Thunder Bay

by William Kent Krueger

  For much of my life I’ve been a cop. I own a handgun. It was my father’s before it was mine. He wore it on his hip when he was sheriff of Tamarack County. I did the same. I have hunted all my life. I feel comfortable handling a firearm. Too many people don’t really get that a gun is made to kill. You can use it for target practice, sure, but it’s like a lion on a leash, a bad gamble that it won’t turn and draw innocent blood. An enormous percentage of people who are injured or killed by gunshot wounds are hit by a bullet that wasn’t meant for them or even meant to be fired in the first place. They’re accident victims. I’m not a gun-control freak, but even as a law officer I was all for getting firearms out of the hands of the ignorant and out of the reach of the criminally minded.

  So I understood, in theory, the paperwork and the scrutiny the Canadian customs people put us through in order to get our rifles across their border.

  It was black bear season in Ontario, and customs officials at the entry point north of the Pigeon River were used to hunters. Our problem was that none of us had a hunting license. I was able to give the woman who reviewed our firearms declarations the name of a lodge well north of Thunder Bay that, as a kid, I’d visited with my father, and I told her the outfitter had promised to obtain licenses for us. Although I knew that kind of arrangement wasn’t unusual, I wasn’t sure if she was going to buy the story.

  Finally she addressed Meloux, who’d sat quietly while Schanno and I were being grilled.

  “Are you hunting, too, Grandfather?”

  Her hair was red-brown, her eyes moss green. She didn’t look Shinnob. But neither do I.

  “I am going to visit my son,” Meloux said.

  “Where does he live?”

  “In Thunder Bay.”

  “These men are taking you?”

  “Yes. It is kind of them.”

  “How long will you stay?”

  “I do not know. He may not want to see me.”

  She looked concerned. “He should see you out of respect.”

  “We’ll make sure it happens,” I put in.

  She approved our declarations and sent us on our way with a final word to Meloux. “Enjoy your visit, Grandfather.”

  “I will, Granddaughter.”

  As we drove away from the border entry, Schanno let out a low whistle. “Lucky she was Ojibwe.”

  “Lucky?” Meloux laughed quietly.

  With the change to eastern standard time, we hit the outskirts of Thunder Bay at half-past three. It was hot and humid, and a mean-looking bank of black clouds was bullying its way into the western sky. I drove to the marina off Water Street, where I’d met Morrissey and the motor launch that had taken me to Manitou Island. I parked in the lot near the renovated train depot. We walked to the end of the first dock, where there was a small observation area overlooking the bay.

  “Where’s the island?” Schanno asked.

  I pointed beyond the breakwater toward the great ridge on the peninsula in the distance. “It’s nestled up against Sleeping Giant.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s hard to distinguish from the mainland behind it. Here.” I handed him the Leitz binoculars I’d pulled from the back of my Bronco.

  Schanno put them to his eyes and held steady for a minute. “Nope. Still don’t see anything.”

  “Believe me, it’s there.”

  “He’s there,” Meloux said. His old eyes were intense, as if he could actually see his son on the far side of all that blue water.

  “You’re close, Henry,” I told him.

  Schanno handed back the binoculars. “How do we get across the bay?”

  “In a boat.”

  “And what boat would that be?”

  “One we rent, probably.”

  “Big bay, lot of water to cross.” Schanno didn’t sound excited. “Any way to come at it from the Sleeping Giant side?”

  “As nearly as I can tell from the map, there’s no harbor there. This is pretty much it.”

  “Where do we rent the boat?”

  “This is a marina. They’ve got to rent boats somewhere.”

  “Any idea where?”

  “No, but I know someone who could probably tell us.”

  I led them to the slip where Trinky Pollard docked her sailboat. The boat was tied up, but I didn’t see Pollard on deck.

  “Ahoy, Trinky!” I called.

  “Ahoy?” Schanno said.

  “I saw it in a movie. Trinky!” I tried again.

  “What now?” Schanno said.

  “Find an office and ask, I guess.”

  “Well-thought-out plan of action,” Schanno noted.

  “Remember, you volunteered.”

  We headed back toward the depot and the shops. As we approached, I heard a voice call out, “O’Connor?”

  Trinky Pollard stood in the doorway of the Waterfront Restaurant, the little bar and grill at the end of the complex.

  “Trinky, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” I said as we approached.

  She shook my hand and eyed my companions.

  “This is Wally Schanno and Henry Meloux, friends from back home. Guys, this is Trinky Pollard.”

  “I was just having a beer inside,” she said. “Care to join me?”

  “We’ll take a rain check on that, Trinky. Right now we’re in the market to rent a boat.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Another visit to Manitou Island?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In a rented boat?” She looked at me knowingly. “No official invitation this time, I take it.”

  “Not exactly.”

  She was wearing a white billed cap over her silver hair, a T-shirt that said HARD ROCK CAFE LAS VEGAS, dungarees, and boat shoes. She stood in the doorway considering things.

  “I think I know a boat with a captain who’d take you—if she had a better idea of what’s going on,” she said.

  I glanced at Schanno and Meloux. I figured Henry didn’t care one way or the other, but I wanted to be sure about Wally.

  He shrugged. “If I’m going to be out on that lake, I’d just as soon be on a boat with someone who knows what she’s doing.”

  I turned back to Pollard. “If you’ve got the boat, Captain, I’ve got the crew.”

  We sat on the deck of her sailboat drinking cold Labatts from a cooler. I told her what had happened on my last visit to the island and what had happened since. Then I gave her the salient details of Meloux’s connection to the recluse across the bay.

  “And your part in this?” she asked Schanno.

  “I’m here as a consultant.”

  She laughed, an agreeable sound. “Now there’s a word that tells people absolutely nothing.”

  “Wally was a cop, too,” I explained. “County sheriff for a while before he retired.”

  “Really? You look too young to be retired,” she said, which clearly pleased Schanno. “You’re here to watch Cork’s back, I’ll bet.”

  “That I am.”

  She glanced at me and tilted her head slightly to let me know she approved of my choice in backup.

  “Your wives, they’re okay with this?”

  “Jo understands.”

  Schanno said, “I’m a widower. My wife passed six months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  While we sat, the wind had risen, and the bay had filled with whitecaps. Thunderheads tumbled out of the west like a stampede of black bulls.

  “And you think that despite what the Canadian police have said, Wellington’s on his island and at the bottom of all this?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Trinky Pollard appraised the sky. “If we’re going to make it today, we need to cast off soon.”

  I put my beer down. “I wasn’t thinking we’d sail over in daylight.”

  She nodded at the clouds pouring in from the west. “Unless you want to wait until tomorrow night, we need to beat this storm. We’ll anchor on the lee side of the island. It’s not unusual for a sail
boat to use Manitou as a windbreak. Come dark, we’ll be very close to our objective.”

  “Our?”

  “Take it or leave it,” she said.

  “I don’t know how much help we’ll be in a storm. We’re not exactly old salts.”

  “A good captain can sail with a crew of kangaroos.” She stood up. “Look lively, mates. We’ve got work to do.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  As soon as we were clear of the breakwater, Pollard turned off the boat’s engine, and we hoisted sails. With Pollard at the wheel and the wind hard at our backs, we shot toward Manitou Island just ahead of the storm. Meloux sat on deck looking so calmly at the rough water that you’d have thought he was on a pleasure cruise in the Caribbean. I didn’t know a jib from a spinnaker, but Trinky Pollard was clear when she issued her orders, and the bow of the sailboat cut through the whitecaps with exhilarating grace.

  “Ever lost a boat?” I called above the wind and the slosh of the waves breaking against the hull.

  She kept her eyes on the island ahead. “No. But then I’ve never sailed in water this rough before.”

  I figured it had to be a joke. The look on Schanno’s face said he wasn’t so sure.

  “Don’t worry,” she called out. “Do exactly as I say and we have a better than even chance of making it.”

  Behind us, the storm hit the city. I watched a curtain of rain close over the buildings of the central district of old Port Arthur, then it overtook the huge, abandoned industrial works along the shoreline. A tongue of lightning shot from the black clouds and licked the water half a mile back. Seconds later came the boom of thunder, and I couldn’t tell if the quiver that ran through the deck was the shock wave or just another jolt from the hull as the bow split the whitecaps.

  “I ought to warn you,” Schanno yelled to Pollard, “I don’t swim well.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she hollered back. “You go down out here, even if you can swim, the water’s so cold it’ll kill you anyway.”

  Schanno looked green—from the roll and pitch of the sailboat or from what Pollard had said, I couldn’t tell.

  The yellow life vest Meloux wore nearly dwarfed him. He gazed without apparent emotion at the turbulent lake, at water that had turned black around us, as if it had been poisoned. Some of that was the Indian in him, but I thought it was also how Meloux had faced all the storms of his long life.

  Trinky Pollard was clearly having fun at our expense. Even so, her face drew taut as she concentrated on studying the snap of sail and the surge of water. I knew only too well that even if you were good at what you did, sometimes things turned on you in unexpected and tragic ways.

  We swung around Manitou Island from the south. Pollard ordered us to pull in the sails, and she kicked in the engine. She maneuvered us to a place fifty yards offshore, in the lee of the island, headed us into the wind, and dropped anchor just as the heavy rain engulfed Manitou and then us.

  “Nothing to do now but wait,” she said, tying off the wheel. “Might as well go below.”

  The cabin was small, with padded benches. We shed our life vests in order to fit inside. We sat down, except for Pollard, who threw open the ice chest and hauled out several Labatts. She tossed one to Schanno, one to me, and held out one to Meloux, who declined with a wave of his hand.

  “I’ve got Pepsi,” she offered.

  The old man shook his head.

  Schanno wasn’t looking any too good.

  “You okay with that beer, Wally?” I said.

  “I’m fine,” Schanno replied.

  “You feel like getting sick, use the head over there.” She pointed toward a narrow door.

  “I told you, I’m fine.” Schanno popped the top on his beer and took a conspicuously long draw.

  “Any idea how long this storm will last?” I asked.

  “The worst’ll blow over pretty quick,” Pollard said. “Once the leading edge is past, the wind should die down, and then it’ll be just rain for a while. Last radio report I heard said it’s supposed to go on till near midnight. Seems to me rain would provide decent cover for someone wanting to get onto Manitou without an invitation.”

  “They have security on the landing,” I pointed out.

  She took another long draw of beer. “The official landing, the one where invited guests arrive. I’ve anchored us near an inlet on the other side of the island. You can’t really tell much about it because it’s blocked by a wooded peninsula. But on occasion I’ve observed motor launches coming and going, so I assume there’s another landing back there somewhere.”

  “You seem to have more than a passing interest in this place,” Schanno said.

  “Retired RCMP investigator,” she replied. “These days, I take my mysteries where I can find them. And there’s a lot about Manitou that’s never added up.”

  “You’re a retired Mountie?”

  She scowled at Schanno. “I was never fond of that term. For a woman in a profession dominated by men, it was too easy to make a demeaning joke of it.”

  “Sure,” Schanno said.

  “You sail around Manitou a lot?” I asked.

  “I sail a lot, period, but I do have an investigator’s fascination with this place.”

  The boat bucked like a restless pony. I was anxious for the storm to move on and for things to settle down.

  “What do you know about Wellington?” I asked.

  “A creative and charismatic guy before ...” She glanced at Henry. “Before he became so odd. He was a very public figure in Thunder Bay and in Canada in general. He took the money from his father’s mining interests and created an industrial manufacturing empire with interests all over the world. Very popular, very public spirited and environmentally minded. Created the Wellington Foundation, a huge charitable organization. Then half a dozen years ago his wife died, and he withdrew from public view. Tabloids have always been after him. If you believe what you read in them, he’s become a bizarre eccentric who’s barricaded himself in his mansion.”

  “From what I saw, they weren’t off the mark,” I said. “Sorry, Henry.”

  Pollard got up and walked to the cabin door, not an easy maneuver with the pitching of the boat. She opened the door and eyed the sky. “Dark’ll come early because of the rain. Another hour maybe.”

  “How do we get to the inlet?” Schanno asked.

  “When the wind dies and the lake calms a bit, I’ll see about taking the boat in.” Pollard closed the door and returned to her seat.

  “Dogs patrol the island,” I said.

  “You saw them?” She seemed surprised.

  “I heard them. Didn’t sound like animals I’d want to run into.”

  “People who visit the island sometimes comment on the dogs they hear, and the tabloids talk at length about how vicious they are.”

  “Guard dogs,” I said with a shrug. “For a man so crazy about his privacy, it makes sense.”

  Pollard said, “I’ve never heard them except when I can tell from a docked boat that someone is visiting the island.”

  “What’s so strange about that?” Schanno asked.

  “Dogs are dogs. They like to bark, guests or no. Nature of the beast. They also like to run. I’ve sailed around this island dozens of times, and I’ve never seen the dogs being exercised. So far as I know, nobody has.”

  “You’re saying what? That they’re virtual guard dogs?”

  “Cheap security.”

  “I ran into the expensive kind,” I told her. “Guys with guns.”

  “How many?”

  “There was Morrissey.” I thought about it. “Then there was the guy who piloted the launch and the security guy at the dock.”

  “Benning and Dougherty,” she said.

  “You know them?”

  “Everybody at the marina knows them. They bring the launch in two, three times a week. They go to dinner, take in a movie, buy groceries, go back to the island. Nice enough couple.”

  “Couple?”

  �
��That’s the speculation among the sailors at the marina.”

  “I didn’t pick up on that.”

  “Why would you? You weren’t looking for it. Bob Calhoun, guy who docks at the slip two down from mine, is gay. He claims his ’gaydar’ tells him it’s true. Did you see anybody else out there?”

  “No.”

  “Nor have I. Benning, Dougherty, once in a while this guy you say was Morrissey, that’s it.”

  “No house staff, no groundskeepers?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen.”

  “But you’ve seen Wellington, right?” Schanno said.

  “Every so often around twilight, I catch a glimpse of him walking alone along the shoreline. Never in full daylight. He’s like a ghost, all in white.”

  “He seems to prefer the dark,” I said.

  “Like a bat or a vampire,” Pollard said. Then she glanced at Henry and said no more.

  Although the lake hadn’t settled down any, I could tell from the distance of the thunder that the electrical part of the storm had moved east. We still had time to kill until it was dark enough to approach the island, and Trinky Pollard hauled out three more beers.

  Schanno said, “So, what do you do besides sail?”

  “I read a lot. And drink more beer than is probably good for me.”

  “No men in your life?”

  She tipped her can to her lips and drank before she answered. “I was married for a dozen years. My husband finally left me because he claimed my job was more important to me than he was. He was right. In my experience, when men start being serious in a relationship, that translates into something like ownership. My boat and my books are pretty good company. When I want anything more, I pop into the Waterfront at the marina. I know all the regulars there.”

  Schanno turned his beer can in his hands and seemed to study the label. “It takes a special person to understand the demands the job makes on a cop.”