“Well, there is a little more. To humor him I went over and checked the truck. The blade on the snowplow had some of the rust scraped off it in a couple of places like it might have been used to push something. I pointed this out to him and asked him if he had used the truck to push anything. He couldn’t explain it; said all he had done is move the truck a few yards. I had the truck checked for fingerprints and the blade checked for traces of chrome and paint.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing, the truck was clean, only his prints. And the blade didn’t yield anything, although the deputy agreed with me that it had recently done some pretty hard bumping. But the truck might have been used the night Grimstock died.”
“Might have?” asked Marc.
“Well, he’s a real old-timer. I went to see him the day he called. He knew the truck had been moved, but he didn’t know when it might have happened.”
“So how do you tie this to Prudence?” Lisa pressed.
“Well, as you would say, Lisa, this is another ‘long reach.’ Remember the bartender at the Last Chance said one of the unusual things about that evening was that Grimstock got a phone call? What if Prudence was able to lure Grimstock out to a place where she knew she could run him off the road and make it look like an accident. It’s about ten miles from where the truck might have been stolen, and it is clearly not on Grimstock’s usual path to his cottage.”
“You’re right, it’s a hell of a long reach. You’ve got so many ‘ifs’ and ‘ands.’ And you don’t even know if Prudence was in the area when these deaths occurred. And you don’t even know if these men were involved,” Lisa reiterated with obvious irritation. “What are you going to do now?”
“I thought I might take a walk into the Kagan place and see if she is there. See if I could talk to her and find out anything.”
“Oh, Ray.” said Lisa. “Let’s, as my lit professors used to say, ‘suspend disbelief.’ Let’s say these were the men involved, and she’s clever enough to get them to the right place so she can wreak her revenge and make it look like an accident. Is it likely that a woman who is clever and resourceful enough to get away with crimes would greet you with open arms and tell all?”
“Well, what else can I do? I don’t have enough information to bring her in. What would you do?”
“Probably nothing,” said Lisa. “If I knew for sure that these men were the bastards who raped her, I would just wipe the slate clean and say that justice had been done.”
“Come on, Lisa, you know that I can’t do that. If there is a reasonable suspicion of wrong doing, I have to investigate.”
“So when are you going to see her, tomorrow?” asked Lisa.
“Have to go to Lansing tomorrow for a meeting. I’ll probably go the next day.”
“Where, exactly is the Kagan place?” she asked.
“It’s on the Otter River about three or four miles before it dumps into Lake Michigan. It’s got the National Park on the north side, and the rest of the area is surrounded by state forest. It’s probably the only place around here that can still be said to be remote. The cabin sits on the only high ground in that part of the cedar swamp. If you’ve got a survey map, I can show you.”
Marc disappeared into the cottage and soon returned with a Geological Survey Map of the area. They spread it out on the table.
“Okay, let me get oriented here,” said Ray running his hand along the shoreline until he found the Otter River. Then he traced the way back from the river. “Look, this is where the river crosses County 663. From this point it’s all swamp until about a half mile before it empties into Lake Michigan. See this little dot? That’s where the cabin is located.”
“The map shows a road,” Marc pointed.
“Not any more, map’s about thirty years out of date. See the bridge here? That was washed out years ago. Most of the road along here was washed away too.”
“When was the last time you were in there?” asked Lisa.
“About three or four years ago. A group of aging hippies were in there squatting and growing a little hemp. A public spirited citizen saw the stuff and turned them in.”
“Big operation?” asked Marc.
“Yeah, big. They had about a dozen of the scrawniest plants you’ve ever seen growing in coffee cans. Just a little home-grown for their own use, not a cash crop.”
“How did they get spotted—if it’s as isolated as you say?” asked Lisa.
“Its relative isolation makes it a favorite poaching site for some of the locals. They wanted us to get these people out of there.”
“Poaching. What are they poaching?” asked Lisa
“Deer—they live on venison most of the year long. It’s no big thing. These people are poor, and they need the meat. And, like the Indians, they only kill what they need, and they use it all.”
“Don’t you prosecute them?” asked Lisa.
“We try not to notice that it’s happening; the people involved are really bad off.”
“And when you catch a downstater with fresh venison out of season?” Lisa looked at Ray with a knowing smile.
“We prosecute their ass to the full extent of the law.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lisa, “how is it that poaching is all right, but having a few pot plants is not?”
“Can’t say that I can explain it. We have a group that thinks marijuana is the heart of all evil. They’re a bit less critical of poaching, incest, and other minor sins. And the people they turned in were outsiders. Listen, I’ve got to be going…”
“When are you leaving for Lansing?” Lisa asked.
“Before six. It’s a 9:00 meeting.”
“Will you be back in time for dinner?”
“I should be, the meetings usually are over by mid afternoon.”
“Then I’ll make dinner,” said Lisa. “No goat cheese, I’ll fry some trout. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great.”
“Let’s make it about seven; it will give you some extra time if you need it.”
41
Lisa laid the survey map across the hood and looked off into the valley trying to relate the features on the map to the heavily wooded land that stretched before her. Instead of trying to find a way through the swamp on the south side of the river, she had decided to follow a ridge line on the north and drop down to the river about a mile above the Kagan cabin. She pulled on a long sleeved shirt—a soft, blue cotton work shirt that she had expropriated from Marc—to help protect her from mosquitoes. Then she sprayed her hair, hands, neck, and legs with repellent. She opened the trunk of her car. She carefully loaded a pair of waders, a reel, a fishing vest and a four-piece pack rod into a large nylon backpack. Adjusting her pack, she started up the old fire road along the ridge.
Even in the late morning, the air was still heavy with mist. The forest stretched below in muted greens. Lisa could tell the path of the river by the pattern in the treetops, but the water remained hidden from view in the dark cedar below. After reaching the point where the ridge turned north, Lisa oriented the map with a compass and visually traced a route to the river. As she started her descent, she found a trail leading through the scrub oak down into the cedar swamp. It was cool and quiet in the swamp. The cedar overhead was dense, and the forest floor was dark and almost without other vegetation. The trail led to the water’s edge and there were deer prints in the mud.
Lisa assembled her pack rod and pulled on her waders. She folded the nylon pack and zipped it into the back of her vest. She stood and watched the stream. She could see a few small trout feeding on some tiny, gray mayflies. Damselflies, electrical blue, hovered over the water. She opened her fly box and pulled a Hairwing Coachman from the foam backing; she remembered it was her grandfather’s favorite when there was not an active hatch.
Lisa entered the river carefully, trying to avoid the soft mud at the edge of the stream. Once she had her footing on the sand, she started to wade downstream, casting in front of her. Several tim
es her fly caught an overhanging tree on her back cast, but each time she was able to pull it from the tree without breaking the leader. Her progress down the stream was very slow. She moved forward with great care. She didn’t like the heavy shade of the swamp. She couldn’t see the holes in the dark water. She didn’t like wading in deep, fast water.
The fish came out of the water as it took the fly. It ran for a few moments, then the line went slack. She thought she had lost it, but as she started to reel in she realized that she still had it. The brookie was just legal, the size she usually threw back, but she decided to keep it—a stage prop appropriate to her role. She worked the same area of the stream, a cut in front of a mostlysubmerged cedar, part of its trunk and roots still on the shore. In a few minutes she took three more trout and then started wading down the stream again.
The stream narrowed and deepened, cedar from both shores arched, tent-like, above. Lisa worked her way forward in the fast current, carefully checking her footing as she moved. Finally, the stream opened and there was a small clearing to the left. She could just see the cabin. She moved to get a better view. She felt it suddenly start to get deeper. She tried to move back, but the current pushed her forward. The water surged over the top of her waders. A tightly cinched belt at the waist on the outside of the waders kept them from filling, but she could feel a trickle of cold water runningdown the narrow of her back. She took several more steps trying to get out of the hole, but each time only managed to get in deeper. Finally, she let the waders with their trapped pockets of air float, and she paddled to the far shore on her back.
Lisa climbed the bank and found the remnants of an old deck-like structure. She pulled the suspenders off her shoulders and slipped out of the wet boots. She secured the waders upside down on a tree with a belt and laid out her shirt and socks on the decking to dry.
Lisa sat facing the stream. The sun was hot on her back, but she felt uncomfortable in her wet clothes. She was actually startled when she heard someone approaching behind her. She turned to see a woman looking down at her.
“Hi,” Lisa offered meekly. “I’ve had a bit of an accident. I hope I’m not trespassing.”
At first the woman looked frightened. Then she gave Lisa a thin smile. “You gave me a bit of a start, I’m not used to finding anyone here. Are you cold, do you need dry clothes?”
“I’m not cold, but these are uncomfortable,” Lisa responded.
“Come on up to the cabin, I’m sure some of my things will fit you.”
As Lisa followed, she asked, “Do you live here?”
“Live here, no. I inherited the place this spring, and I thought I would come back and spend part of the summer here. I grew up around here, but I haven’t been back for years. I live in Arizona. I’m Prudence,” she said stopping and looking back.
Lisa offered her hand, “Lisa Alworth,” she responded.
The cabin, a small building of cedar logs, sat on some high ground just off of the stream. Lisa followed Prudence. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark interior, illuminated only by the light coming in through small windows. The interior consisted of one sparsely furnished room. An old wood stove and a sink stood along one wall. A small pump was mounted at the side of the sink, standing on a long pipe that disappeared through the floor. Near the opposite wall were a bed and an old dresser. A large backpack hung on a peg near the bed. A round table with three chairs stood in the middle of the room, a kerosene lamp at its center. Lisa noted the wild flowers laid out on the table and the copy of Field Guide to Michigan Plants and Flowers.
“How about a sweat shirt and dry shorts?” Prudence offered as she opened the dresser.
“That would be wonderful,” Lisa responded. She stripped off her wet clothes and put on the dry ones.
“Thank you, that feels a lot better. I haven’t gone over the top of my waders in years. I just started to slip into a hole, and I couldn’t get back; the current was too strong. Are you here alone?” Lisa asked.
“Yes, I had only planned on being here a few weeks, but it took a bit longer than I expected to settle the estate. I didn’t think I would like being here, but I have really enjoyed it.”
“I see you’re collecting flowers,” said Lisa.
“My mother used to collect wild flowers. She knew all the names, both common and scientific. She died when I was in my early teens. Somehow collecting and identifying these flowers has put me in contact with her. You know what I mean?”
Lisa nodded.
49
Darkness was slow in coming. And although northern Michigan is hardly the land of the midnight sun, it was well after ten before the last traces of daylight disappeared below the western horizon. Marc and Ray had been waiting for Lisa’s return for more than four hours. At first, comments and concerns about her late return were mixed in with other conversation, but as the evening progressed, what wasn’t said carried more meaning then what was. Finally, they heard what they hoped was Lisa’s car coming down the two-track.
Marc greeted her with obvious anxiety. “Where were you?” Lisa opened the trunk, “Help me with the groceries, and I’ll tell you about it.”
They each carried a bag into the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you call? I was worried as hell. I thought you’d be back from town by late afternoon.”
“I didn’t go to town. I went fishing.”
“And where did you go fishing,” asked Ray with a knowing tone. “Let me guess, you went fishing on the Otter?”
“You’re so clever, Ray. And you’re also right about Prudence being there. Sorry I’m late, but I spent more time with her than I thought I would. She’s a very interesting woman. I liked her a lot.” “So what happened?” asked Marc.
“It took me a long time to get there. It’s a hard river to wade, narrow, fast and full of deep holes. I had just spotted the cabin when I slipped into a hole. I had to lay back and let my waders float. I got drenched to the skin. I was trying to dry off when she found me. I think I scared her.” Lisa paused, “I’d really like a glass of wine.”
“Then what happened?” pressed Ray. Marc poured a glass of wine.
“She invited me in, gave me some dry clothes, and helped me hang mine in the sun. Then we made lunch.” Lisa sounded very relaxed and casual.
“Lunch,” said Ray with skepticism in his voice.
“Lunch,” she repeated. “I had caught four little rainbows. She fried them in corn meal with some wild mushrooms and leeks. We went out and picked the mushrooms and leeks. She knows a lot about wild plants. And we had some wild raspberries for dessert. That and a bottle of Margeaux.”
“Margeaux!” exclaimed Ray.
“Margeaux. She apologized that that was the only bottle she had, and she hoped it wouldn’t overpower the trout. After lunch we sat in the sun near the stream and talked.”
“You made lunch, drank wine, and talked?” asked Ray.
“Essentially, she said that she had come back to settle her father’s estate. Then she showed me the wild flowers she had been collecting and told me about her mother. Her mother died when she was in her early teens, I think thirteen or fourteen. Prudence said she used to collect the wild flowers with her mother, but hadn’t done so since her mother died.
“She said that initially she had only planned to stay a few weeks, but collecting the flowers and living in the cabin brought back a lot of good memories, memories of her mother and memories of good times she had forgotten about. Then she told me about the recent loss of her daughter and how she fell apart after. She didn’t elaborate too much, but said she had some abuse problems she had to overcome. She said she felt living in the woods had helped her to regain her equilibrium.”
“Did she tell you how her daughter died?” asked Ray.
“No, just that she had died. I asked her if she was afraid, living in such an isolated place. She said that she lived there as a child and was never afraid. I asked her if she had a gun or anything to defend herself with. She s
aid she hated guns and wouldn’t have one.”
“Then what happened?” queried Marc.
“We washed the dishes, we walked through the swamp, she identified plants and mushrooms for me, and we sat in the sun and talked some more. She is very solid. I liked her a lot. Then she asked me if there was a decent beauty shop around.”
“Beauty shop?”
“Beauty shop. She had been camping out for five or six weeks and was desperately in need of a haircut…”
“And,” said Ray motioning for her to complete her story.
“She hiked out with me, and I drove her to the Third Wave. Fortunately, they were able to squeeze us in. I got a shampoo, too. I had that damn river water in my hair. From there we went over to the laundromat, and she did her washing. Then I took her to the airport.”
“Airport,” exclaimed Ray.
“Yes, she called from the Third Wave. She was able to get the 9:00 connector to Chicago and a flight to Phoenix. I was really sorry to see her leave. She’s the kind of person I would like to have as a friend. If I’m going to stay up here, I have to find some friends like her.”
Marc got a bottle of Scotch and three glasses from the cupboard. He poured three drinks, setting one in front of Ray.
“You look tired, Ray,” he said.
“I am. Real tired.”
50
John Tyrrell was pulling on a large cigar when Ray entered John’s office.
“Have a seat, Ray,” offered John, gesturing in the direction of two overstuffed chairs that faced the front of his desk. What do you have for me?”
Ray pulled a plastic envelope out of his shirt pocket, leaned forward, and tossed the envelope on the desk. Tyrrell picked up the envelope and looked at the contents.
“What’s this, looks like a bullet?” “You asked what I had; that’s it.” Ray didn’t say anything more.
“I don’t quite get your meaning.”
“That’s all I’ve got, one 30.06 slug. We know it was fired from a Winchester Model 70. We don’t have the gun.”
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