“Please get me the hand pump in the locker.”
“What’s it look like?”
“A bicycle pump. On the bottom shelf.”
Heather opened the locker and got it out. On her knees, Brenda hung the hose over the canoe. She began working the handle. Each suck was followed by a sigh.
“What type am I?”
Still pumping, Brenda looked over her shoulder. The type that needs constant reassurance, she thought. But there it was, in the woman’s body language and eyes. After less than seventy-two hours, Heather Reese wanted her approval.
“The kind that makes a big difference in the life of someone with MS,” Brenda said. “The kind that surprises others, including herself. Someone,” she added with mock gravity, “who pees off the sides of boats.”
Heather ignored the joke. “I hope you’re right. I admire her so much. She’s my lifeline, she takes me seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“I’m sure it cuts both ways.”
The sucking sounded different. When she lifted out the pump, Sonny jumped from the transom into the canoe. It bobbed from his weight as the dog looked up at her, ready to go.
“I guess you have company whether you want it or not,” Heather said.
“Okay, sport, here we go—” Brenda untied the rope. She stepped into the canoe, sat, and used the paddle to push off. Heather waved. She waved back, and began to paddle.
Charlie Schmidt rarely remembered his dreams. When he did, they were so uninteresting he always kept them to himself. Dreams about bowling, for Christ’s sake.
Before the cancer, his wife Lillie had dreamed in color. Night-after-night dramas, derring-do escapes and pursuits she recounted the following morning over cereal, always in an offhand manner. She stopped telling them after the diagnosis. Schmidt had supposed life with him must be boring for her—hence, the nightly suspense movie. His life, by his own modest standards, was interesting enough to not require such visits from the unconscious. Or, as he often suspected, he was just too thick to remember them.
But he did dream Sunday night, and woke with traces of himself struggling and slipping high up on a ladder. Then came voices.
He opened his eyes in the curtained darkness. Rohmer was talking to someone, but not to Jerry Rizzo. Gus Gustofson? No, to John Nielson, Lars Nielson’s younger son. It would have to do with local business, or lake conditions. A broken water or power line. Last winter, a moose, a bull with five-foot rack had crossed the frozen lake and lumbered up the Nielsons’ drive. He had browsed his way to the hay bales around the house, used for insulation. Everyone inside had watched as the moose proceeded to kick down the support holding up the Nielsons’ electric power line. The house had gone dark, the moose then shambling off and down to the lake.
It would be something like that, so Schmidt pulled back the covers and snapped on the bedside light. He got his jeans from the chair and pulled them on, then his work shirt.
When he opened the door, Jerry Rizzo was sitting opposite on a kitchen chair, sighting a rifle at him. The Remington. He put a finger to his lips and back on the trigger.
“He don’t wander off, ay?”
“Anyone would be worried,” Rohmer said, at the door. “I wish I could help. Like I say, Charlie’s not here. He spent the night on a houseboat with friends. As soon as he gets back I’ll have him call.”
“Houseboat?”
“Right. With friends. I was with them for dinner, I came back alone with the boat. They’ll be bringing him here sometime this morning.”
Rizzo nodded at this, still aiming at Schmidt’s forehead. Whatever was happening, Schmidt knew calling out would get himself killed, then John Nielson.
“You see my father, ask him to call, ay? He don’t leave like this.”
“I will—and listen, when he comes in, have him call. Charlie will want to know.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Okay, then…”
Seconds passed, boots crossed gravel. The door closed. Keeping the gun on him, Rizzo now motioned for him to come out of the bedroom. Schmidt stepped forward and looked to the front. Rohmer stood before the cafe curtain, looking out the window. He stayed there a full minute.
When he turned, he put his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I had it worked out differently.”
“What are we talking about here, Louis?” Schmidt looked back at the Remington.
“Nothing that concerns you. I mean directly. We’ll be gone soon.”
“What’s with the rifle?”
“He means you don’t have to do nothing,” Rizzo said. “It’s your day off, a man of leisure.”
“Where’s Lars Nielson?”
“Wherever he went. Porking squaws. Cooking up white lightning. You tell me.”
When Schmidt glanced again, Rohmer was looking at his watch. He crossed from the window and moved behind Rizzo, to the coffee table. A laptop rested there, screen up. Rohmer closed it. “We should get started.”
“And Indian Joe?”
He slotted the computer in the soft case and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t like it. Violating the laws of hospitality is not what I had in mind.”
“Because you had something else planned,” Schmidt said.
Rohmer nodded, looking solemn, needing to act out some apology. “That’s right. Something that didn’t require this step.”
“What step is that?”
“Well, I guess, now we’ll have to tie you up. In a way that insures you’ll be found soon, but not too soon.”
Rizzo cradled the rifle and reached under his chair. The toolbox was there. He shoved it in front of him and opened the lid. “Louis means some time before deer season.” He took out a roll of duct tape and flipped it underhand. Rohmer caught it. Rizzo stood and nodded. “Sit, Charlie. Hands in back.”
He thought a moment, the two of them now forming a single unit. They were following some plan that had to be changed. For no reason, this fact convinced him Lars Nielson was dead. Only the touch he now felt, a firm, steady pressure of the rifle’s muzzle at the base of his neck, saved him from bolting.
He sat clumsily in the straight chair and reached his hands behind the back. The tape rasped. It was the most familiar, prosaic of sounds, the kind of thing he dreamed about. Wrist to wrist, the tape was wound round, rasping. It was being worked in circles, up his arm a few inches, and back again, pulling the hair. He could feel his arteries pulsing on the thin inside skin of his wrists, strapped together.
“This will be good.” Standing in front, Rizzo rested the rifle on his shoulder. “Right like this, in the chair.”
Rohmer tore off the tape. “We leave him here, then? Like this?”
“Jesus, Louis. If you violate the man’s hospitality, do it right. No, not here. Too many visitors. We’re going to make Indian Joe into a mummy with this tape. Sitting in his chair, out in his new pole barn.”
He pushed Schmidt’s head down and pulled his bound arms up over the back of the chair. Now he pulled him to his feet. “Bring the chair.” Cradling the rifle, he moved, holding Schmidt’s elbow. At the front door Rizzo looked above the cafe curtain, then opened the door and led him out. “You got his keys?”
Carrying the kitchen chair, Rohmer passed and trotted ahead. At the pole barn, he got out the key ring and began sorting through. He tried one, then another.
“Come on, Louis. Hustle.”
He fumbled another into the big Yale lock, and this one turned. He slid the doors apart, grabbed the chair and stepped inside. Rizzo followed with Schmidt.
“The light is—” He stopped himself. Real good, he thought. Tell them where the switch is, help everybody out.
“The light will be over near the workbench, right?”
Rizzo crossed, pleased with himself, enjoying being in charge. He found the switch and clicked it. Three bulbs came on, strung from a cable looped over roof struts. He stepped to the door and rolled it shut. Facing into the barn, Schmidt now saw Jo
hn Nielson’s pickup, parked where he normally kept his own. Rizzo had found the extra keys last night, to hide the truck. He was surveying the barn, the rifle in the crook of his arm.
“Man, look at all the toys.” He nodded approval. “Very nice, didn’t notice yesterday. Got your SnoCats, your jet skis. A float boat. What’s that, a backhoe? What the fuck you want that for?”
“It’s Nielson’s,” Schmidt said. “Maybe he’ll need it today and come back.”
“Uh huh. Shit, even a tractor. You use that to haul out the dock. I had a service do mine. Snow blower, got your cultivator.” He looked to Schmidt, then up to the struts. Two-by-six headers ran between support poles. “I don’t have the visitor etiquette problem like Louis,” he said, still looking up. “We need to deal with this in greater detail. Have a seat.”
Rohmer brought the chair and Schmidt sat. The floor was dirt. If they were going to let him live, if they left him here alone, even taped he could do something. Dig, make noise. The rain had ended. If Nielson’s son came back, he would hear.
“I see the wheels turning.” Rizzo walked now to the back of the barn, kicking dirt. He stopped next to the truck, before the two snowmobiles. He studied them a moment, reached out and pushed one. Now he stepped to the pair of jet skis and did the same. “These are pretty light.” He pushed again, and the machine rocked. “Yeah, these are better, less solid. Okay, problem solved.”
Louis waited next to the chair. He didn’t know about such things, it was why he’d brought help. Rizzo came back and pulled Schmidt to his feet. He walked him to the jet skis and stopped. “Bring the chair.”
Louis followed with it.
“Okay, sit like before, Charlie. Lean forward—that’s it, arms over the back…. Good. Now, Louis, you shine with the tape. Very nice technique. What I want you to do, I want you to tape Indian Joe, so him and this chair are one thing. Like a mummy. Legs and feet, chest—all around, so he’s really stuck there. Then, we’re going to put Charlie up on these jet skis. Balanced between them. And Charlie will have some rope around his neck. See how it works?”
Rizzo glanced from Rohmer to Schmidt. “You don’t get it?” He shook his head. “This is from Once upon a Time in the West, a classic. Neither of you seen it? Great spaghetti Western. Too long, but a classic. The bad guy, Henry Fonda, makes this kid support his brother on his shoulders. Charles Bronson is the kid. Fonda makes his brother stand on Bronson’s shoulders. All fucking day. And the brother has this noose around his neck—get it? Fall down, you hang your brother.”
Seeing the movie scene in his head, half smiling, Rizzo now remembered where he was. “Okay, maybe you could say a little corny. But a good idea for this situation. See, Charlie, you won’t want to move, sitting on the chair. On these shaky jet skis. But you won’t have nothing like the load Bronson had. You’ll be sitting down. Nothing to do but keep still. Do that, you’ll be back in the hospitality business real soon. Move, or any shit like that, big mistake.”
“I think—”
“Yeah, that’s fine, Louis. You think while you get moving on the tape. Oh, and Louis? Something else. The plane.”
“What about it?”
“You’re waiting for my call, then setting down at Kettle Falls.”
“Of course.”
“It makes me nervous.”
“That’s because you think I won’t show up. I told you, Jerry. I can’t go without you. Leave you, and everyone will know where I am. Crossing you would cut me off. That’s your guarantee.”
“No, Louis. What’s the diff they know where you are? They can’t extradite your ass from Costa Rica. Can’t send Nazi hunters to haul your ass back to Tel Aviv. I think the plane doesn’t leave until I drive Charlie’s boat back here. Then you and me take off together. Say around noon, or a little before.”
Rohmer opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked down at Schmidt. After a moment he raised the roll of tape, and stepped behind the chair.
9:15 A.M.
From his stately, seated position, Sonny turned to look at his galley slave. No doubt Tina talked to him a lot. Paddle suspended, Brenda listened as the sound of her stroke sank in the heavy air. Now it came back from the sheer wall on her right.
“Know what’s going on here?” Still looking over his shoulder, Sonny waited. “I’m practicing. Only one time since summer camp I canoed. I’m rusty. The one time was not a fun experience. This is a training session for Charlie Schmidt. So he won’t think I’m a klutz with a paddle. Do you believe that?”
The dog faced forward. He raised his head to receive the rich olfactory world that galley slaves would never know.
Brenda’s earlier canoe experience dated from the story that had made her briefly famous. Five years earlier, taking off without permission from her TV station, she had gone to Micronesia. Someone from college had died on an atoll, a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sick of her work in tabloid TV, she’d gone out to learn what happened. Desert islands, a tuna trawler that snagged on a reef, two weeks drifting without food. The story had become Blue Sky Six, her one claim to fame.
Your big whistle-blower moment, she thought. Your fifteen minutes. The book had won a Pulitzer. The film rights had been sold, freeing her from television, but the movie would never be made. She’d sunk from sight too soon. A one-trick pony, a flavor-of-the-month. She had felt relieved when her fifteen minutes were over.
Shoulders pleasantly weary, warm now, she raised her binoculars to pull off the yellow rain parka. She folded it, shoved it under her seat, then hung the glasses around her neck and took up the paddle. Again she dug water, fanning the blade to keep straight.
Gray and still, the lake spread beyond the golden retriever’s head.
A mile or more to the south, the opposite shore rose from the lake as a stark Norse landscape. It was uncompromising, beautiful. A lake and landscape with no interest in pleasing anything or anyone. Such an image did not figure in any file footage, or calendar. Cold air met the warmth of Brenda’s face as she shoved forward. Her breath was visible. Only bird calls and her paddle strokes broke the silence.
She remembered Heather’s butt over the side, and smiled. A summer here, away from her house, and maybe Heather Reese could be more free. As they had fished, little bits and pieces had given Brenda clues. A mother who never said or did anything. Who cooked every meal in the basement, to keep the kitchen “clean for visitors.” Little Heather getting a college scholarship, but breaking down and having to take a year off before graduating. This perhaps was why she had said yes to the first man who proposed. It was probably wrong to think she knew so much so soon, but Brenda thought she was close to the truth.
She stroked with the paddle and studied the dark granite wall on her right. It rose like a fortress, sinister in the sunless morning. The temperature had dropped about thirty degrees from yesterday’s high. But the contrast, that was part of the pleasure. The risk. Somewhere behind the islands was Kettle Falls, and all the lake’s slow current was destined, fated to reach it. In the passage of time the water would be drawn there, gaining speed, flowing first under a static pool, until it reached the spillway and dropped to Rainy Lake, in a different country.
Sonny eyed a hawk, tracking its passage overhead. Brenda looked back out at the lake. Freed by the canoe’s motion, she now concentrated on Marion. If they weren’t friends, she might call Marion Ross manipulative. Controlling. It was in her essence, something like the fate of water and Kettle Falls. A gift-curse that was driving away her daughter Carrie. So, she made a promise, gave up her cell phone, and would struggle all week.
On her right, the granite wall now sloped with the gradual curve of land. Brenda stroked with the paddle, following the curve. In the next seconds she cruised past tumbled rock. At some point, water had frozen in small fissures and exploded the stone. A hundred yards farther up, this gave way to sand beach.
Sonny was now on all fours, tail going, ready for shore leave.
“Good idea, let’s take a hike.”
She angled the canoe closer, away from fallen trees in the shallows. Somewhere was the rush of water, hidden. This shoreline would put her on the far side of the houseboat. That was her mission. Climb the hill to see it from above. If it wasn’t too far or steep, she would walk down with Sonny and have some Sarah Lee before coming back for the canoe.
“This is good, don’t you think?”
She back-paddled and came about. Sonny’s tail was still working, the dog turning to her every few seconds. Seeing rippled sand below, she sat far back for maximum leverage and dug deep. The canoe scraped on the sand. Again, the dog looked to her.
“Permission to go ashore, go on—”
He stepped up onto the front seat, composed himself, and jumped. Brenda laid the paddle flat and worked forward. She hopped out and beached the canoe as Sonny nosed his way up the slope. He peed as she pulled on her rain parka, then shambled back.
Tying the hood, she heard a motor. It was familiar to her now. She listened to the uhhuh uhhuh as the hull rose and fell. She judged it a good way off, Charlie Schmidt’s fancy Stratos. She looked at her watch—9:30. He was in a hurry to get the day underway. She liked the idea and thought to wait for him, to wave.
No, that would be needy.
She moved quickly up the beach, into the slope of woods. Rich with spongy pine needles, the ground rose sharply. Ahead, Sonny was tacking left and right, busy now. She began working her way between trunks scaled with lichen. Many felled trees lay like pick-up-sticks, a broken herringbone that made her work. The binoculars thumped her chest.
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 16