Book Read Free

Green Lake

Page 3

by S. K. Epperson


  Muttering under her breath, she placed the envelopes in her purse. She had seen a tiny post office in the town of Green Lake. She would go there in the morning to post the letters and buy some stamps. The mailboxes for the cabins were all out on the road, built into a frame that held at least ten mailboxes. Madeleine's and Renard's mailboxes were separate from the others, but on a similar frame and hunched close together so that they resembled some odd squirrel feeder more than a pair of mailboxes.

  Thinking of squirrels made Madeleine walk out to the porch to look at the tomato plants she had purchased that day from a woman at Diamond Bay. She enjoyed fresh tomatoes and knew she had to get the plants into the ground soon. She left the porch and walked around the cabin, finding plenty of good sun on the south side. The earth looked all right—not wonderful, but the plants would grow. Madeleine walked back to the garage to look for a spade or a hoe. Minutes later she came out again, shaking her head.

  What on earth made her expect to find something as simple as a garden implement in the garage of a cabin by a lake?

  Calling on her years of living with people who had to do without, she searched all around the cabin until she found a long, sharp rock suitable for digging. She carried the rock to the south side of the cabin and got down on her hands and knees to start.

  She had been digging and turning earth for maybe ten minutes when she felt a pair of eyes on her. Her head came up and jerked toward the road, where she saw Sherman Tanner, the Earthworm, watching her with an expression of incredulity while holding onto the leash of a small multi-breed dog.

  “Is that a rock?” he asked from the road.

  “Yes,” said Madeleine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making a bed for my tomato plants. I have no spade.”

  Tanner's thin eyebrows disappeared beneath his yellow fishing hat. “Why don't you just borrow one? What are you, one of these survivalist nuts?”

  Madeleine rose to her feet. “No, I'm not. But I am new here, and people usually aren't willing to loan something to a stranger.”

  “Well, Renard has one, I'm sure. You should have asked him. You really can't dig in this muck without a good spade or a shovel. Limestone here, clay there, it's a mess.”

  “Would you have a spade I could borrow?” asked Madeleine. “Or a shovel?”

  “I really wouldn't feel good about that,” said Tanner. “Ask Renard when he gets home.”

  Madeleine snorted and put her hands on her hips. “Did I miss something here? Weren't you the one who just suggested I borrow a spade?”

  “From Renard, not me. My tools are my babies. I use them every day and don't ever let them out of my sight.”

  “So I've heard,” muttered Madeleine.

  “What?”

  “You dig a lot,” she said louder.

  “Who told you that?”

  “No one. I saw you myself yesterday.”

  “Oh, well. I was burying a hand I found in the water, but Renard made me dig it up again this morning and turn it over to him.”

  Madeleine stopped cold. ”A hand? A human hand?”

  “It floated right up to me while I was standing near the boat ramp at Vista Bay. I just knew it came from that skier who had a terrible accident last weekend. More than his hand was torn off, you know.”

  “How…did it happen?” Madeleine asked.

  “Two boaters didn't see each other, or were too drunk to care. It happens occasionally. Once, Gudrun and I found an entire arm in the water. They wouldn't let us keep that either.”

  “Why did you want to bury it?” asked Madeleine, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  Tanner shrugged. “Kind of symbolic, don't you think? A hand or an arm buried in your yard, always pointing.”

  Madeleine forced herself into a nod. “Well,” she said, “I'd better get back to work here, before I lose my light.”

  Sherman Tanner looked at the fading sun and gave a tug on his dog's leash. “Craziest thing I've ever seen, digging in the ground with a rock.”

  “No crazier than you,” Madeleine murmured as she sank back to the ground.

  “What's that?”

  “I said have a good day.”

  Tanner eyed her then said, “Not much of this one left. Do I take it you'll be staying awhile?”

  “For a while,” Madeleine answered.

  “All right, then.”

  Tanner said nothing further, merely continued walking his dog up to the turnoff where the old cemetery lay. Madeleine felt as if she had just been given permission to exist by the wiry, suspicious-eyed Tanner.

  Who did he think he was? She wondered. Keeper of the hill?

  By the time he returned with his dog, Madeleine was carrying her tomato plants back to the three holes she had made. She felt Tanner's eyes on her as she placed the plants in the holes and began to fill in around them. When she could take it no more she paused in what she was doing and turned to stare at him. He quickly averted his gaze and pretended to be looking at the other side of the road. Madeleine sniffed and went on filling in with dirt. What a nutty old bird, burying human hands and arms. What was wrong with him?

  She had tamped the earth down and was watering each plant when she heard the sound of a pickup truck skid to a halt right in front of the cabin.

  Madeleine hurried around the side of the cabin in time to see a door of the truck's cab open and somebody toss something into her yard.

  “Hey!” Madeleine yelled, and the driver of the truck threw rocks and gravel as he floored the accelerator.

  Madeleine squinted in the growing dusk and just barely made out the license plate. Then she walked to see what in the name of Adolph Coors had been thrown in her yard.

  She heard them before she saw them. No beer cans these, but three tiny kittens, each one round-eyed and mewling in terror, making their way across the lawn.

  “Dammit,” said Madeleine as she stared at the small felines. Two were gray-striped and one was black.

  Disgusted with the people in the truck, Madeleine gathered the kittens against her shirt and took them up to the porch. There was a large box in the garage that had once held Manuel's small satellite dish, and Madeleine placed the kittens in the box with two towels and a big bowl of milk. Then she went into the kitchen to write down the tag number and pen a note to Eris Renard.

  He came home while she was slipping the note inside his screen door, and he looked inquiringly at her as he got out of the truck. He appeared tired, which made him look even more forbidding to Madeleine. She backed away and held up the note.

  “Two people in a pickup came and dumped some kittens in my yard. I got the tag number.”

  “Good,” said Renard, and he approached her to take the note. Madeleine had to steel herself not to jump away.

  Renard sensed her stiffening. He stopped and held out his hand, palm up. Madeleine dropped the note in his hand and he turned to open his door. She shifted behind him.

  “The kittens are on my porch in a box.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her but said nothing.

  “You can pick them up anytime,” said Madeleine.

  He looked at her again, and one brow lifted. “Would tomorrow morning suit you, Miss Heron?”

  Madeleine noted his irritation and responded coolly, “Tomorrow morning will do just fine, Mr. Renard.”

  He nodded and pushed open his door. Madeleine ambled up to the cabin and heard the scratching and scrabbling of three tiny pairs of claws trying to climb their way out of the box. She went inside and made herself some supper, and by the time she was ready for bed, the cries of the kittens were driving her crazy. She went out to the porch and scooped them up to bring them inside with her. She used a shoebox and some gravel from Jacqueline's terrarium as a litter box and issued a stern warning to the kittens before she climbed into bed. Their bellies plump with canned tuna, the kittens sat down on the end of the queen-sized bed to clean themselves. The feel of one rough little tongue on her big toe
made Madeleine sigh, and for the last time that day she asked herself just what the hell she had gotten into. Dirt diggers, dumped kittens, mean-mouthed neighbors and buried hands always pointing. Pointing at what?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Eris stopped by the log cabin on his way out the next morning and got out of his truck to pick up the box of kittens on the front porch. He paused when he saw nothing inside but a bowl and two towels. He thought of knocking on the door, but it was early yet, so he walked back to his truck and climbed inside. He would stop by during lunch and pick up the kittens.

  It was a point in her favor that she got the tag number. Most people wouldn't be so alert. Eris had the piece of paper she had given him in his pocket. As far as he was concerned, the people who dumped the animals were no better than criminals and would be treated as such.

  Before he made it down the hill he spotted something on the lake that made him curse and step hard on the truck's accelerator. A boat was on fire, the people inside moving frantically away from the black plumes of smoke that billowed from the engine and polluted the morning sky. Eris radioed the location of the boat to the nearby lake office of the Department of Wildlife and Parks and learned another crisis was unfolding. A young father had taken his three daughters fishing before dawn and returned with only two of them. The smallest of the girls had wandered off somewhere in the dark and was now missing from the dam-site area.

  “How old is she?” Eris asked into the mike.

  “Just turned three,” was the answer.

  Eris exhaled and asked what she was wearing.

  “Yellow sweat-suit and a blue windbreaker. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Her name is Kayla Michelle Lyman. Dale Russell showed up this morning and took a boat out. He's over there right now. I'll radio him about the fire and tell him you're on your way.”

  Eris replaced his mike and pushed the truck forward, wondering what went on in the minds of men who took little three-year-old girls out near a dam site when it was still dark and then took their eyes away for even one second. There was no telling what had happened to her.

  Dale looked relieved when Eris arrived at the dam site and got out of his truck.

  “Shit's started early this year,” Dale muttered in greeting, and the thick-chested, dark-haired officer was only too happy to take his boat out and check on the fire, while Eris was left to deal with the frightened parents and siblings of the missing little girl. The girls began to cry when Eris said hello to them. The mother moved protectively near her children, while the father stuck his hands in his pockets and said, “What're you gonna do?”

  “Bring in some more people and begin a search. Where was she the last time you saw her?”

  The man pointed. “Right there on the bank with her sisters. They weren't payin' any attention and didn't see her wander off. I was castin' over there toward the dam and wasn't lookin' at her, either. Where you gonna get more people? You talkin' about the State Patrol?”

  Eris was thinking more along the lines of the Lions Club group partying at the shelter on Diamond Bay. There were dozens of men in the group, good Samaritans every one, and he could have them here within the hour. He walked back to the truck and radioed his plans to the lake office, then he placed himself behind the wheel and told the family to stay put. He would be right back.

  “Keep yelling her name,” he suggested as he backed the truck out.

  The mother and father exchanged a glance and Eris could see he hadn't given them much hope. He was doing what he could, the same plan the sheriffs deputies would implement once they arrived.

  As expected, the Lions Club group was only too happy to come and help search for the little girl. They came out in droves, half of them in boats and several on jet skis and four-wheelers. Eris drew a grid for them and showed where to begin the search. The father joined in and the mother took her two other daughters back to their campsite to wait. Dale Russell returned after towing the burned boat to shore and writing up the owner for not having a fire extinguisher on board. No one was hurt, but the boat was in bad shape.

  Russell joined the other boaters in the water to search and Eris coordinated the groups on land. By six o'clock that evening the searchers were tired, hungry, and losing hope fast. The father of the girl finally lost control and sat down on the ground and cried. Several tried to comfort him, but his sobs went on and on, as if a valve had been turned on somewhere inside him and the pain was running as thick and hot as the blood in his veins. When darkness came he was silent and still and watched with dull eyes as the weary volunteers drifted off to their campsites. The sheriffs deputies had arrived to officially begin their search. Divers would be brought in at dawn the next day, as well as a trained dog.

  Eris took the father back to his campsite and stayed with him a few minutes. The motor home in use was at least twenty years old, with rust spots and what looked like tar adorning the surface. Wet clothes hung on a makeshift clothesline made out of rope and tied between two trees. The two little girls eyed Eris warily as he approached with their father. The wife, apparently blaming her husband for losing their little girl, refused to speak to her man. She gave Eris an apple and thanked him for doing what he could. He assured her the search was not over, and that dawn would see more teams at work. She thanked him again, her voice small and quiet and Eris left them to return and go over the continuing activities with the deputies.

  “Damned stupid, you ask me,” said one of them. “I got a three-year-old, and I ain't even thought about takin' him fìshin' yet.”

  “They have any more kids?” a deputy asked Eris.

  “Two girls,” he answered.

  “Besides the one that's missing?”

  ”Yeah.”

  “Well, hell, they still got two, then, don't they? That's something.”

  We're not talking about sheep or cows here, Eris wanted to say. Instead he turned on his heel and walked to his truck. His stomach was growling fiercely, and he reached for the apple the missing little girl's mother had given him. He took a bite and started the truck's engine, wondering if he had anything in the house to eat. He hadn't been to the store in two weeks, and his shelves were as empty as his refrigerator. He had eaten the last of his sandwich meat last night.

  At home he had just stepped out of his truck when he heard Sherman Tanner calling to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the reedy Tanner hurrying up the hill, jerking his little dog along behind him. Eris drew a breath and stood to face his neighbor.

  “Did you find her?” Tanner asked.

  Eris didn't have to ask how Tanner knew. Tanner always seemed to know. Eris suspected he had a radio tucked away in his cabin somewhere.

  “No, we didn't find her.”

  “Three years old?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tragic,” said Tanner with a tsking sound. “Just tragic. How are the parents holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected, Mr. Tanner. Please excuse me.”

  “Going back out again tomorrow?”

  “The search will continue, yes. Goodnight, Mr. Tanner.”

  “All right, then,” said Tanner, and he grudgingly turned to make his way down the hill again.

  Eris went inside and headed for the kitchen, where he spied a carton of eggs in the back of the refrigerator and found four eggs intact inside.

  He ate the eggs scrambled while standing over the stove, and when the skillet was clean he dragged himself into the shower and scrubbed away at the insanity of the day. The warm spray was soothing, but did little to erase the memory of the father's loud, aching sobs or the mother's haunted eyes.

  As he turned off the water Eris suddenly froze as what sounded like a cry reached his ears. He waited, holding his breath, trying to hear it again. His long black hair dripped water down his back and over his shoulders as he stood listening. When it came again he snatched up his briefs from the floor and hurriedly stepped into them before jerking open the bathroom door and heading for the living room. He rushed out the front door
and promptly fell face first over a box sitting on his porch. He stubbed his toe hard enough to bleed and scraped both knees on the hard concrete edge of his porch before falling off into the grass.

  “Shit,” he hissed in pain. Then he heard the mewing of the kittens in the box. The cries he had imagined.

  “Sorry,” said a nearby voice, and Eris jerked as he realized Madeleine Heron was standing to one side of the porch and looking at him.

  She didn't sound sorry.

  “I thought I'd bring them to you,” she said, and the unspoken part was, since you didn't come and get them.

  Eris got off the ground and tried not to hobble onto the porch. His big toe was covered with blood and his knees stung. “I came by this morning but they weren't in the box,” he told her through gritted teeth.

  “I had them in the house with me. I'd like to, but I can't keep them. I can't afford to feed them.”

  “Will you keep them one more day?” Eris asked as he sat down to look at his toe. His wet hair fell across his face and he pushed it back again. “I can't get to them tomorrow. I'll be busy elsewhere.”

  “The missing little girl?”

  Eris looked up from the attempt to examine his toe in the darkness. “How did you hear?”

  “I went to the post office at Green Lake today. A woman inside was talking to another woman. They heard about it from the wives of two of the Lions Club members out searching.”

  Eris made a face as he pulled away a piece of loose flesh. Half his damned toe had been shredded. Wearing a shoe tomorrow was going to be a test in pain tolerance.

 

‹ Prev