She heaved a sigh and flipped her notebook closed. “Now it’s time for everyone to get some sleep.”
“What day is it?” Suddenly Ray dropped his hands from his eyes and sat up straight. “Did I miss Sunday?” he demanded. His eyes were bloodshot, and he still looked pretty pale.
“No, no.” Osborne patted him back onto the pillow gently. Donna moved quickly behind him to adjust the ice pack. She stood at head of the cot and began to massage Ray’s shoulders while Osborne spoke. “It’s Saturday night a little after midnight. Take it easy. I fed your dogs this afternoon so they’re fine—”
“And I’ll take you to my place tonight, Ray, so you can sleep in tomorrow,” said Donna. “Doctor Osborne’ll take care of the dogs. You just relax.”
“Boulder—ouch—Junction,” said Ray wincing, closing his eyes to cut out the light.
“What about Boulder Junction?” Lew, who had been about to leave the room, stopped and turned. She flipped open the notebook she’d closed a moment earlier.
Once again she had that no-nonsense attitude, and Osborne found her compelling to watch. The alert dark eyes against her lightly tanned, roundish features made her look much younger than her fifty-plus years—that and a body that was well-toned and trim, even if it wasn’t a petite size. The woman had a presence and an authority that continued to impress him.
“Tomorrow’s the Spring Muskie Festival and the finals of the North American Loon-Calling Contest,” said Ray, his voice quite serious. “I’m a finalist for the fifth year in a row. Last year I came in second. This is my year to win. I’ve been practicing for weeks. I can not miss it.”
“Think again,” chimed in Donna. “Nature has its way of telling you to take it easy, honey.”
“Nothing natural about it, Donna.” Ray’s tone was grim for the first time since he’d come to. “Natural is not getting hammered from behind by someone you can’t see. Hey, maybe that’s it, Chief Ferris.” He raised his eyes to Lew’s. “That Canadian goombah that beat me last year hired a hit man. See, he knows I’m going to clobber him tomorrow.”
Ray threw back the sheet covering him and sat up on the gurney. “I’ll feel better if I’m on my feet. I’m going to Boulder, folks.”
Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and let loose with the strange, fluttering wail. “There … that wasn’t so bad.” But the rush of blood from his head took its toll, and Ray flopped back on the narrow bed, throwing the sheet back over his head. “Oh God, it hurts, it hurts, what did I do to deserve this?” he wailed.
A nurse poked her head in through the curtain and motioned to Lew, who followed her out of the room.
Donna threw her hands up in despair and looked at Osborne. “Doc, you tell him he’s crazy. He’s gonna break a blood vessel or something.”
“Ray, you probably ought to take a day in bed, watch some TV—”
“Forget it, everyone. Forget it. I’m going. Doc, if you want to help me out, you’re welcome to come. You, too, Donna.”
“I can’t,” said Donna, “you know tomorrow I leave for Chicago to visit my daughter for a week.”
“I forgot,” said Ray. He looked beseechingly at Osborne. Osborne knew well Ray’s maniacal drive to win this contest. He’d talked of little else for weeks now.
“All right, I will,” said Osborne, “on the condition you let me drive.”
“It’s a deal,” said Ray and heaved a sigh mixed with pain and relief.
Osborne didn’t mind making the ninety-minute drive north at all. It had been years since he’d been to the Muskie Festival. Not since his kids had grown up. He vividly remembered the huge bed of red-hot coals always carefully tended by a team from the local Lions Club. Dozens of fresh muskies, caught during the first week of the season, then donated and flown in from around the state, would be wrapped in aluminum foil and steamed in butter and juices over the coals. By ten in the morning, each silver log would be unwrapped, and slabs of the flaky white fish dished up with little pots of butter. Not even a fresh Maine lobster could rival Osborne’s adoration of that steamed muskie. If that was the price for driving Ray to his crazy contest, he’d pay it—easily.
“We need to be on the road by seven, though,” he said to Ray, “so the sooner we get you into bed, the better.”
Lew rushed back into the room.
“We got an ID on one of the bodies,” she said. “That partial plate belongs to the owner of a small insurance company in Des Moines, Iowa. Family didn’t report him missing because they thought he was on a fishing trip, even though he’s been out of touch for three weeks—”
“Oh my golly, I completely forgot! Ray,” interrupted Osborne, “my charts! I’ve got a record of doing that gold inlay on a ten-year-old who went to Camp Deerhorn one of the summers, I think, that your brother-in-law worked there. It’s too late to call him tonight, but first thing tomorrow, we got to get in touch. He might remember this kid. He was from Kansas City.”
“Hold on. Before you call anyone, guys,” said Lew. “I’ve got a problem. Sloan caught the flu from Pecore, and he’s flat on his back. That leaves me very short-handed.
“Also, the Wausau boys had some more interesting news. Seems the victims were frozen before they died. I mean, Wausau’s pretty excited. These are the juiciest remains they’ve ever seen. Perfectly preserved. The medical examiner thinks he may have ‘em talking by noon tomorrow. But only the one ID so far. Shanley contacted them, and he’s running tests first thing in the morning.”
Lew paused, and her eyes darkened as she stood with her hands jammed into her jacket pockets. “Given that I have other problems to deal with here in Loon Lake, I am hoping that both of you—Dr. Osborne and Ray—wouldn’t mind continuing as deputies for another twenty-four hours, and perhaps you’ll find some time to go back up to Dead Creek—”
“You asking the victim to check out the scene of the crime?” asked Ray.
“Kinda like that,” said Lew with another wave of her hand and sheepish grimace. “Frankly, you’re the best one to do it, which you know. But I have to be there, too. So what if you two do your Muskie Festival in the morning, win that trophy, and we’ll celebrate over a late breakfast? Then let’s try to set up a conference call with Shanley, and after that, if you’re feeling okay, let’s head for the woods together. But only if you’re feeling up to it, Ray….”
“We’ll do it.”
“Doc?”
“Fine with me,” said Osborne, “though I may pass on the pancakes if that muskie is as good as it used to be. Why don’t we meet you at Susan’s Café in Saint Germain around twelveish? They serve late on Sundays.”
“Good,” said Lew. “I’m taking off.”
She left the cubicle, and Osborne followed her out so Ray could sit up and get dressed to leave the hospital.
“Call us in the morning if you change your mind and want to watch the contest,” said Osborne.
“If I change my mind, I’ll come by,” said Lew. “You boys have that damn party line out there, and I don’t like letting your forty-seven best friends know what I’m doing. That’s a hint, by the way.”
“I know, I know. But we’re stuck with that party line, Lew, until three lovely old ladies depart this Earth. They love it, and the phone company won’t route new line without one hundred percent participation from all residents currently getting service. Believe me, I’ve called a thousand times to change the damn service.”
Suddenly, the curtain was flung back and a half-dressed Ray, still pulling his jeans up over his shirt, confronted Osborne and Lew. He appeared to have forgotten his headache. “Hey, you guys, I just remembered something. Where’s my boat? Did you leave my boat back there?”
Twenty minutes later, the boat was still the only detail Ray seemed to remember. As Osborne turned down the lake road, Ray raised his head from where he’d been resting it against the seat. He’d decided it would be better to sleep at his own place instead of Donna’s in order to get a good start in the morning.
/> “Nothing like goin’ home some nights. You know, we lucked out, you and me. First Lake is the best lake in the Loon Lake Chain, doncha think?” The painkillers were making him drowsy and not a little happy.
“How many times have I agreed with you, Ray?” said Osborne, checking his rearview mirror. Back in his own car at last, he found he was still edgy from the encounter in the woods. He kept checking all the familiar intersections, parking lots, and other landmarks to be sure no one was behind them, no one was watching. “Let’s think twice before we talk to each other on the phone again. You told me last night you were headed to old Herman’s, and I keep wondering if someone might’ve heard you.”
“Nobody’s up that late, Doc,” protested Ray weakly. “I don’t think.” He was quiet as Osborne’s car bumped down the lane to Ray’s place. “Plus all we got are young families and old ladies on the line—no homicidal maniacs in that crowd. Seriously, we know everyone.”
As the men stepped out of the car into the dark surrounding Ray’s trailer, they were buffeted by a rough wind blowing off the lake. One dog barked joyfully from the pen, and they could hear the racoon victim howling from inside. Ray opened the gate for the first dog.
“It’s a good twenty degrees colder out here than in town,” shouted Osborne as Ray fumbled for his keys. “I bet it’s blowing forty miles an hour.”
Ray flicked on the interior lights, and everything was as Osborne had left it earlier. Osborne exhaled in relief. He realized then he’d half expected Ray to have an obese woman with a bald head waiting for him. But the only occupant was the wounded dog, who leaped happily at the sight of his master.
“Jeez,” Osborne said, backing out of the door as it was apparent Ray could manage for himself, “I’m getting old. I’m still a little rattled over all this.”
“Me, too,” said Ray, looking over at him. His eyes were clear and the expression deadly serious. “Maybe you’d like to sit down and hear what Herman had to tell me. But first, why don’t I give that sister of mine a call?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Osborne, “not on the goddamn party line. Lew’ll have our heads.”
“You’re right,” said Ray. “I’ll give her a call first thing in the morning. Sit down, sit down. You want a ginger ale?”
Osborne nodded. Then he walked over, closed the curtains on the windows, and was about to check the lock on the door when Ray looked over at him. “Relax, Doc. If anyone comes, the dogs’ll bark.”
“It’s coming back, your memory?” Osborne sat down on the couch and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
“Oh no. No, no, no. I never forgot what Herman told me,” said Ray as he let his long frame down into his favorite armchair, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. The dogs immediately found their places beside the chair and curled up in tight donuts beside their master. Ray looked exhausted, but he kept talking. “You might say I don’t remember if it’s time to share it with the authorities. The chief thinks I’m kinda goofy, ya know? So I’d like to be sure I know what I’m talkin’ about before I say anything.”
“Ray,” said Osborne, “is this going to be a long story? I’m exhausted. You need to get some rest. Why don’t we talk in the morning?”
“If you don’t mind, Doc, I’d like to tell you now. Right now. Just sit here with me, okay?”
The cool shiver went up the back of Osborne’s neck again. He couldn’t help but think that Ray was making sure to share his information just in case something happened to him in the night.
eleven
Fish die belly-up and rise to the surface, it is their way of falling.
Andre Gide
“I‘ve known Herman since I was eight years old,” said Ray, leaning forward over the kitchen table, his fingers pulling gently at his beard in the absentminded way that Osborne knew signaled a verbal trip into Ray’s world.
“He looks today just like he looked then! All bent over and gnarled. Y’know, I think that old man was born old. Yep….” Ray paused for a long, long minute, fingers pulling, an obvious series of thoughts passing though his head if the changing expressions in his eyes were any clue. Osborne watched and waited. He knew there was no rushing Ray.
“I first saw him one day after he’d been in to pick up some cigs at old Ruthie’s place. Remember Ruthie? That big fat old lady who lived right off Highway 8 behind the Labor Temple and ran a little grocery store out of her house?”
“Barely,” said Osborne. “I think she died a couple years after I moved here.”
“Bludgeoned,” said Ray crisply, his eyes widening and his face relaxed. His headache appeared to be lifting.
“Brains all over the Rice Krispies boxes—now there’s a sight you don’t forget.” Ray shook his finger at Osborne. “I snuck in around the side, but that’s another story. Back to old Herman the German, right?”
“If you want to win the Loon-Calling Contest, we’ll both need some sleep.”
“Yep, okay. I’ll make this fast.” Ray hitched up his chair and crossed his arms in front of him.
“I was about eight or nine years old and fascinated by that old guy and his rickety banged-up truck. One day when I was way the hell out in the woods, I spotted him checking some traps. I was hiding behind a stand of balsam thinking he couldn’t see me, y’know, when he turns around, stares right at me, scares the living daylights outta me. Just the sight of him. Then he laughs and hollers at me to come give ‘im a hand. Which I did. And me and old Herman’ve been buddies ever since.”
This part of the story was one Osborne had heard many times in the muskie boat, but he said nothing. If he’d learned anything over his many years as a fisherman, it was that when men of the Northwoods talk, the secrets often lurk between the words, not exposed in the sentences. Half the time they don’t even know they’re telling secrets. If Osborne’s hunch was right, Ray was about to work his way somewhere with some intriguing turns that even Ray might not be aware of yet.
“Summers I’d ride my bike out to his place,” Ray continued in a soft voice, “the whole goddamn ten miles, every Saturday morning, just to hang around, pick a few blackberries, and listen to the old man talk. Winters he’d pick me up in that old truck and drop me off later. One winter we nursed a young bald eagle together. The bird flew away in the spring, but he always came back to sit in the trees and watch while we picked those berries. Herman taught me everything I know about these woods and their lakes. When I guide, people always think I must be part Indian, but I’m really just part Herman.”
Ray dropped his forearms onto the kitchen table and leaned forward. His voice lifted in intensity, and he talked faster.
“One night, I was about fifteen, I’d just gotten into acid in a big way, and I was having one really bad trip. I mean I was in deep shit that night. I decided I had to kill myself and that old Herman and the eagle had to watch. Don’t ask me why—this was all in my head. So it’s the middle of the night, I swipe my dad’s car and drive way the hell out there. Herman was good. He let me rave on for a while, and then he talked me down. He talked me down by telling me about his evil angels.”
“His evil angels?” Osborne mulled that over. This was indeed a new story.
“Yep. I’ve never told anyone about this because Herman asked me not to. See, Herman moved here in 1925 from Canada. He was only nineteen, but he’d made a little money already in lumber up north, and he was ready to buy a little land. About ten years later, another friend of his and that fella’s wife also moved here. The couple was French Canadian. Well, Herman buys his land from the state and gets a pretty good deal, but his friend gets a real deal, buying from the Cantrells just this side of Starks. Cantrell owned a trucking company out of Kansas City that did big business up here hauling lumber and branched out into paper and pulp mills.”
“Down below Dead Creek?” asked Osborne.
“Yep—on the Crane River. They basically bought Dead Creek,” said Ray. “Old man Cantrell never told the couple he was running eff
luent from that paper mill he owned right down through the water there. For years. Remember, the paper industry ran this region in those days. Cantrell’s mill made the type of paper used for wrapping food. He made millions pumping out twelve-foot rolls of the stuff, and at the same time he was dumping liquid byproducts into the river up there, which he could do legally ‘cause there were no regulations then.
“So the couple builds a log cabin right on the riverbank about a mile down from where the creek enters the river, they start farming some potatoes and corn and stuff. They do okay, and they want to have kids, but the wife keeps miscarrying. Finally, she’s well over thirty now—which is real old for those days—the wife gets pregnant. She has one kid. Then she gets pregnant again. But they had started having problems out there. A lot of dead fish drifting down that creek, and then they all got so sick off and on, but they figured that might be caused by their well water. Little did they know the scope of the problem, but they had enough difficulties to make it pretty hard on ‘em. And a shame, said Herman, because they’d built a fine little cabin.”
Osborne found himself curiously soothed by the rhythm of Ray’s voice. He felt himself getting drowsy and hoped the story ended before he fell asleep sitting up.
“Herman doesn’t see ‘em for a while. And then he gets a visit from the husband who says he’s really worried about his wife. She had these triplets, see, and she’s real upset. The babies came early, they were real small and had to be hospitalized for awhile. Money was tight, and the last thing they needed were three more mouths to feed. They were surviving on fish and venison. He told Herman that she was in hysterics half the time and had taken it into her head that the infants were possessed—sent to punish her for something.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Osborne.
Ray nodded. “Herman tried to reassure the poor guy that she was just very tired. I mean they didn’t have help or any of the conveniences you have today. So he just assumed that was the problem. The husband didn’t say too much else, but he invited Herman to their place for Thanksgiving. He said the company would pick up her spirits and give her something else to focus on.
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