Cubiak sat down next to him. “Pretty sad stuff,” the sheriff said.
Ross did not respond.
“You’re awfully quiet about all this. Any ideas?”
Ross grabbed hold of his shoes and shrank further into himself.
“When you were growing up, did you ever hear stories about lost rowboats or missing kids?”
“Uh-uh.” It was the only sound the ersatz journalist had made in an hour.
“There are always rumors.”
Ross tried to spin away from the sheriff and nearly lost his balance. He put a foot on the deck to steady himself, and then suddenly he was standing, shouting at Cubiak. “I want off this boat. You can’t keep me here.”
“No one’s going anywhere until I say so.”
“You have no right.”
“You’re a witness to the afternoon’s events.”
The color drained from Ross’s pale face. “I didn’t see a damn thing. Your deputy found them,” he said.
Cate’s camera clicked and Ross whirled toward the sound. “Stop taking my picture!” Then he turned back to Cubiak. “What about that? I know how to run a boat. Let me take that,” he said, waving at the Speedy Sister.
“Can’t do that. We’re going to need it.” Cubiak rose and moved in on Ross. “What I want to know,” he continued, speaking so only the young man could hear, “is why you’re in such a hurry to get off the barge? Why so eager to run from a big story?”
Ross dropped back to the bench. “None of your damn business.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Cubiak said.
The sheriff was suddenly exhausted. The discovery of the bones was far more than what he’d expected. He’d have to call Pardy and Bathard and the coast guard. Local officials would need a report. And then there was the media to deal with; all those reporters who were waiting for the Gerald Sneider saga to play out would jump all over this story.
Cubiak looked at Ross. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said.
Not long after, Rowe surfaced and swam to the front of the barge. He handed the drill up to Waslow. The holes were finished; it was time to put the rest of the plan into motion.
Rowe looked more exhausted than Cubiak felt. “You need a break,” the sheriff said.
His deputy demurred. “Let’s get this done,” he replied.
Cubiak looked at Waslow.
“We got it this far,” the captain said.
Cubiak knew they were right. The wind had come up, and if the weather turned it could be days before they got back. If they lowered the rowboat to the bottom of the bay, it would be left unprotected in open water, susceptible to the currents.
“Go ahead,” Cubiak said.
Waslow gave Rowe five minutes to dive and get into position before he started the winch engine. With the motor on its lowest speed, he wound the cables, and inch by inch the rowboat rose through the water.
The gunwales broke through the surface, spreading ripples of waves across the water.
The upper rail emerged. Then the first row of planks.
The winch stuttered to a halt. The rowboat shuddered and the precious bones shifted and resettled.
Would the boat hold?
Waslow hunched over and fiddled with the engine, coaxing the motor back to life. The second row of planks rose up from the bay.
The boat was still full of water. It’s too heavy, Cubiak thought. He waited for one of the hooks to tear through the wood, upending the boat and sending the bones cascading to the floor of the bay.
Cubiak was about to tell Waslow to stop when the vessel lifted past the first series of holes that Rowe had drilled. Water streamed through the punctures, as if from a sieve. The higher the boat rose into the air, the more water drained away.
As the bones emerged into the air, Cubiak wished there’d been sunshine to kiss them dry but there was only fog and wind.
Higher and higher, the boat rose. With a whoosh, the bottom planks broke through and the boat was completely above the water. For several minutes Waslow let it hang in place, allowing more water to drain out. Finally he reengaged the winch and continued to lift the vessel until it cleared the side of the barge.
Cubiak still worried. How long would the hooks hold? he wondered.
Waslow was already two steps ahead of him. As Cubiak watched, the old captain pulled a tall lever that sent a long metal plate sliding out over the water away from the barge. When he had it in position, Waslow lowered the rowboat to the platform.
Cubiak pulled Rowe on board.
“Good work, son,” he said.
From the barge, the deputy had his first clear look at the boat and its contents. Cubiak gave Rowe a moment alone and then stepped alongside and poured the last of the hot coffee for him.
Cate joined them and even Ross took a few steps closer.
Waslow pushed to the head of the line.
The old man’s demeanor had changed. His brisk efficiency had vanished. Standing with them, he appeared tentative, even fearful. His brow was furrowed, his mouth grim. After a moment, he spoke. “We’ll have to bring it on board, you know. Can’t get it to shore like this,” he said to no one in particular.
He’s worried that he’ll jinx the barge, Cubiak thought. At sea, the dead were dropped overboard and consigned to the depths. And here they were doing the opposite, lifting the dead out of the water and setting them down on the vessel.
“These are the bones of innocent children. There are no ghosts,” the sheriff said, but he wasn’t sure if Waslow or anyone else believed him.
Once they had the rowboat securely in place, Rowe and Waslow piloted the barge to the marina harbor. Cubiak, Cate, and Ross rode back in the Speedy Sister. On the way, Cubiak pulled Cate aside.
“Are you okay?” he said. It was the same question he had asked Rowe earlier.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“It’s okay. It was better that you didn’t fuss over me. Made it more like a job. I didn’t have to think or feel, just shoot.”
They glanced back across the bay to where the red flag had become a tiny dot of color on the dark water, near the spot where the rowboat had been found.
“We’re not done yet,” Cubiak said.
“I know, but now the rest is up to you, isn’t it?”
Despite the cold wind that had come up, a small crowd was gathered at the Baileys Harbor marina. As soon as they tied up, Ross leapt from the cruiser and took off. Cubiak watched him push through the onlookers and head across the road into the local bar, probably looking for a phone. For now, Cubiak didn’t try and stop him. He had enough to do to move the onlookers away from the docks and to help secure and cover the rowboat after the harbor cranes lifted it onto the flatbed truck he’d called for earlier.
Rowe would take the jeep and give Waslow a lift home. Cate had her own car. The sheriff would ride back with the truck.
“Anyone asks anything, it’s no comment,” he said.
Before they left, the sheriff phoned Pardy and Bathard.
“You’ll need a staging area. Someplace large, like an empty factory or warehouse,” the coroner said.
Cubiak remembered what the shipyard workers at the Rusty Scupper had said about one of the hangars going dark. “Lakeside just finished a big job. I think there might be space for us.” The sheriff reached the company CEO at home and explained what he needed: an empty building, a cradle for a small boat, and a large raised platform. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything more at the moment except that it’s important and I need it all tonight.”
There was a long pause before the CEO agreed to the unusual request and promised the sheriff that everything would be ready.
INSIDE HANGAR THREE
The flatbed truck trundled over the steel bridge bearing the cargo of human bones on its back. Heavy fog blanketed the base of the bridge obscuring the lower portion of the truck and blurring the glow from the antique lamps that lined
the narrow passageway. In the eerie setting, the shroud-covered rowboat floated into the heart of Sturgeon Bay like an iceberg riding a moonlit cloud.
Cubiak remembered what Cate had said about the long processions of carts piled with bones that had been escorted through Paris at night by robed priests who chanted prayers and burned incense. There would be no such public display of reverence and respect for the remains he was escorting that night. For now at least the rowboat and its sad freight had to be kept secret.
The fog and rain had cleared the streets. To any locals who ventured out and noticed the truck, this would be just another load of material heading to one of the shipyards.
Exiting the bridge, the truck made a wide left turn and followed a silent street for the last quarter mile of the journey to the charcoal-colored building known as Lakeside Industries Hangar Number Three. The nondescript metal structure was one of several that lined the waterway just blocks from the downtown businesses that catered to tourists. It was an odd juxtaposition of the two industries that formed the bedrock of the local economy.
The overhead doors of the four-story hangar opened and the truck rolled into a well-lit cavernous space. Most of the usual array of equipment—metal scaffolds, forklifts, generators, and an assortment of welding tools—had been moved to the rear wall. Closer in were the wooden cradle and the platform that the sheriff had requested.
Emily Pardy, Evelyn Bathard, and the two deputies Cubiak had called in on special assignment waited near the entrance. They wore protective coveralls and gloves. Respirator masks hung around their necks. When the truck stopped, the four moved forward and stood in the shadow of the shroud-covered boat.
Cubiak dropped from the cab, just as Rowe hurred in and joined them. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a long night,” the sheriff said.
Before the bones could be touched, the boat had to be transferred off the truck and into the cradle. The cursed vessel had been tugged and dragged and raised from the lakebed. How much more abuse could it sustain? Cubiak wondered.
When the sheriff met the crane operator that Lakeside had sent, the sheriff worried that he was too inexperienced for the delicate task. But in one smooth motion, the young man grasped the boat in the crane’s orange jaws and swung it over the cradle. Then, as if he were nestling a tiny infant into its carriage, he lowered the vessel into place.
For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time since it had been built and launched into the bay outside Baileys Harbor, the doomed little boat rested on solid ground.
Under the hangar’s bright light, the canvas that covered the boat glowed a murky white, like the color of the bones hidden beneath. Cubiak and Rowe untied the tarp and slowly peeled it off. Inside the sleek, modern hangar, the sight of the simple wooden vessel filled with human bones was as riveting and distressing as it had been on the bay.
No one spoke.
Then the building exhaust fans kicked on. Cate’s camera clicked.
Cubiak explained the process they were to follow. Rowe was to document the position of every bone before it was removed. As he finished with each of the pieces, the other two deputies would carry the remains to the platform where Doctors Pardy and Bathard would lay them on the tarp. Cate would photograph the process step by step.
“It appears there are four skeletons in the boat, and while some of the remains may have shifted due to currents or while the boat was being transported, it seems reasonable that each group of bones represents a different individual. We’ll run tests later, of course, but in the meantime I need you to be systematic about the work,” the sheriff said.
While they were focused on the contents, he would work on cleaning the boat. “If there’s a name or marker, we’ll know where it came from, and that might be helpful later in identifying the victims,” he said.
To make it easier for the others to work on the interior, Cubiak started by pulling the seaweed from the side of the boat nearest the platform. The plants were wet and cold and unpleasant to the touch. In places, thick algae coated the wood. As best he could he scraped it off.
The sheriff was kneeling behind the boat when Rowe came around.
“Sir, you need to see this.”
The deputy pointed to the first set of bones. By now most of the skeletal pieces had been removed, but about a dozen remained in place and with them were two narrow stips of blackened leather that were tied in loops. There was a bit of rag as well, and both ends had been knotted together.
“What do you think this means?” Cubiak said.
The deputy looked stricken. “That at least one of the victims was bound and gagged.”
Cubiak nodded. “One, yes, but probably they all were.”
The sheriff moved closer. “What’s this?” he said, reaching for what appeared to be a thick ribbon of seaweed on the bottom of the boat. Beneath the slimy surface he felt the rough texture of rope. Careful not to disturb the remains, he checked the line. There was more than enough to reach from the bow to the stern. And at one end was an eye hook. Cubiak ran his hand along the upper planks until he found a small hole at the front of the vessel. There would be another at the back, of that he was sure, and maybe one or two along the sides. He closed his eyes and imagined the rope strung through the hardware and then twisted around the young victms.
Cubiak called Cate over with her camera. “They were tied to the boat; that’s why they didn’t get out. They couldn’t.”
Then, to Rowe, he added, “Bag all this as evidence.”
With renewed vengeance, Cubiak went back to scraping off the moss. After a few minutes, he aimed a flashlight at the wood. The boat had been painted green. The sheriff saw a faint blue letter m. He cleared away another inch of scum and the letter o emerged.
Cubiak could hardly breathe. He scraped off more detritus. H and then s appeared. Not all the lettering had withstood the ravages of time, but despite the bits that were missing, recognizable words began taking shape. By the time the sheriff cleared off the rest of the frame, he knew what he’d uncovered. The rowboat filled with bones was from the Forest Home for Orphaned and Needy Boys.
Wishing he had a cigarette, Cubiak stood outside the hangar and waited for Moore. The sheriff had never asked where the agent was staying but it couldn’t have been far because it took only five minutes for the familiar black SUV to arrive.
“What the fuck is this all about?” Moore asked, his voice husky and thick with exhaustion, as if he’d been half asleep or nodding off in front of the TV. Still, he’d managed to put on a pair of neat khakis and a black cotton sweater so that even without a suit, he emitted an air of spit and polish.
Cubiak ran a hand through his hair. He was a crumpled mess. “Something you need to see. In here,” he said and shoved the door open.
Moore blinked against the bright interior and crossed the threshold. His aggressive posture suggested that he was about to say something harsh, but whatever it was evaporated before the sight of the eerie tableau inside the hangar.
Bathard and Pardy had finished assembling the first human skeleton. In the huge space, the figure looked alarmingly diminutive. Under the glare of the lights, the white bones shone with an eerie luminescence. Red tags marked the three discovered on the beach.
For several moments, Moore was uncharacteristically silent.
“You kept looking, didn’t you? And you found all this?” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“In there?” He pointed to the rowboat from which the sheriff ’s deputies were carefully lifting two more bones from a second small heap of remains.
“It looks like four bodies. The victims appear to have been tied to the boat and bound up with these.” Cubiak held up one of the leather loops.
Moore inhaled sharply.
As they talked, the two men approached the platform where Bathard was setting the right scapula of the second skeleton in place.
“Jesus. They were just kids, weren’t they?” Moore said.
“Most likel
y. We’ll know more after a detailed analysis. I assume we can count on your resources to help with that.”
“Absolutely. With something of this magnitude, we’ll do everything we can to assist.”
A moment later, Moore tightened his already square shoulders, a signal to Cubiak that the FBI agent was done with being sentimental and was about to resume his no-nonsense mantle of authority. “Very tragic, of course. But why call me? Unless . . .” Moore stopped and cupped a hand to his chin. “Oh, sweet mother of God. I don’t believe it.”
Wordlessly, Cubiak led the agent way past the platform and around the back of the boat. At the stern, he trained a flashlight on the transom, illuminating the lettering that had survived decades underwater. The words were faded and Moore had to bend down to read them.
“Forest Home is the name of the camp Gerald Sneider operated,” Cubiak explained.
Moore straightened. “The camp for orphaned and needy boys,” he said. He was suddenly alert. “This changes everything. We’ll have to get on this right away. But of course you already realize that.”
It was meant as a compliment and they both knew it.
Somehow Rowe had rustled up an urn of coffee and a platter of cookies for the crew. The cookies were left untouched but the coffee went quickly. Against the hum of the overhead blowers, Cubiak and Moore drank their share of coffee black while they waited for Cate to print the photos the sheriff had requested.
“A woman named Marilyn Ross may know the story behind this, or at least a good part of it,” Cubiak told the agent. “I thought of bringing her here but I’m not sure she could take the shock of all this.” They turned and looked at the tarp where the second skeleton was being assembled.
Death in Cold Water Page 18