Nothing looked familiar to Brenda. Coming back last night, suddenly the islands had been there, static and ghostly in the dark. Something was flapping on her right. She looked and saw his left pant leg split up the seam. His leg was exposed, white above the knee. She saw his calf was hairless, thin blue veins disappearing into his shoe. The shoe itself was clumsy-looking, splattered with paint. On his way to sixty, that was easy to forget with him. Until you saw a hairless calf with veins.
Holding to the windshield, she looked up at his remaining eyebrow. Below his jacket, a strip of duct tape flapped from his shirt. He had been bound, held somewhere. There was no plan he was part of. Not then, not now.
“It has to do with money!” she yelled.
Charlie nodded, but didn’t look at her.
“The one who took Marion and Heather…There was a trial!” He shook his head and leaned. “A Trial! It’s someone Marion sent to jail!”
He nodded and straightened, looking out. “I see now why…brought him. He’s…gofer.”
“Can’t hear!”
“The Gofer! The flunky! Louis set this up!”
The boat hit a swell and slammed her down. Gripping the windshield, she saw Louis Rohmer’s pink face at dinner. Lively, intelligent eyes, bald head, the beard. His college sweetheart was going fishing where Charlie Schmidt had a house, in Northern Minnesota.
She felt him touch her shoulder. Brenda looked up, and he leaned. “They were playing around with a laptop computer. At my house. That’s part of it. Marion said her husband’s in England.”
“All week.”
“The husband’s doing some deal?”
“Setting it up. His son’s with him.”
Charlie nodded. “Husband out of the country. The son. Daughter with a friend. He knew all about it.”
“Then he calls you.”
Charlie said nothing and straightened. Seeing he felt blame, she looked away. Hey Louis, how’s by you? Fishing? Why not? That’s how it had been, easy-touch Charlie Schmidt, the good-guy widower with an empty house and no plans. For the first time it registered with her—Rohmer’s dead. Again she focused on the rifle in the bow. He had not said how it happened.
Brenda glanced down again at his leg. She watched the hard, solid calf muscle flexing against the boat’s motion. The idea threatened her, that he had killed someone. Not because she feared him, but because of what it would mean for them. It changed something. It put him on the other side of a line she mustn’t cross.
He slowed as they neared the islands. As she had last night, Brenda crept forward to look for rocks. She looked down. Under a gray morning sky, the water gave back nothing. Twice the hull tapped something. As they passed slowly between the islands, limp trees jutted from granite walls.
“There!”
His voice came loud, it startled her. She turned, seeing him looking up, and raised her head in time to see broad wings. They sailed overhead, silent, motionless. That was the word for it, sailing. Floating. She had never seen an eagle, but knew that was what now disappeared behind trees.
When Brenda looked at him he was already back to business. He had wanted her to see it. It was important to him, even now.
She faced forward with selfish regret. On a normal day, he’d be telling her all about it. They’d be tying up and walking to see the nest. Carefully, from a distance. He’d be telling her things about eagles, how they raised their young, helping her love this place. Wanting her to. Focused once more on the black-brown water, she felt a rush of resentment for all men, how they made things interesting, how they got your attention, got you thinking with them, then ruined it with games and toys, ambition, all their damned technique.
The sound of the motor rose as they again passed out into open water. Brenda crept back to her seat and held on. Very soon, she could see the flat line of the spillway, the broad, smooth broken O that formed the pool before Kettle Falls. Just above the waterline, the dock ran out into the bay. Again the motor slowed. The boat rose on the backwash and settled. She looked at him, at the hairless eyebrow, wanting now to ask about it.
“Get me the rifle.”
“Why stop? What for?”
“To see what we have. Just hand it to me.”
She glanced at it and saw the scope sight. One minute she liked him for eagles, in the next she thought he wanted to shoot someone. Brenda again crouched forward and came back with the rifle. He raised it and sighted at something. After several seconds, he said, “I see Marion, that’s all. The boat’s tied up.”
“Is she all right?”
He waited for Brenda to stand, then handed her the rifle. She raised it, bracing elbow against chest as he had done. The eyepiece held a bright, jittery disk. She trained it on the shore, found the dock, and followed it out slowly. Marion sat alone, small in her Hudson’s Bay coat. She was seated in profile, facing away on a bench, hands between her knees.
“He took Heather somewhere.”
“No, he wouldn’t leave one of them.”
She studied her friend’s sloped shoulders, the outline of someone broken. Marion was staring at the falls.
“Let me see something,” he said.
She handed back the rifle. He sighted again, following the shore.
“Come on,” Brenda said. “Let’s get her. Shoot the thing, let her know we’re here.”
“He might want that.”
Slowly, maddeningly, he sighted a full minute. Marion did not seem to move. Lomak didn’t appear, neither did Heather. At last Charlie lowered the rifle. He shook his head and motioned for Brenda to sit. He shoved the throttle and she sat back heavily. As they gained speed, she watched Marion, wanting her to hear them and stand.
They neared the dock, and she saw familiar things—the shuttered bait shop, a whitewashed gas shed, the gravel road. Charlie throttled back. At last Marion turned on the bench. She did not stand. After a moment, she glanced down at Charlie’s Stratos.
“Are you all right?” he yelled.
The Lund came about, and in those seconds, on her feet now, Brenda saw the figure on the floor of Charlie’s boat. He was on all fours behind the seats, like a Muslim at prayer. The boat’s anchor was jammed in his back. Yellow rope trailed away, tied to a bow cleat. Stains formed a loose circle on his dark brown jacket.
His foot moved.
Their boat nudged a piling. Charlie grabbed hold and she scrambled onto the dock. There was blood on the planks. She moved to Marion, sat next to her and put an arm around her shoulder. She clasped Marion’s folded hands with her free hand. Marion’s were icy.
“She’s in shock.”
Still in the boat, Charlie looked above the dock, tying up. “Get her up and walking, take her onshore.”
“I’m not in shock.” Marion sat straight and turned to Brenda. “Heather’s dead. He killed her and I hit him with the anchor. We’ve been talking.”
“Go on, help her off the dock,” Charlie said.
“I don’t need help.” She stood, Brenda with her. They moved several steps, but Marion stopped, looking down at the dock. “That’s his blood. Do you have my phone?”
Brenda shook her head. Again she took Marion’s icy hand and led her forward. Now she heard the falls, felt them underfoot. Their shoes scuffed gray planks. “That’s it,” she said. “Almost there.”
“Don’t treat me this way,” Marion said. “I know where I am. I have to call Drew and Carrie.”
“We will.”
“I’m not in shock. I have to call them.”
“Okay.”
They stepped from the dock onto the gravel road and started up. Now the sun felt warm on her head. She remembered benches along the path leading to the lookout.
“Tina?”
“She’s all right,” Brenda said. “We left her, she’s warm, she was amazing, she managed somehow to get into the Lund, she was looking—”
“You can tell her I’m responsible.”
“Don’t, Marion.”
The gravel
rose more sharply. Soon, the hotel’s roof line came into view. Branching right was the path to the falls. They needed to sit a minute. Brenda led Marion into shade, smelling pine. A red squirrel ran across the trail. Pursued by a second squirrel, it tore up a jack pine. Both animals circled the tree and stopped, tails lashing.
“Why else do you think he came here?” Marion said. “Why do you think he killed Heather?”
“If you need to blame somebody, blame Rohmer. He put it all together. He brought Lomak here.”
“Where is—”
“He’s dead.” She said it sharp, with finality. To ward off the next question.
“He’s crazy.” Stiff and aimless in her movements, Marion stumbled. “Jerry Lomak.”
“Watch your step.”
“We talked some. He may be dead now. He was with Doreen Taylor. They worked for Damon Plumbing, she was a bookkeeper—”
Again Marion stumbled, but this time she caught herself, hand to the ground. She straightened and they continued. She brushed off her palm. “I told you.”
“I don’t remember.” Brenda again took her hand.
“In the car. Minnie and Mickey.”
“Oh, yes.”
“A perfect fit. Perfect couple. He formulated policy, she implemented.”
Good. Marion was sounding like herself again, her voice and words. “We’re almost there. Minnie and Mickey, go on.”
“That’s right, Brenda, keep me talking. You know what to do, you really do.” A wan smile. She squeezed Brenda’s hand. “With Heather, too, you were a quick study. Got her in one. The house and drinking, the mister in his shop, turning out those kitsch bird feeders—”
She was crying now, squeezing Brenda’s hand as they moved. They reached the benches. Wedged into terraced space between trees, the seats faced the water. The bay below was half hidden by tiers of limbs that stepped down the slope. The women sat. Marion wiped her face with her sleeve.
“That cute kid in his hockey jersey.” She shook her head, smiling, patting Brenda’s knee. “Heather took the keys. It’s what set him off. She was that angry, Brenda. Little Heather took his keys. One good thing, though. One thing.”
They needed a good thing. Brenda searched her pockets for Kleenex.
“Know what it is?” Marion asked.
Finding none, Brenda turned and took Marion’s hands. “You tell me.”
“That fish she caught. That was your doing. Taking her out, taking Heather Reese fishing. What that must have meant to her, catching that damned fish—”
Marion pulled away and wiped with the coat sleeve. She brought her fists down and pounded her knees. “That’s it—” She straightened on the bench. “Listen to me trying to salvage this with a damned fish.”
She stood and Brenda started to follow. “No, Brenda. I just need to move.”
She sat back, watching Marion trudge up the incline. Heather had stopped Lomak by taking the boat keys. It was out of character. Dangerous, risky. Perhaps it was you, Brenda thought. Maybe it wasn’t Rohmer who got her killed, or Marion. Maybe it was you.
At the next bench, Marion stopped and looked up into the canopy of trees. The squirrels were barking somewhere.
“I want to say something,” she said. “I knew Heather all my adult life. You knew her two days. That’s enough to have a sense of someone. Not to know her, just to have a sense. Minnie and Mickey, Doreen and Jerry. You think you know dependency, the terms—”
“You told me.”
“No, I didn’t. Not what’s important. I told you boilerplate—master-slave, what everyone loves to hate.”
Marion made fists and walked back, searching for the thing that needed saying. Again she stopped and looked up. The sun must be fully out now. It was streaming through in places, slanting down in static channels, like something in a cathedral. Like all the angled light in moody forests that had been drained of meaning in hundreds of ads and films and greeting cards. There was no significance to the light. None.
Still staring up, Marion hugged herself. It hurt to see. It was Heather’s gesture.
“Everyone should be a person, right, Brenda? Be independent? Make decisions, make their own choices? That’s you and me and all the capable people in my office. That’s Tanya Walker, times ten. But what about people who can’t? What about the Doreen Taylors who can’t figure out what to do next? That’s not so bad, is it?”
“No.”
“That’s not crazy or strange. It’s all a matter of degree.” Still hugging herself, Marion looked into the woods. “Tell her what to do and how to do it, Doreen Taylor could take it from there. Lomak was telling her for years, but in court, I did the telling. What to wear, how to sit. Someone gets her pregnant just out of high school—if you knew her you’d see how that had to happen. The teen father leaves before the baby’s even born. Doreen lives with her parents, her father dies. Then the mother. So, there’s Doreen and her son for the next seven years, in the little house they left her. In the job her father got for her, keeping books. Along comes Jerry Lomak, snaking out people’s sewers—”
This was not good. Brenda stood. “Come on, we should go up to the hotel.”
“You listen!” Marion glared at her. “That guy down there killed Heather. I want someone to know why.”
“What about Carrie and Drew? Let’s find a phone.”
Marion blinked. She ran a hand through her hair. “God, my mind.” She came forward. Side by side they started back down the slope. At the intersection they started up. With each step, more of the hotel came into view.
“What can I tell him?”
“To come back. Tell him to call the embassy, see if they can get him and Jay on the next flight.”
“You don’t know the rest. Drew’s buyout, all his plans. How can I talk about this with Heather dead? God, he has to know—maybe he does. Leonard would try to reach him. Our broker. Tell him what his crazy wife did, a good broker would do that, wouldn’t he? And Carrie. Laura Remnick will make sure she’s all right. You don’t—”
Brenda stopped. “No, Marion—” She took her elbow. “He’s back there. He can’t hurt her. Come on.”
“What about others? Someone in Detroit? This took planning. Oh God—”
“There’s just the two, him and Rohmer. Carrie’s fine, she’s at the Remnicks’. Come on.”
“No, it’s not over, it’s not!” Marion dropped to her knees. “Not over, oh God—”
She knelt, grabbed her friend and pulled her close. Marion kept repeating “not over!” and Brenda was seeing her father’s hand, palm up, her father dying on a beach, and she was kneeling beside him, tapping with her fingers, terrified of losing him.
She looked to the water, to Charlie on the dock, with the rifle. He was watching them. He glanced down at Lomak and then he was running, pant leg flapping. Marion was weeping hard now, out of control, pounding her knees.
In seconds Charlie reached them. He knelt, laid the rifle aside and quickly, roughly grabbed Marion under the arms and pulled her up.
“Not now.” He said it loud and steady, turning her by the shoulders. “Not now.”
She heard and looked at him.
“We’re going up this road,” he told her. “You and me. There’s a hotel with a phone, come with me now.” He looked at Brenda. “The safety’s off—” he nodded to the rifle. “Take it and wait on the dock. People will come in the next half hour. I’ll come back when I can.”
He turned Marion firmly, held her under her right arm and began marching with her up the incline.
Lomak moaned.
Brenda stood on the dock, looking down at the anchor. It was new and still bright. The prongs were not yet dulled from use. The bronze product label was still in place, where the foils joined the hinge. Seeing it made her feel stupid holding the Remington. Useless and helpless. The thing was solidly lodged in the middle of his back.
Lomak coughed, and spat. He was facing away, face hidden between his forearms. Brenda moved to the wood
en bench and set down the rifle. She stepped back, then sat with her legs over the edge of the dock. She eased into the bow of the Stratos. Once it steadied, she stepped between the seats, around Lomak. He didn’t move. She looked out over the water, heard no sound. After a moment, she squatted down before Lomak’s head.
The sun had burned off the morning haze. It glinted on gold strands of the hairpiece. The thing hung from knots still tied to the side of Lomak’s head, matted with clots of blood. There were small open wounds. Wedged between the seats, Lomak looked like someone searching for a contact lens. Brenda glanced again at the anchor. Both prongs had sliced neatly through the twill jacket. One might have reached the right lung, the other would be close to or touching Lomak’s spine.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Try moving your feet.” She craned to see. Lomak was wearing cowboy boots. She remembered the broken shoelace.
“Fuck.”
“Can you feel your legs?”
“Huh-uh.”
“People are coming,” she said. “They’ll need to know how bad it is.”
Lomak spat weakly. A trail of spittle and blood was coming from under his face. His forehead rested on the gray carpeting, next to his cap. Brenda glanced to the controls. The keys were missing. Heather.
“This is bogue—” The man spat. “This is shit.”
She heard nothing. It had taken extra time to cross in the slower boat, maybe twenty minutes. If the hotel had phone service, in a few minutes Charlie would be calling Northern Lights. Half an hour to negotiate the Ash River, add another fifteen or twenty minutes to get here. In under an hour others would arrive with radios and questions. After that, it would be lawyers and autopsies. Interrogations. Depositions.
Only now she remembered. Heather Reese was dead. Brenda stood now and looked to the spillway. Held against the current by yellow nylon rope, a seat cushion flapped twenty feet from the dock. The rope was stretched around the outermost piling, tied clumsily. That’s how it was, she thought. Marion tried to save her.
“Tell me what happened.”
She stared at the cushion, the pressure on it. Charlie had said that by month’s end, the spillway’s safety line would be in place. They left it off in spring, allowing everything that got this far to go over. People were warned, took precautions. She remembered the base of the falls as the two of them had looked down the night before—the broken, violent journey’s end for branches and limbs. Whole trees collapsed under their own weight and fell into the lake, lazing then in Kabetogama or Namakan, root stumps high above the water until they grew sodden and sank, aimless and seemingly without direction, heading here.
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 22