moments later, the editor came back online.

“Sheriff Cubiak, you're correct there is a Stephen Ross on staff. But he's in the obit department,” she said. “He writes death notices.”

A
s Cubiak lowered the phone, he glanced up to find Gwen Harrison in the doorway. Her eyes were wide and her hands clenched. “Look, about Agent Moore,” she said, but then she paused, uncertain how to continue.

“No need to apologize for your boss. We're all on edge,” the sheriff said, wondering if that was all she'd come for.

Harrison walked forward and quieted her voice. “Eight o'clock tonight. Andrew just got word.”

Cubiak felt her excitement ripple across the room. “Where?”

“Fourth and Main.”

Cubiak was puzzled. “That's a very public location.”

“With all the inherent disadvantages, I know, but it gives us more cover as well. The kidnappers have scaled back their demands to one million. Andrew's to come alone and leave the money in a duffel under the bench by the clock tower. The message was delivered by a kid on a bike who said he was hired off Craigslist, if you can believe that.”

At this point, Cubiak thought, he'd believe anything. The previous demands, first for four hundred thousand and then for four million, had led him to wonder if there was some significance to the number
four
or if the money was simply to be split four ways. The current ransom demand seemed to deviate from the pattern, though it was for an amount evenly divisible by four.

“How do you know this is genuine? With all the publicity, the note could be from someone else trying to take advantage of the situation.”

“Sneider's driver's license was in the envelope, and minutes after the note was dropped off, Andrew got a call from his father. It was very brief, barely a couple of seconds, just long enough for him to say a word or two. Andrew recognized his voice.”

Harrison slipped into the chair facing the desk and crossed her legs. “Also, they want the payoff in Sneider's ‘GB duffel,' which Andrew says is an old Packers bag his father's had for years. Who else would know about that?”

She rested both hands on the desk. “Agent Moore wants you to go up to the estate. You're to send the bag back with the deputy and then stay with Andrew and make sure he's on board. We'll take care of things at this end and let you know when we're ready for you to drive him down.”

“Why'd they lower the ransom demand?” Cubiak said.

“They want the money in hundreds so it's probably about the logistics of taking possession.”

“You'll pay up then?”

With a dancer's grace Harrison rose to her feet and stood before him erect and alert. “We'll make them think so.”

Cubiak waited for an explanation but then realized that she was looking at the wall clock. It was four fifteen. “You were right about the call coming today. Congratulations,” he said.

Harrison beamed. Watching her triumphant walk toward the door, the sheriff wondered what it was about strong women that he found so attractive.

W
hen Cubiak was halfway to Ellison Bay he texted Cate that he'd be home late and not to wait up for him. Immediately he regretted sending the message. Would she even be at the house? Did she care? The last two days, she'd stayed at her own place and he didn't know why. Was it something he'd done, or was it because she was spending time with her ex-husband?

Maybe the feds were right about the kidnappers, Cubiak thought, pushing aside his personal concerns. Although the reduction in the ransom was puzzling, Harrison's explanation made sense. He tried to imagine a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills and hoped the duffel was large enough to hold it all. By now Cubiak's resentment against the feds had dwindled away. As the case moved forward, every step was crucial. The payoff had to go smoothly—Sneider's life might depend on it.

The wind had shifted, bringing in warmer air, and Cubiak drove with his window down, enjoying the occasional whiff of burning leaves. The peninsula had put away the things of summer and embraced the emblems of autumn. Pumpkins and dried stalks of corn festooned the homes and shops along the way. Midway through Sister Bay, he stopped to let a troop of miniature witches and pirates cross the street. They dashed in front of the jeep, twitching with excitement and toting festive bags and plastic buckets in the shapes of pumpkins and skulls. It was Halloween, he remembered.

“Trick or treat,” Cubiak said aloud as the children hopped to safety on the curb.

A plastic skeleton in a shop window made him think of the bones on the beach. By this time tomorrow Rowe would have made his dive looking for the source and the FBI would have rescued Gerald Sneider, nabbed those responsible, and recovered the ransom money. The sheriff would have wrapped up his role and left the feds to the paperwork and the prosecution of the kidnappers. There'd be plenty of time for him to sort through the situation at Baileys Harbor.

The media camped outside the estate had grown to a small mob with rows of vehicles parked along the road in both directions. A few of the reporters had rolled out sleeping bags to mark their turf near the gate. One had even set up a green pup tent. When Cubiak turned in, they swarmed the jeep and begged for news, like kids asking for Halloween treats. The sheriff wished he'd brought a bag of candy for them.

In the main house, Andrew waited in the media room. A movie flashed across the large screen but when Cubiak asked what he was watching, Andrew looked blank. “I don't know. Something,” he responded.

Andrew had cleaned himself up. He was showered and shaved and dressed in sporty charcoal corduroy pants and a muted yellow turtleneck. A black wool jacket hung on the back of a chair.

Sneider's canvas Green Bay Packers bag was on the coffee table. Andrew saw the sheriff looking at it. “One of my father's good luck charms. I found it in an upstairs closet,” he said.

Cubiak rolled the duffel into a grocery bag and gave it to the deputy to take back to sheriff 's headquarters.

“Aren't we going now?” Andrew asked.

“We've got time.”

Cubiak asked to see the note that had been delivered to the house. Word for word it read just as Harrison had told him.

“The feds said you talked to your father,” the sheriff said.

“Not really ‘talked.' He was on just long enough to say my name. He sounded different, weak and scared, but I knew it was him,” Andrew explained.

He clicked off the television.

“Where are they getting the money?” he asked. There was more idle curiosity than urgency to the question.

“I don't know,” the sheriff replied.

“Agent Harrison said I wasn't to worry, that they would take care of everything.”

Cubiak nodded.

“I wouldn't mind a drink.”

“Not a good idea,” the sheriff said. “Hungry?”

Andrew shrugged.

In the gourmet kitchen, Cubiak heated a can of tomato soup and fixed grilled cheese sandwiches. Comfort food, he realized, as he set the meal on two TV trays.

Andrew had turned the TV on again and switched the channel to a documentary on blue whales. “They're big as school buses. Did you know that?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever see one?”

“No.”

“Me neither. You fish?”

“Not much any more. I did a lot when I was a kid.”

“Me, too. I used to catch bluegill off the dock.”

Small talk filled the void.

C
ubiak was cleaning up in the kitchen when Agent Moore called. They ran through the specifics and then the sheriff went to find Andrew.

“Time to go,” he said.

Andrew slipped on his jacket but his nerves failed when he tried to work the zipper. “You'll be okay,” Cubiak said.

To hide him from the reporters, the sheriff had Andrew lie on the back seat, and then he covered him with a blanket. The last thing they needed was the paparazzi chasing them down the peninsula. Once they were through Ellison Bay, Cubiak turned onto a side road and pulled over on the shoulder. “Coast is clear. You can move up front now,” he told Andrew.

They drove in silence, Cubiak thinking of the many things that could go wrong that evening, Andrew with his head back and his eyes shut.

“You okay?” the sheriff said.

Andrew grunted, then replied, “I'm praying.”

Good idea, Cubiak thought as he steered into the darkness.

S
ome time later, Andrew emerged from his stupor, and the closer they got to Sturgeon Bay, the more agitated he grew: fidgeting with his fingers, tapping the dashboard, shifting his weight in the seat. They were several miles from town when the red lights on the giant radio broadcast towers appeared against the evening sky. Andrew groaned and folded over into himself. Cubiak could smell the fear rolling off him. “Take it easy,” the sheriff said, even as he tightened his grip on the wheel.