“On the condition you tell me why you keep checking that damn cell phone.”
“The producers of ICE MEN said they’ll call everyone who makes the first cut today. I’m hoping to hear.”
An hour later, Lew’s cell phone pinged with a text message: “Got a minute? Charles.” She hit the “call” button and Charles Mason answered.
“Is this an emergency?” asked Lew.
“Hi,” said Charles in a tone Lew found seductive and alarming, “I thought we might talk some more about, oh, Patience and—”
“If it’s not an emergency, Mr. Mason,” said Lew, enunciating each word, “I don’t have time.” And clicked her phone off.
Lew pondered the call and her visceral response to the man. Once before in her life she had found herself attracted to a man like Charles—physically appealing and with a certain intensity in his eyes and manner. She almost married the guy, but a minor disagreement blew up between them, exposing the fact he was borderline schizophrenic. It was a hard lesson learned but she remembered it now.
Could she be dealing with two disturbed units in one household? Time for background checks on Patience and Charles, especially Charles.
CHAPTER 12
Osborne bent to strap on his snowshoes. He had had them for years and never failed to admire the workmanship in the handmade wooden frames with their varnished rawhide webbing. Some people—like Erin, who had outfitted all his grandchildren in aluminum snowshoes—pooh-poohed vintage models. They preferred modern versions: machine-generated with aluminum, plastic and vinyl fittings.
But Osborne held fast to his antiques and enjoyed badgering his daughter with, “Erin, snowshoes like mine are true to the culture of the Ojibway nation whose blood runs in your father’s Metis veins. If you valued the traditions of our ancestors, you would wear snowshoes like mine.”
“Yeah, right, Dad.” And on she would walk in lighter, shorter, narrower snowshoes: her loss.
Hunched over as he sat on the tailgate of his truck, parked next to Osborne at the trailhead, Ray had his gloves off as his fingers worked fast to strap snowshoes on over his Sorel boots. He had arrived late and Osborne suspected he had stopped by his trailer to check email in hopes he had received news on-line from the ICE MEN producers. From the expression on his face he hadn’t heard anything and Osborne knew better than to ask.
“I can’t believe you bought those,” said Osborne, staring down at his neighbor’s feet. He was dumbfounded that even Ray had bought into the aluminum snowshoe craze.
Giving Osborne’s snowshoes a dubious look, Ray shrugged and said, “Sure you want to wear those old things, Doc? With that mist frozen over last night’s snowfall—we’ll be on hard stuff out there.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Osborne. Determined to prove the point, he marched bow-legged across the parking lot to the snowshoe trail. He started down the trail only to discover Ray was right: the surface was slick as an ice rink. At the first dip in the trail, his snowshoes slid out from under him. Grabbing the branches of a nearby alder bush, he managed to stumble sideways without falling.
“C’mon, Doc,” said Ray speeding up from behind, “you walk like an injured loon in those contraptions. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Too late to do anything about it now,” said Osborne, dusting the snow off his pants. He was not looking forward to the next few hours if this was how it would be. With a grunt, he yanked on the leather strap holding the heel of his left boot and started forward again only to slip and fall to one side.
“Damn, that snow is hard,” he said as he sat on the trail trying to figure out how to get back to a standing position without killing himself.
“Doc, stop,” said Ray, “take those damn things off and let’s walk back to the truck. I have an extra pair you can use. They’ll grip this crust so you won’t slide and break a leg. C’mon, back to the truck, old man. Won’t take more’n five minutes.”
Moments later, strapped into the smaller snowshoes, Osborne skimmed over the snow. He hated to admit it, but Ray was right. Even on the treacherous downhill slopes, the snowshoes caught and held without skidding. He had no trouble keeping up. But he was betraying his ancestors. Hmm, would Erin be kind when she heard he’d capitulated? Likely not. But eating crow beats recovering from broken bones.
Pausing at a fork, Ray studied the trail in both directions before saying, “Oh, brother. This is not good. Chief Ferris wants us to find some sign of the route Kathy Beltner took last night but I gotta tell ya this hard glaze is no help. It hides damn near everything.”
He bent to push a mitt through the crisp upper layer, which cracked to expose granular snow just under the surface. “Ouch,” he said, “try walking through this without snowshoes and it’ll take the skin right off your shins.”
After brushing away about five inches of loose snow, Ray’s mitt hit another hardened layer. The alternating snow and mist of the previous twenty-four hours was going to make tracking difficult if not impossible—and they both knew it.
“We have to at least try,” said Osborne. “For the family’s sake.”
“I know. Tell you what,” said Ray, pulling out a trail map and holding it so Osborne could see, “if you’ll go that direction, I’ll take this and let’s meet up at the warming hut down here where the south loop crosses the west loop ski trails. She had to have gone one of these two ways, right?”
“As far as I can see from the map, this is the only trail open to snowshoeing—all the others are marked for skating or diagonal skiing. You know how upset skiers get if anyone snowshoes on their groomed trails.”
“But she wouldn’t be the first person to wander off trail in heavy snow like we had.”
“Doc, that has to be what happened. It’s the only answer. My thought is that if we see any sign of someone, whether it was Kathy Beltner or anyone else, going off trail—that’s where we go. So try to see as far off trail as possible—check for broken branches, depressions in the snow cover—you know the drill. But if you see something, mark the spot and come get me. We go together just in case …”
Osborne set off down his assigned trail. He hadn’t gone ten minutes before he paused to inhale the pristine air and berate himself for not snowshoeing more often: the exquisite silence of the forest, the remarkable serenity, the absolute freedom. On snowshoes, you can go wherever you please—over lakes and streams, deep into woods; you can bushwhack through alders, birch and evergreens; you can walk through swamps impassable in warmer seasons and where there are breathtaking vistas from points impossible to reach in the summertime.
He had forgotten, too, how winter changes forests. As if rebelling against the grey slab of a winter sky, the red pines seem more stately, the balsam spires more pointed, the towering hemlocks more threatening.
Osborne walked on, studying the snow-covered fields along the trail. The only sound might be the soft whoosh of his snowshoes but he was not alone. The tiny footprints of voles sped this way and that before diving back under the snow. Chewed off tips of pine boughs and small pinecones littering the trail betrayed the presence of red squirrels and porcupines. He and Ray might be the only humans on the trail system, but the forest was as busy as a Costco warehouse.
A deposit of scat packed with deer hair caused him to slow and scan the snow for the paw prints of a timber wolf. No luck: the hard surface gave up no trace of the predator’s path. But he did spot a well-traveled deer trail running parallel to the snowshoe trail for a short distance before veering off towards the vast cedar swamp that anchored the north end of a small lake, which meant he was closing in on the warming hut.
By the time he met up with Ray the icy light of the waning sun warned they were running short of time. The warming hut was a simple structure—three walls of hand-hewn logs with benches attached and a tarpaper roof overhead: shelter for winter athletes before tackling their next five miles. One end was open to the outdoors and a small rock pedestal held a fire pit. Ray had a modest fire going and was res
ting on a bench while checking his cell phone.
“Any news?”
“No.” The dejection in his voice worried Osborne.
“So what if you don’t get it—that was a long shot and you know it. Plus that reality show is probably a low rent operation. Save your talents for the networks.”
Ray gave him a rueful smile. Osborne shook his head. For reasons he never understood, Ray had long ago decided that given half a chance he could be a real star on cable TV. When Osborne needed entertainment all he had to do was drop by Ray’s trailer and listen to his neighbor badmouth the guys on the OUTDOORS NETWORK.
“I don’t know, Doc. “ICE MEN is the best shot I’ve had in years. How often do you see ESPN in the Northwoods? Those guys are all about bass tournaments in goddamn Alabama, y’know?”
“By the way,” asked Osborne, “is that why you shaved off your beard?”
“Uh-huh. I thought it would help if I looked my absolute best. Dressed nicely, well-shaven. My mom hated my beard. She always said I’d be much better looking without it. But I made a mistake. I heard one of the casting producers say they were disappointed I didn’t show up looking like I did when they had sign-ups at the library the other day.”
“Ah, they want the old ‘jack pine savage’ type?”
“C’mon, I don’t look that bad, Doc.”
“Not to me and the rest of us in Loon Lake but to city folk, maybe.”
“Yeah, so now I look like an average Joe, is that it?”
Osborne shrugged. What could he say? A handsome average Joe, but not the standout Ray Pradt with the cascade of auburn and gray curls in his beard that matched the untamed mop on his head. The hair, the beard, the laughing eyes: that was the Ray Pradt who rarely failed to catch the eye of an attractive woman. And if television people know anything, they know what women want.
Osborne was chagrined for his friend. Shaving the beard probably was a bad decision and one that couldn’t be reversed.
After a few more minutes warming in front of the toasty fire, they were ready to return to the parking lot. This time Ray wanted them to switch trails, with Osborne taking the route out that Ray had come in on. Ray would take the trail Osborne had just followed. “You never know what you might see going the other direction,” said Ray, “and it never hurts to try new eyes.”
“What about the swamp?” asked Osborne. “You’ll see a deer trail running in that direction. Should we come back tomorrow and check that out?”
“Heavens no. I can’t imagine Kathy Beltner would have snowshoed into the swamp,” said Ray. “Unless they want to wade home most of the year, I don’t know of anyone living back that way either. That swamp is all wetland with some deep holes.
“No, my hunch is we’re looking for the nut who parked on the access road and was hiding on the trail just waiting for a woman to rob or … you know. Like that guy who attacked the runner out on Crescent Lake Road a few years back.”
As he spoke, Ray pulled two headlamps from the pack he was wearing around his waist. “Here, Doc, wear this and you won’t have a problem once the sun sets.”
“Thanks, are these new?”
“Yep, got ‘em for myself for Christmas. They work real well, too. You’ll be surprised.” After adjusting the straps of the headlamp so it fit tight over the earflaps on his knit hat, Osborne reached up to switch it on. “Give it one more twist, Doc,” said Ray, “it has a green light, too, one that catches the definition in the snow better.”
“Got it,” said Osborne and started on his way. He wasn’t a big fan of being in the woods after dark in the winter: Too many opportunities to hit an icy patch or be tackled by a great horned owl on the hunt.
But to his relief, as the sky darkened the beam from the headlamp lit an area quite wide in diameter. The green light defined the drifts and hollows in the snow so well that he could see the tiny footprints of forest critters with ease. If there was any sign of anyone veering off the trail, the light would catch it.
Osborne paused to savor the peace of the darkening forest. Within seconds, he was struck by an unusual feature of the headlamp: the green light reflected off eyes watching him—reflected without frightening their owners. So many eyes he decided not to linger.
Trudging along, he was aware of being observed by multiple pairs that were knee high or lower: rabbits, squirrels, mice. Coming around a stand of balsam he met two pair shoulder height, also not spooked. These had to be deer convinced they were safely hidden behind the screen of evergreen branches.
He was halfway to the parking lot when he spotted a newcomer, one whose eyes were just below shoulder height. These eyes stayed with him all the way to the trail’s end. Even after reminding himself that wolves only attack the weak, he hoped the predator was more interested in venison than retired dentists.
While stepping out of his snowshoes, it crossed his mind that Patience Schumacher might not be hallucinating: you never know when you might be watched.
Ray was sitting in the front seat of his pick-up. He held his cell phone in one hand and stared at it.
“No call?” asked Osborne, hating to ask the question.
“Nope. Oh, and I didn’t see any sign on my way back either. Feel like a Cub Scout trying to track in these conditions. What about you?”
“No luck but I sure saw plenty of critters watching me. You didn’t mention that the green light wouldn’t scare them off.”
“Sweet, isn’t it? At least you got something good out of the afternoon.” The despair in his voice was unmistakable.
“Now, Ray, don’t beat yourself up—”
“See you later, Doc,” said Ray before Osborne could finish. “You’ll call the Chief? She’ll be disappointed.” He had turned the ignition and was backing up before Osborne could return the borrowed snowshoes.
Watching as his friend turned the truck around and drove out of the parking lot without a wave, Osborne’s concern grew. It isn’t just wolves lurking out there. Other demons stalk—and Ray had his share.
Once he was back on the county highway, Osborne reached for his cell phone to punch in Lew’s number. “Plus our friend is in bad shape,” he said after reporting the frustrating results of the afternoon. “It appears he did not get hired for the reality show. Lew, I don’t remember seeing him so depressed.”
“Must be something in the air today, Doc. My daughter just called. Looks like she and her husband have split. Suzanne is in her car headed this way and she does not sound good. By the way, was I …,” she paused. “Did I somehow behave unprofessionally during our meeting with Patience and her husband, Charles?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lew. I thought you handled the meeting well. Why?”
“I had a call from Charles later. He texted me, too. Just wanted to chat.”
“He wanted ‘to chat?’” said Osborne, sounding dumbfounded. “Where did that come from? You specifically told both of them to use your cell phone only if they saw—”
“Right. Only if they saw the person—or persons—stalking Patience. That’s what I thought I said. This is too weird, Doc—I think the guy was hitting on me.”
CHAPTER 13
Osborne was in the middle of a dream when he heard a robin singing only to realize it was Lew’s cell phone ringing. She scrambled out of the bed to grab for the phone. From where he lay half asleep Osborne could hear the woman scream on the other end of the line.
“Ohmygod, he’s in our house! Somewhere in the house! He’s here, he’s here!” It was Patience Schumacher.
“Have you called 911?” asked Lew, wrapping a bathrobe around her with one hand while holding tight to the cell phone. Hitting speakerphone so Osborne could hear too, she jerked a thumb towards the kitchen—a signal he needed to call the switchboard on the landline. Covering the mouthpiece, she said, “Doc, I want confirmation we got a patrol car on the way …”
“Patience, give me the phone.” It was Charles, his raspy voice loud enough that Osborne could hear as he ran from the
bedroom to the kitchen. “Hello, Chief Ferris? Yes, we called 911, Patience has my cell phone and is staying on the line with the operator but now we’re locked in the bedroom. I don’t know what to do—”
Osborne reached for the landline hanging near the kitchen door and heard Lew ask, “Where is the intruder?” He reached the night operator, who assured him that Roger should be arriving at the Schumacher’s any moment. Osborne dashed back to the bedroom.
“… So you haven’t seen anyone but you hear noises in the den?” asked Lew.
“Yes, a beeping noise every few minutes and the sound of drawers opening and closing. Right now … it’s quiet. They must be hiding here somewhere. Oh, I see headlights outside. Maybe that’s the police? What should I do?”
“Stay right where you are and stay off your phone. I want you to keep this line free. I’ll speak with the officer on our police radio—make sure that’s who drove up—and call you right back.”
“Roger?” said Lew seconds later into the police radio, “you’re at the Schumacher’s right? See a car there or parked anywhere nearby?
“No car,” said Roger. “Driveway is empty. Garage closed.”
“Any movement? Lights anywhere?” Lew was a master at dressing with one hand, though Osborne did help with her boots. While Lew talked, he threw on his own clothes.
“Nothing moving that I can see but haven’t shone the floods yet,” said Roger. “I see a light on behind curtains on the west end of the house. Otherwise house is dark.”
“All right. Keep a close eye out. I should be there within ten minutes. I’m going to check on that light.”
She punched in the number for the Schumacher’s cell phone and Charles answered. “There is a light at the west end of your house—is that your den or the bedroom?”
“That’s us in the bedroom. Den is at the back of the house behind the kitchen.”
“Okay, Roger? The light you see is from their bedroom where they’ve locked themselves in. Do your best to see what you can with the floods but keep yourself out of harm’s way.”
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