Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries)

by Tom Hilpert

  Angela was silent. “I’m going below,” she said abruptly. “Stay on course if you like your girl so much.”

  I considered my unanswered question. She had clammed up, like she was talking too much. Right before that, she had said this was all a put-on, a set-up to sucker me into this situation. That meant that from the beginning, she and Phil had planned to go on a sailing cruise – before I even had the idea for it. And my idea for it came from Red Hollis. Hollis was in on it, he had to be.

  There were five bank robbers in Washington. My dad had killed one, Charles Holland. That left four. Apparently I had killed another, Phil’s brother. That left Angela, Phil and – it must be – Red Hollis. Maybe Hollis was really Holland, and he was the other brother that Jensen had mentioned in his text. But where was Hollis/Holland now?

  I had goaded them earlier with the fact that both my dad and I had shot members of their gang. But, surely, that was too bizarre to be coincidence. They must have known who I was all along. Perhaps they came to Minnesota seeking vengeance for their dead comrade. My dad had died of a heart-attack, cheating them out of revenge in Washington. Maybe they robbed the First National Bank of Grand Lake deliberately when I was in there, trying to kill me. I shook my head. Silly. There’s no way they could have known I was going to be there at that time, that day. So, at least at that point, they hadn’t known I was related to the man who had killed one of their own.

  Jasmine must have come into it later. I doubted she was one of the robbers. Maybe she’d caught them at some point, and they’d bribed her. Or maybe she went to them with some kind of knowledge she had, in exchange for a cut of the money.

  I sipped some more coffee, and then put the mug back into one of the cup holders built in to the steering pedestal. Angela and Phil hadn’t killed me yet, and that made revenge seem unlikely. And the whole boating set-up seemed a little bit elaborate for simple revenge. But maybe it was revenge, plus something else.

  It wasn’t really the time or place for quiet reflection. The wind screamed, pushing at the half-sail up front, plowing us through the mountainous waves, trying from time to time to shove us starboard-side into the lake itself. The wheel jumped and fought me like a rodeo calf. But our lives might depend on my figuring this out.

  That thought arrested me for a moment. It had always been the smallest member of the gang who shot people, and Jasmine almost certainly had not participated in any robberies personally. That meant that Angela was the trigger happy one, the killer. Another thought crashed into me like one of the giant waves around me. The brief news report I had heard while I was trying to get the radio to work told of a man who was shot to death in Duluth. He was a university professor at University of Minnesota, Duluth. His name was Ethan, a professor in women’s studies and counseling.

  Just like the lover that Angela told me had been all made up. Another murder.

  I thought about Jasmine’s words. “As far as they’ll ever know, I am about to die in the line of duty, along with Tony here. They’ll probably give me a posthumous medal.”

  I knew Angela was a murderer. She must have realized that I would figure it out.

  I chewed on it some more, beating my brain to work. I wished I had some Bach to listen to, to make me smarter. I began running Toccata and Fugue for organ in D minor through my head. Just before I got to the more pedestrian part in the middle, I had it.

  Red Holland was the key. As far as anyone else knew, we took off into the middle of the world’s largest freshwater lake. Accidents happen. We were going to disappear. Even if the authorities suspected Phil and Angela, as obviously they did, they would believe that we all died out here. Gordon Lightfoot with his famous song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, had coined the phrase, “Superior it is said, never gives up her dead.” It wasn’t just rhyme. It was true. Normally, when people drown, bacteria make the bodies decompose. The gasses released from that process cause the bodies to float. But Superior is so cold that the bacteria which normally feed on drowning victims can’t survive. It was actual fact that drowning victims never floated in Lake Superior. So, no one would expect to recover our bodies in five hundred or more feet of water, miles from any land. Angela and Company would be assumed dead, along with the rest of us.

  But what about Red Holland? He must be bringing a boat from Canada or someplace. So Angela and her gang would play dead, and escape to Canada. Meanwhile, there was no way she would let us live to tell others that she was still alive. We really were going to die out here.

  I had to admire it. It was perfect, except for the part about us dying.

  CHAPTER 3 8

  In a way, I felt relief in knowing what the stakes were. It was life or death, us or them. I still struggled to understand their plan. It would make sense if they were headed to Canada. Northwest Ontario, directly north of us, is probably the wildest, least populated area along the Canadian-U.S. border. You could drive for hours on the trans-Canada highway up there and see more moose than people. But sailing was about the slowest way to get there I could imagine. Unless they were being followed by the FBI or someone, the simplest thing would be to drive across the border. Grand Lake wasn’t all that far from Canada, and I had been hiking up in the little mountains outside Thunder Bay several times. Usually, I was just asked a few questions, and then waved across the border when I got there. No one had ever searched my car for stolen loot.

  I shook my head and allowed a blast of spray to strike me full on the face. Of course, they were being watched by the FBI. Obviously, Jasmine must have told them that. That would have kept them from just driving to Canada.

  The companionway door opened, and Jasmine stepped out, swathed in rain gear and a life vest. She pulled the door shut and came over to the wheel.

  “Two hours, my turn.”

  “Why did you do it, Jasmine?”

  Not used to the spray and cold yet, she winced as we were showered with icy water. She wiped her eyes and shrugged. She glanced at the companionway door. She looked like she was about to speak. Then she shrugged again and said, “You’d better get below.”

  I stayed. “I figured out this was the gang doing the bank robberies around the North Shore. I think they also operated in Northern Washington, where my dad was a state cop.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Jasmine.

  “But you weren’t with them during the robberies.”

  Jasmine was silent.

  “And why did the FBI get involved here? They robbed the customers, not the banks. Robbery is a local crime, not a federal one. I thought the FBI would stay out of it.”

  “If they hadn’t got greedy and violent, we might have. But the Bureau had local police forces all over the area clamoring for our help. Finally, because they hit so many banks and were shooting people, we found a judge who gave the FBI a wink and nod to get involved. I think the technical argument was that this gang, though not actually robbing FDIC-insured institutions, was significantly harming banking and commerce.”

  “And then you decided crime pays better than law enforcement.”

  Jasmine peered into the darkness ahead of us, blinking in the continuous spray. “Don’t make this harder than it is, Borden. Get below before Angela comes out here.”

  “You and Stone aren’t married, are you?” I asked. Finally, their relationship was making sense.

  “Your profile said you were brilliant,” said Jasmine in mockery.

  “I have an FBI profile?”

  She shrugged. “Initially, you were part of the investigation. You had the Washington-North Shore connection like the rest of the gang. You met with Richard Holland in Duluth. So, we faked a marriage, and marriage problems, to get in with you and try to get close to Angela as well.”

  So Red Hollis was actually Richard Holland – the brother of the dead member of the gang, Charles Holland, and Angela’s brother as well. That was my final confirmation.

  “You didn’t fake it very well,” I said. “Yours was like no marriage I had ever seen.”<
br />
  She laughed. “And I got in close with Angela anyway.”

  “Too close,” I said bitterly. “Just out of curiosity, when did the FBI know I was in the clear?”

  “The FBI stopped considering you a serious suspect after that night at the bar – that dance.” In the wild darkness I thought I saw her face darken like she was blushing. “We figured no one but a real pastor would react to me like you did.”

  She glanced at the companionway door again. “Get below now. I mean it.”

  I went.

  CHAPTER 3 9

  Angela stood at the bottom of the companionway, with one foot on the first step. I turned and pulled the hatch closed behind me.

  “Thought I’d jumped her?”

  Angela shrugged. “I’m just careful, that’s all.”

  The cabin was blissfully warm after the wild frigid wet of the cockpit. I saw that there was coffee in the pot in the galley. “May I?” I asked. Angela nodded.

  Tony Stone was lying on the port settee, which was now stained with blood. He was propped up so that his chest was higher than his lower body, and someone had rigged a kind of canvas that kept him from falling out of the berth. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at me, and then closed them again. Phil was sitting on the starboard settee at the top outside of the U, with his back to the bulkhead wall of the bow cabin, facing the rear of the boat. Leyla sat across from him, looking forward. Her hands were secured together by plastic cuffs that looked like giant zip-ties.

  “Give me your hands,” said Angela. “Remember, Phil can shoot you before you can disable me and get to him too.”

  I remembered. Angela put a plastic figure eight around my wrists, but kept my hands in front of my body, leaving me free to drink coffee. We must take comfort wherever we can in hard times. She pushed me down next to Leyla, and then slipped into the galley. “Keep your hands on the table where we can see them.”

  “You OK?” I asked Leyla. She nodded tiredly.

  A minute later Angela put a plate of sandwiches in front of us. It slid across the table, and stopped as it came to rest against a little lip built in the table for exactly that reason. The plate slid back and I caught it with my bound hands.

  “Eat,” said Angela. “It’s going to be a long, rough night.”

  I took a bite of a sandwich and chewed for a minute. “Could I get some avocado on mine?” I asked. Angela gave me a long look. “Actually, it’s good just as it is,” I said.

  I began to wonder if I was wrong about their plans to kill us. You don’t bother feeding people you want to kill. Unless, I thought unhappily, you don’t want them to know they will be killed, and you want them to be strong and cooperative enough to sail a boat for you.

  “Rest for a while,” said Angela. “You’ll be back out there soon enough.” This seemed to confirm my fears. I was finally warming up, starting to feel my fingers and toes. I laid my head on my arms and tried to sleep.

  I kept my eyes closed and my breathing regular, but mostly I thought about our predicament and what we might do. As I began to drift off to the rhythm of the waves, I had a thought that startled me awake. It took all my willpower not to sit up. After that, my mind worked furiously, and sleep was simply impossible.

  It seemed like forever before Angela prodded me. “Move,” she said. “Leyla’s turn.”

  I opened my eyes, and carefully sat up. “It’s OK,” I said quietly. “Let her sleep. I’ll go.”

  Angela curled her lip at me. “You think she can’t handle it? Because she’s a woman?”

  “I think she can handle it better than anyone,” I said. “But I care about her, and I want the best for her.”

  Angela regarded me for a few moments. “Look,” I said. “The truth is, I’m not sleeping well. I don’t mind being out there all night. She’ll be safe, which will make me happy, and you’ll have her hostage, which will make you happy. I’d rather be doing something than sitting here thinking about it.”

  “Okay,” said Angela. “Go.” She cut my plastic cuffs.

  I pulled on a life-vest and went. Jasmine was huddled over the wheel, shuddering uncontrollably with cold. Under the circumstances, I decided I did not feel all that sorry for her.

  “I’m on,” I said. “You can get below.”

  Without a word, moving like a zombie, she relinquished the wheel and went down the companionway, closing the door behind her.

  The first blast of spray was awful. It was like putting on a cold, wet swimsuit. Somehow I had forgotten how cold and miserable it was. It took exactly five seconds to remember. In fact, I felt even colder than I had before, after being in the warm cabin for so long.

  The night was black and ugly and violent. The waves still reared up to port, half the height of the mast. They blasted through the defective dodger; they crashed across the deck and into the cockpit, swirling over the tops of my shoes until the scuppers sent the water back where it belonged. The wheel was as recalcitrant as ever, and the cold rain sliced in from the dark, angry sky.

  I risked a quick look over my shoulder. I caught glimpses of wild white-tipped waves, but little else. Holding onto the wheel with one hand, I turned half-way around. A sudden heave sent me sprawling against the stern rail. I scrambled clumsily to my feet and grabbed the wheel again. Checking the GPS, I made a small course adjustment. Then, still holding the wheel, I slipped to the other side of the steering pedestal, holding the wheel backwards, facing the stern. A few seconds later, I saw what I wanted. I breathed in deeply, unsure if I was relieved or terrified.

  Stumbling and slipping, I made my way back to the right side of the wheel. I leaned forward and peered at the GPS again. Then, reaching to my left, I set the autopilot and turned the switch to on. Letting go of the wheel, I watched carefully. We slid down the side of a wave and swung to starboard. The wheel moved, as if guided by invisible hands, and we shifted back to port, holding a steady course. I watched it happen once more, and then swiveled around to face the stern.

  The rope I sought was secured to a cleat on the stern. I knelt down and reached over the wide gunwale and grabbed onto it. Water sloshed over my calves as the remnants of a big wave slid slowly down the scuppers. I pulled and felt the weight of the dinghy we were towing on the other end. It seemed heavy, far too heavy. Even so, I could move it closer, and I did, slowly jerking the rope toward me, hand over hand. I spent a pleasant moment imagining that I was finally hauling in the giant fish of my dreams.

  A few moments later, I could just make it out in the dim light. It was a zodiac-style runabout, with wide pontoons forming its outer shell, the kind made popular by Navy Seal commercials and movies. It rushed down a wave toward the stern of Tiny Dancer. I stopped pulling, and cast about in vain for something to stave it off. Just before the dingy struck, Tiny Dancer lurched up the next wave, and the little runabout fell behind again. I heaved a breath of relief. If the dinghy had struck us, Angela and company would have been on deck in seconds, demanding to know what I was doing, and the slim chance I was clinging to would be irrevocably lost.

  I let the dinghy painter slip back through my hands, and the distance between us increased once more, but there was an emptiness in the pit of my stomach as I realized that my plan could not work as I had conceived it. The dinghy was back at the end of the painter now. I guessed it was maybe forty or fifty feet astern.

  I had only one choice, and if I waited long to consider it, I knew I would lose my courage. I took firm hold of the painter, slid under the aft guard rail, and slipped into the next wave.

  It was like being struck with a heavy blow, all over my body at once. My head was above water, but I couldn’t breathe. My muscles felt like they were moving in slow motion through a vat of molasses. A wave submerged me for a minute, but my life-vest popped me back up a second later. I began to choke and gasp for air. The feeling was rapidly leaving my fingers, and I was afraid of losing the rope through sheer numbness.

  Like a man in a nightmare, I reached out with all the s
peed I could muster – which equaled that of the most advanced geriatric patient in a nursing home – and pulled myself along the rope to the dinghy. Thankfully, the forward motion of the boat helped, so mostly all I had to do was let the rope slide through my hands, but this was made difficult by the numbing cold. I shuddered to think of how I would get back.

  I came to a fork in the rope. Apparently two ropes were attached to the dinghy to keep it tracking well, and to prevent it from twisting or spinning in rough weather. I chose the rope that went to the left, which was actually the starboard side of the little boat.

  Fairly quickly, I met the bow of the dinghy. Too quickly, in fact. It loomed above me in the darkness and I tried to duck, but I reacted so slowly that it still struck me in the back of the head. I held on, stunned for a moment.

  Now I was being towed along with the dinghy, and there was a strong flow of water pushing against me, shoving me against the bow, splashing my face, trying to force me under the runabout. I struggled to turn so that my back was to the Tiny Dancer, and my face out of the water. It seemed like it took a long time, but finally I managed to get the rope under my right armpit and brace my left hand on the gunwale of the dinghy. I paused for a moment, panting. I couldn’t catch my breath – the cold robbed the power from each heave of my lungs.

  I scooted forward, throwing my left arm further over the wide pontoon gunwale of the dinghy. I scrabbled around with my hand, trying to find something to hold onto, but finally I had to settle for bending my elbow with the inside curve of the pontoon and clamping tight with my whole arm.

  I tried to heave myself up and over the gunwale, but halfway through the motion, I knew I wouldn’t make it. I grabbed desperately at the rope with my right hand, and caught it just before the movement of the boat put it beyond my reach. I was holding on, face down in the water.

  Again, I painstakingly worked myself around until I had the painter under my right armpit. I swung my legs up to gain some traction on the side of the dingy, but the bottom was flat, and the pontoons were too high in the water to be of any use for leverage.