Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2)

by Barry Knister

  She straightened the wheel and guided the Lund into shade before turning off the engine. In silence, they began to drift very slowly with the current.

  “What now?” Heather was still gripping the boat.

  “Now we’re going to use that nifty trolling motor.” He had shown them that, too, how to lower it and work the foot pedal. “And you’re going to fish.”

  “It’s gloomy here. Like a dungeon.”

  “Moody, not gloomy. It’s primordial. Peaceful. Come on, Heather, get with the program. Take off the parka, you can’t cast in that. If you’re cold, put on my windbreaker.”

  Brenda moved between the seats and boosted herself up onto the cowling over the bow. Like Charlie’s boat, a raised seat was fitted there, the trolling motor bolted in place. It had a hinge, and she worked it to lower the small plastic prop. In front of the seat was a foot pedal. She sat, placed her boat shoe on the pedal and pressed. A soft hum issued from the motor.

  She looked back at Heather. “See? I work this thing, you fish. Once I get it down, we can both cast.”

  Doubtful, Heather stood slowly, hands half-reaching for the gunwales. She unzipped her parka and laid it carefully on the driver’s seat. After several seconds, she crept to the back and picked up Brenda’s rod. “What now?”

  “Do just like Charlie showed us. Unhook the lure and cast for the base of the wall. Bounce it off the rock, you won’t hurt it.”

  Lomak leaned back in his seat and sighted along his arm as if holding Schmidt’s thirty-ought-six. Schmidt kept his guns in a cedar chest, not a gun safe. Lomak had found them while Schmidt was on the roof. There was the Remington, a twenty-two probably for target practice, and a Browning over-and-under for duck season.

  Bingo. Lomak lowered his arm and watched the doe. Even in a moving boat, he was sure his shot would drop it. The deer stood motionless on the beach, looking at them. Simple as shooting in an arcade, a video game.

  He watched until it bent to drink before facing forward in the boat. He ran a hand over the glossy Stratos’s gunwale. The boat was black, with glitter in the plastic. Like what Doreen put on her face at New Years. It would run at least twenty thousand without the motor. The motor would set you back at least another six. He could see himself in such a boat on the Detroit River, hauling ass under the Belle Isle Bridge. Fuck the Canadian tunnel toll with a boat like this. If Louis had balls, Schmidt said the Stratos would do sixty. They were moving only half that.

  He looked at Rohmer behind the wheel. His back was arched, hand on the throttle, playing big-time hydroplane cowboy. He had on another fancy wool shirt and a vest made of pockets. Ernest fucking Hemingway. He sort of looked like Hemingway, with a hat to go with the pants. Like an ad for Eddie Bauer.

  “I want to drive.”

  “On the way back.” Rohmer didn’t look at him. “Are you keeping track? I’m checking the distance. Here in the channel there’s no problem. Even with the lake down.”

  “I can see the buoys, Louis.”

  “Good. We’ll locate their boat, then I’ll show you the way to Kettle Falls. I researched it, but we should check the wireless hot spot there. Just to be sure, for the Internet connection. Now, tonight, you follow us in the utility. Charlie called them, we’re leaving at five. He wants to eat early and show them Johnson Bay.”

  “Stop the boat.”

  Now, finally, Rohmer looked at him.

  “Go on, stop it.”

  Rohmer throttled back. The bow dropped, and the hull rose in the backwash.

  “I want to run through what we got here.” Lomak smoothed back his hair and closed his eyes. Once stopped, the sun felt good on his face. Get a little color, why not? “You tell me we’re talking four mil in the money market.”

  “Maybe more,” Rohmer said. “They added to it in the last week. They sold the last of their equities and municipal bonds. It’s there, I showed you.”

  “Yeah, you showed me.”

  “Ross needs at least four million for his share of Saxon Services. That’s why he’s in London. He has three partners. The house collateralizes the rest of his share. The only asset Marion wouldn’t let him touch is the trust from her mother’s estate. And college money for the daughter. Everything else is in the account.”

  “You know this from the teenage daughter,” Lomak said. “Real reliable.”

  “Not from her, because of her. I told you all this, several times. They have a DSL line in the house, separate from the phones. The girl’s school has a website, that’s how I made contact. Every time she left the computer on, I checked the Rosses’ spread sheets and finances.”

  It was the same story Rohmer had told last month. And again at Brownie’s, the place with the waitress. Lomak nodded, keeping his eyes closed. With someone like Rohmer, you had to keep track.

  “And how’s all this moolah end up in Costa Rica?”

  “Wire transfer, very simple. The broker will wonder what’s going on, but he has to do what Marion says. We’ll have her send confirmation by the Net. She talks to him using my phone, he gets the confirmation online in his office. We’ll be able to see it happen.”

  “Okay…” Eyes still closed, feeling gently rocked, Jerry folded his arms. “Real good. Now tell me, Louis, why does Ross do this? What makes her make the call?” He waited before looking over. Rohmer was staring at him, red in the face from windburn above the Papa Hemingway beard. “Tell me. What makes her? Say it.”

  “You do.”

  “Exactly, Louis, and don’t forget it. That’s why we’re having this little meet ‘n greet out here, getting some sun.”

  “Going to the Ross house was pointless,” Rohmer said. “Risky.”

  “Yeah, well, you and me are coming from a different place on this. You got a money problem. Me…” Lomak shook his head. “Money alone won’t cut it. I remember the Navy stockade in Manila real well, and I’m not doing any more serious time. That’s what’s called your hard time, Louis. Not just because some cunt lawyer snuffs my happy home. No, I believe justice will be well served when her crib joins that space station they put up.”

  He liked the idea. Eyes closed, Lomak saw what would be left of the Ross house on Monday afternoon, floating in space.

  “We can go now,” he said. “I wanted you and me to have this quality time, so no one forgets who needs who. It’s me she’s going to freak over when we have our defining moment. Way out here, Jerry Lomak. Got on my MichCon shirt for our big date, name on the pocket.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Eyes again closed, Lomak heard Rohmer move in his seat. “Just remember. Anything unnecessary works against us.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Tonight, you follow in the utility. I’ll make sure we all go fishing after dinner. When everyone leaves, you can go on board and check for phones. But give yourself plenty of daylight coming back. First thing tomorrow, we secure Charlie. Then you take the Stratos, and I stay at the house. The other women should make things easy on your end, especially the one in the wheelchair. Marion won’t risk her safety.”

  Secure Charlie, he thought. What an asshole. Lomak said nothing, sunning himself. But now he had a mental picture of Rohmer. It was the same image from yesterday, in the motel room. Rohmer was alone in the plane, in one of the fancy shirts, the plane lifting slowly off the lake.

  “This needs refinement.” He turned slowly for effect. “Why do I see you alone in the plane, and me with my thumb up my ass on a houseboat?”

  Rohmer took off the hat and smoothed his scalp. He looked out over the water and shook his head. “You see it because you don’t trust me. We’re almost done and you see me crossing you. You’re not dumb, and you’re right not to trust me.”

  “Fucking A I don’t.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. This happens in business. People don’t have to be tight where mutual self-interest is involved.”

  Now he turned, smiling, little blue eyes wrinkled up with crow’s feet. Like Doreen’s b
efore she got them done. “But you have insurance,” he said. “So it doesn’t matter. You know what I know. You also know if I left you, you’d have nothing to lose. In fifteen minutes there wouldn’t be an airport in range that didn’t know who I was and what happened. So, here we are, Jerry. Business as usual. In—” He looked at his watch “—less than thirty-six hours, we’ll both be in Costa Rica. Very liberal banking hours. Instead of seeing me alone in the plane and you with your thumb up your ass, what you should try to see is this. You and me, together. At a bank officer’s desk. Both signing for a joint account worth four million and change U.S. We split this account in half, say fuck you to each other, and go our separate ways. This is what you should see.”

  He turned the ignition key and revved the engine.

  “My turn.” Jerry got up and flexed his knees. “You drive like an old lady. Come on, move.”

  “You think it’s all cooking along just fine,” Heather said. “You’re juggling everything, and it’s satisfying, it really is. The kids’ schools and projects give you a sense of being in charge. You’re in the house you wanted, you finally have it the way you want it. People on committees respect your opinions, and things are fine. It’s real, you aren’t lying to yourself.”

  Seated on the bow, Brenda had stopped fishing to listen. Heather didn’t need much coaching to open up, though mini-bottles of vodka in her parka pocket were helping.

  “But it’s only good for so long,” Heather said. “Then, it stops working. For me, it was the girls being gone, and now you find yourself thinking about them all the time. Envying your own children, because they’re off doing God knows what, and you have no say in their lives. Your husband runs himself, who can blame him? How long has he been going out to the garage, to do whatever it is he does?”

  Brenda nodded her best reinforcing nod. The nod had been developed back in her tabloid TV days, to keep crack addicts and scam artists talking during interviews.

  “What I’m saying is, a life like mine makes you lose track of what’s coming next. When it shows up, you’re standing in the kitchen feeling jealous. Your kids, your husband, they’re all moving away. Not out, necessarily, just away from you. You’re standing at your nice new garden window in the kitchen, waving to them as the tide goes out.”

  One advantage to parkas was big pockets. Brenda studied the granite wall, hearing again the small click of another single-serving bottle being opened behind her. Heather had brought courage with her in this form—out the right pocket, down the hatch, into the left.

  “Nothing like that’s going to happen to you or Marion,” she said. “When Carrie goes to college, Mar will pick up where she left off. She won’t miss a beat.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “Oh, she has her problems, I know that. Everyone does.”

  Heather threw another clumsy cast. Pleasantly tired and cool under hanging trees, Brenda was happy just working the trolling motor—down the wall and back, down and back.

  “Why do you think Marion came here?” she asked.

  “Drew won a raffle. Some charity thing. He was going to be in London, so she came instead.”

  “That’s the how, not the why.”

  Brenda angled the trolling tiller, and the boat slowly nosed away from the wall. “She wanted to prove something to Carrie. That she’s not a control freak. She told me she cut back her practice to be with Carrie. Except she turned into some kind of tiger mom. Carrie resents it. Drew saw it, too. She can’t leave the kid alone, it’s no joke. The trouble with being Marion Ross is, she’s got this big brain and too much exposure to the nasty side of human nature. It’s not a happy combination. Not when your kid’s a nice, average girl who plays the flute so-so and just wants to be liked. What you see back there? Marion Ross soaking in a hot tub? Think hydrotherapy.”

  She turned on her seat. Heather was propped next to the motor, limply holding her fishing rod, thinking about it. “I’m doing the same thing with Brian Junior,” She said. “He’s my lifeline, the last one who needs me. I see the day when he won’t. I’m making a mess of it.”

  “The hockey.” Brenda waited for Heather to look at her. “Want to know what I think about that?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Trust me, Heather, I’m a teddy bear. I think that’s your safety valve. You go to every game and scream your lungs out. You drive to Chicago for the Black Hawks and go really ballistic. Brian Senior wonders what the hell’s going on as you’re yelling Kill! Kill! It’s chaos, mayhem. There are no other parents in Chicago, so now you can go nuts over all the cross-checking. The fights. When it’s over, you feel better.”

  Fishing rod loose in her hand, Heather turned away to face the wall. The woman’s shoulders dropped, she looked defeated. No, she looked relieved. All the protests and coaxing before had been theater. Heather had wanted all along to fish and talk this way. Why else fill her pockets with junior-size bottles of Absolut?

  “God, that’s true,” she said.

  “Don’t act like it’s a revelation. I’m no wizard. It’s obvious.”

  “It is to me, sort of. A revelation.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re bright and you know what’s going on. So is Marion. You’re angry, and you’ve painted yourself into a corner.”

  “I don’t want my girls to be like me.”

  “Heather, changing gears is very hard. Believe me, I know. Marion told you some stories about her gonzo journalist friend. You formed an idea. You see me waking up to the sound of the Liberty Bell every morning. Hustling off to another fun episode of Brenda Starr, career journalist. I’m sorry, that’s really simple-minded, and I’m not letting you get away with it. What I saw at your place—all right, it’s too much of a good thing. I wanted to empty the trash basket in the middle of your living room. Something to break the spell.”

  “You should have.”

  “But I envied you, too. I envied what was there along with all the country-cute decoupage. Family is something only fools dismiss. But you need some fun. Some adventure. It doesn’t have to be crazy, just different. I bet Brian Senior’s waiting for a signal.”

  Small in her parka—wanting to be small—Heather looked at her again. “He said something?”

  “Not really. We talked a little out in his shop. With you, it’s hockey. With him, it’s smoking and a table saw. I’m pretty sure he wants to come back inside.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t really know. I just bet he’s tired of it, that’s all. Making doodads out there. Sleighs and Amish gigs. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just not enough.”

  “I have no idea what to do.”

  “It hardly matters. Ski or something. Go bowling. Fish with him for real, instead of just putting up with it. And don’t make him haul you back to shore when you have to pee. We could practice that right now.”

  Brenda slipped off the seat and stepped down into the boat. She moved to the gunwale facing the wall and unbuttoned her jeans.

  “This is silly,” Heather said, watching her.

  “Why silly? I have to go and so do you. Come on.” She worked the zipper and shucked down her jeans and panties. The tails of her flannel shirt hung halfway to her knees. She sat on the gunwale, still warm from the sun. “Come on, get over here, get in line.”

  Heather looked from her, out over the water. “We have no paper.”

  “Don’t make excuses.”

  Still scanning the lake, Heather laid the rod carefully on the transom. She stood, peeled off her parka and dropped it on the seat, then backed to the side of the boat. She sat on the gunwale. Her gray sweatshirt was block-lettered with WORLD’S GREATEST MOM.

  “The pants,” Brenda said. “It’s traditional to take them off.”

  Thinking a moment, she took a breath and began fumbling with the button, still looking out. She shucked her khakis, but kept her panties on. “I feel ridiculous.” Very gingerly, she sat again on the gunwale, eyes on the lake.r />
  “The underpants, Heather. Off.”

  “I’m working up to it.” At last she stood, peeled them down and pulled the sweatshirt between her legs as she straightened. She looked quickly back to the lake, and now sat again carefully.

  “Now we moon the wall and any fish under us.” Brenda gripped the boat, scooted her butt out and got started. Heather was looking at her now, fascinated, amused. She again checked the lake for roving bands of Viking voyeurs. She did as Brenda had, and closed her eyes. A solid gurgle joined Brenda’s, amplified by high granite.

  “So loud.”

  “You’re making a statement.” Over the sound, Brenda heard the faint growl of a motor. She saw Heather had not heard, eyes still closed. The motor stopped. Now Heather eased off the transom. She snatched up her panties and khakis and zipped the pants. Not yet finished herself, Brenda heard the reel, and now the rod flailed violently against the transom.

  “Heather, get it! Grab it!”

  “Oh God—”

  “Set the hook, hurry up—”

  Still not done, Brenda strained to finish as Heather lunged to the rod. It was bouncing on the transom, the line playing out. “Heather!” She grabbed the pole and yanked. “Go on, crank it—”

  The drag ratchet was grinding. She fumbled to hold the rod, the tip arching, flexing. “Oh God, I can’t—”

  “Hold it, keep cranking—” At last Brenda finished. She came off the gunwale and moved between the seats. “That’s it, you’re doing fine—”

  “It’s so alive, it’s so… I can’t do this!”