by Nevada Barr
Near six o’clock, refreshed, her mind clear, she started back.
She was third in line to use the phone at Rock. Sitting on the bench with a redheaded girl of twenty or so and a wide-shouldered natural blonde with jaw-length hair, Anna stared at the occupied phone booth and listened to the desultory conversation of the other women. Most of it centered on the doings of T.O.A.D.s-tourists on a detour-the interpretive rangers’ usually affectionate term for island visitors. One had taken his fiancee down the Minong Trail. They ran out of water, her feet were covered with blisters, her left eye was swollen shut from blackfly bites, the wedding was off. Two boys had wrecked a concession rental on Blake’s Point. The boat looked like a crumpled ball of aluminum foil but, miraculously, the boys were unhurt. There’d been complaints that the Spirogyra, the party boat out of Two Harbors, had people dancing naked on the flying bridge.
The phone booth door opened. “All yours,” came a voice.
“You want to go next, Trixy?” the red-haired girl asked.
“You go ahead,” replied the blonde.
Trixy, the interpreter, Donna Butkus’s friend: had Anna been a terrier, her ears would have pricked up. She waited till the redhead was dialing. “Trixy, isn’t it? I’m Anna Pigeon.” They shook hands in a manly fashion, Anna, as always, feeling slightly ridiculous.
“You’re the North Shore Ranger,” Trixy identified her. She had a slightly fruity voice that could easily slip into a singsong pattern.
Anna admitted that she was and cast about for a comfortable way to bring the subject around to Donna Butkus’s disappearance. “I’m Scotty’s counterpart on the north shore,” she said finally. “You must know Scotty. This is your fifth season at Rock, isn’t it?”
“Sixth,” Trixy said, then added grimly: “I know Scotty.”
Anna took the grimness as a good sign. It invited Pandora to open the gossip box. “You sound a little sour on the subject of Mr. Butkus.” Anna turned the key and the box popped open.
“Scotty Butkus is an asshole,” Trixy said. “I hope he’s not a friend of yours…”
Anna laughed. “I give him a pretty wide berth. Good old boys make me nervous. I’ve met his wife a couple of times though. She seemed pretty straightforward. Haven’t seen her around for a while.”
“Her sister Roberta hurt her back. Donna had to go look after her,” Trixy volunteered.
“Scotty tell you that?” Anna kept her voice neutral but still Trixy reacted with some alarm.
“Yes. He did. Said Donna had to leave in a rush. Why? Have you heard something to the contrary?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Roberta’s back,” Anna said carefully. “She’s a good friend of my housemate in Houghton.”
“What an asshole!” Trixy snapped.
“I assume you mean Scotty. What did he do-besides lie to you?”
“Oh, he and Donna had a big fight. He knocked her around some. Not that that was all that unusual. But Donna came over crying. She had a big shiner and a split lip. That was unusual. Usually he’d hit her where she’d be embarrassed to show anybody the bruises. Scotty was drunk. Mega-asshole.”
“Did she say she was going anywhere?”
“No. She was going back to Scotty. She can put up with a lot. I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not. Scotty is killing her. He does that pedestal thing: In public he brags about her in front of her like she’s this thing he won. Then when they’re alone he picks and undercuts till she doesn’t know if she’s a princess or a prick-tease. I guess he didn’t start smacking her till fairly recently. A couple months. Donna covers for him. She’s everything a good South Texas wife is supposed to be: supportive, warm, covers up his flaws, takes his abuse, and still looks pretty.”
“Like a handwoven Navajo rug,” Anna said.
“You got it.”
The phone booth door opened. The redhead stepped out. As Trixy rose to make her call, Anna asked one last question. “Did you see Donna after that night? The night they had the fight?”
“Nope. I had to go do an evening program. She was pretty upset. I gave her some ice for her eye. Dave said he’d walk her home. That was it.”
Trixy’s call was short. The redhead waited with Anna on the bench; then the two interpreters left together. Anna shut herself up in the booth and dialed New York. After innumerable clicks and whirs-the sound of her paycheck going down the drain-a machine answered. “Nobody’s here. Leave a message,” was the command. Anna waited for the beep.
“It’s me,” she said. “Are you lying doggo?”
A click and a fumble. “ ‘Lying doggo’?” Molly said. “Is that a law enforcement term: ‘The perpetrators were found in Macy’s lingerie department lying doggo’?”
“I’m backsliding. They don’t have a support group in Houghton for women suffering from colloquialisms.” The familiar hush, the sigh of air. Anna hated it. “Can’t you talk on the phone without a cigarette?”
“Can’t. Hipbone connected to the thighbone-it’s like that with cigarettes and phones. Oral fixation, premature potty training, early childhood trauma, can’t help myself. How did the corpse dive go?”
Anna told her, glad to be able to drag out all her fears and panics, expose them to Molly’s harsh, reasoning mind.
She told her sister of the corpse’s half life, the bubbles and the floating hands, the porthole vandalism, about Donna, about Scotty.
“What an asshole!” was Dr. Pigeon’s concurring diagnosis.
“Do you think he could’ve killed her?” Anna asked.
“Sure. Emergency rooms are full of battered wives. Some die. I see the rich ones who live. They come to me to find out what’s wrong with them, why they keep making a good man act so bad. That’s not saying this Butkus individual did kill his wife. He may just be a batterer and an asshole.”
“Donna’s not the type to press charges and there’s no law against assholery,” Anna said.
“If it weren’t so profitable for psychiatrists, I’d lobby for one.”
“How about eating the body?” Anna asked.
“The old Hannibal Lecter thing? Cannibalism? Pretty unlikely. It’s a very rare form of psychosis. Very rare. And even the loonies don’t eat the bones and hair and eyeballs and fingernails. They have their favorite cuts. Usually something visceral-heart, liver. Like Dracula’s Renfield, they’re often trying in some way to gather life or power from the victim and into themselves.”
“What if he wasn’t psychotic? What if he just ate her to dispose of the corpse?”
“Anna, you’ve been out in the woods too long. If he ate her, for whatever reason, doesn’t that seem a teensy-weensy bit psycho to you?”
“I guess,” Anna conceded.
“I guess,” Molly confirmed.
Anna listened to a second cigarette being lit. Molly was going to die first, leave Anna to flounder through life without a guide. Half a dozen cancer-related remarks danced on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t give them voice. It would only elicit remarks in kind about cirrhosis of the liver. Who was going to die first was an old argument, one neither of them wanted to win.
“I don’t suppose you’d come visit me?” Anna asked. “I’d get you a room with an ashtray and a flush toilet.”
“From the sound of things, I could hang out my shingle there and do a pretty good business.”
“Not at a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. You make more between coffee breaks than the average ranger takes home in a week.”
“Jesus! No wonder you eat your spouses. Not psychosis: lunch. With just enough salary left over to buy a decent table wine. Speaking of which, remember my ten o’clock? The gourmet with vintage envy?”
“I remember.”
“He’s taken a turn for the worse.” Molly laughed. “Another reason I can’t come to Wherever right now. He’s developed a fashion disorder. He’s taken to wearing canary-yellow suspenders with his Armani suits. Buttons them right over a belt of some no doubt endangered reptile.”
/>
“Here in Wherever we’d call him careful, not crazy.”
“You’re forgetting motive, Anna. You of all people. He’s smug about it. He’s doing it in the belief it will infuriate his rival. He’s so pleased with this deviltry he won’t tell me how this particular brand of revenge is supposed to wreak its havoc. Maybe he’ll start a new trend.”
Anna laughed. “Remind me to tell you about Frederick Stanton, next time,” she said, thinking of his Joe-Friday-goes-Hawaiian outfit. “I gotta go. The line is forming to the left.” Two shadows had come to darken the waiting bench outside the phone booth.
“Ciao,” Molly said. “Or is it ‘Happy trails’? Stay off the menu.”
Before the line went dead, Anna just had time to squeeze in, “Okay, bye.”
Lest her sister should precede her through the pearly gates by too great a margin, Anna decided to work on her cirrhosis. Instead of a glass, she bought a bottle. Ordinarily Patience sold only house wine and only by the glass. For Anna she’d found a bottle of Graves Villages, 1984. At eighteen dollars Anna guessed she was getting it at cost.
The sharp flinty taste was a perfect accompaniment to the night. Out on the patio behind the lodge, the air was full of moisture and lay on her skin like damp velvet.
She relaxed into the Adirondack-style lounge chair, enjoying the gentle bite of the wooden slats across her back and thighs. Taking a sip of the Graves, she held it in her mouth, letting her tongue savor the taste, her body anticipate the alcohol. Onto the mysteries of the night, Anna projected the petty mysteries of the days, listing them for herself in no particular order.
Number one: Denny Castle, dead, one hundred and ninety-five feet below the lake’s surface, dressed in a costume that was supposed to be in a trunk in his mother’s attic.
Frederick Stanton believed the death was drug-related. Profiles indicated traffic between the U.S. and Canada. Profiles indicated the 3rd Sister as a red-hot possibility. And she was the only concession working the island that week with known dive capabilities. If Stanton could get a case up, the 3rd Sister would be impounded. The Bradshaws would be out of a living and, more to the point, out of a life. Diving was all they had, all they cared about.
Number two: Mrs. Scotty Butkus had vanished, beaten certainly, and, if Tinker and Damien were right, consumed as if by a Windigo, the cannibalistic demon said to haunt the north woods.
Number three: Tinker and Damien now had a mystery all their own. Who was threatening them? What happened in 1978 to, in, or because of “Hopkins”?
Four: Why had Jim Tattinger been running without lights near the Kamloops wreck forty-eight hours before the body was scheduled to be brought up?
And five-or was she already to six? What was Denny to Holly, and why was it so laughable to Hawk that there could be a romance there?
Why was Molly’s client wearing suspenders and a belt? More to the point, how was Hawk Bradshaw in bed?
Anna laughed. The wine was kicking in. In the close darkness, she smiled over her list. Some of the mysteries were going to be a whole lot more fun to solve than others.
A clatter of footsteps broke into her thoughts. Invisible in the shadowless dark, she lay still. The clatter ended in a flop. A pale shape dumped itself on the wooden step a couple of yards from Anna. The shape was fidgety. Anna could hear the scuffling, plucking sounds as of restless fingers and feet fiddling about. The breathing was slightly adenoidal.
“Evening, Carrie Ann.” There was a satisfying squawk from the girl. “Sorry if I startled you,” Anna lied mildly. “Out to enjoy the evening?”
“Not hardly.” Carrie, at thirteen, had already mastered the art of adolescent sullenness. Two words, and the night, the stars, the glittering lake, were dismissed as entertainments for the aged.
“Ah.” Anna wished the child would sulk and flop back to where she’d come from.
Carrie squirmed, a shush of denimed buttocks over the wood. “Mom send you out here to keep an eye on me?”
“I was here first,” Anna replied, repressing the urge to add: “You silly little shit.”
Mystery number seven-or was it eight? Who was Carrie Ann’s boyfriend, and, outside a small circle of friends, who the fuck cared? The wine was very much in control. Anna noticed her vocabulary deteriorating. Till she’d moved in with Christina, she’d never given it a thought except at her mother-in-law’s dinner table. Christina’d never said anything, but the first time Alison had announced that Jimmy Fulton was a fuckhead, one perfectly shaped brown eyebrow had been raised in Anna’s direction. Since then she had weeded the four-letter words from her conversations.
Anna knocked back the last swallow of the Graves as if it were a shot of vodka and refilled her glass. “Why would Patience want me to keep an eye on you? Are you harassing the wildlife, camping out of bounds, running a white slave trade, what?”
“Nothing,” Carrie grumbled. “Mom thinks I’m a baby.”
Anna forbore comment.
With the teenager’s paranoid ear, Carrie heard the implied agreement. “I’m not. I’m thirteen. Juliet Whatsername was married when she was thirteen.”
“And dead at thirteen and a half. Careful of your allusions.”
“Mom grew up in the sixties. She probably slept with every guy in Santa Cruz. Now it’s like sex has been recalled or something. Like a Pinto. Rear-ended once and it blows up.”
Anna laughed. Carrie didn’t join her. The sentence hadn’t been meant as a joke. “There’s AIDS,” Anna offered.
“Oh. Yeah. Like everybody’s got AIDS,” Carrie sneered. “Can I have some of that wine?”
“Nope.”
“You drink too much.”
Anna was glad she had never had children.
Carrie began scooting over to where Anna sat. Anna hoped she would get splinters in her butt, but the gods were not with her and Carrie arrived unharmed. She snatched up the Graves from where Anna had it sitting on the deck and held it close to her face. “Graves. Mom’s giving you the good stuff,” she said.
Anna guessed she’d already picked up more about wines than most adults would ever know. “I’m impressed,” she admitted.
“Mom likes to pretend she’s cosmopolitan.” Carrie shrugged off the compliment she’d worked so hard for. “I’ve been drinking wine since I was five.”
“Watered?” Anna needled.
“I guess,” Carrie replied indifferently. “You ought to ask her for some of her secret stash. But you can’t guzzle it.”
Anna was growing tired of the company. Not wanting to relinquish her corner of the night, she chose silence hoping Carrie would grow bored and go away.
“Carrie!” came a call.
“Oh God,” the girl groaned. “Mom.” She lumbered off.
Whether to or from the voice, Anna didn’t care. Just so long as it was away from her.
“Carrie!”
Evidently Carrie Ann had run from, not to. Short staccato steps announced the arrival of high-heeled pumps on the wooden deck. A faint scent of perfume invaded the clean night air as Patience came round the bulge of thimbleberry branches. A flashlight raked across Anna’s face and she winced.
“Sorry,” Patience said curtly. “Have you seen Carrie? I’m going to strangle her.”
“In that case, yes I have. She went thataway.” Anna waved into the darkness back the way Patience had come.
“She must’ve slipped off the edge of the deck and run around through the bushes. Little beast.” Patience sighed, clicked off the flashlight, and sat down on the step. “I’m damned if I’m going to go running after her. She’ll come home eventually.”
“You can strangle her then,” Anna suggested.
“Don’t think I won’t.”
“I encourage it,” Anna said, inadvertently awakening the protective maternal instincts.
“Carrie Ann is not like she is,” Patience defended her offspring. “She was always a biddable child. Who thought she’d go through the terrible twos eleven years later t
han most children? It’s this damn boyfriend. If I knew who he was I’d have him off this island in a second. I don’t know why Carrie is being such a little ass about it. Why she doesn’t just let me meet the boy. I’m such a monster? She’s old enough to have a date. It’s this sneaking that’s got me so crazy. What’s the big deal about this boy? We haven’t any coloreds working up here this summer.”
“Coloreds.” Anna hadn’t heard that term in a long time. If Patience wanted to nurture a cosmopolitan image she would have to update her bigotries.
“What else could generate all this creeping around and lying?” Patience asked.
Anna could think of a dozen answers. Not feeling particularly soothing at the moment, she began to list them: “Married man, convicted felon, illegal alien, older man, older woman, drug dealer, alcoholic-”
“Enough!” Patience cried. “I feel better already just talking with you.” She laughed. “Any Graves left?”
“A glass or two.” Anna handed the bottle to Patience.
“I never do this.” A white flutter blurred the darkness. She took a swig from the bottle, then neatly wiped the mouth clean with her hankie.
“Keep it,” Anna offered. “I owe you a drink for procuring good wines. A touch of class. Helps maintain our civilized veneer in the wilderness.”
“Damn Carrie.” Patience returned to her former theme. “You’d think she’d…” She seemed to be mentally listing things any sensible person would do under like circumstances and rejecting the possibility that her daughter would do likewise. “Damn, damn, damn, double damn, hell!” she fumed and Anna laughed.
“Why don’t we go look for her?” Anna suggested. “We won’t find her unless she wants to be found, but it’ll give you something to do. Nothing personal, but you’re not your usual scintillating self.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Again Patience sighed. She pushed herself to her feet and flicked on the flashlight. The beam caught the swirl of her skirt. Flame-orange silk; it moved like a vapor in the still air. Dainty flame-colored suede shoes burned against the dark wood of the deck.