She looked down at the humped figure on the floor. The boat felt defiled to her now, an instrument, covered with blood and sin. Without the Stratos, they couldn’t have done it. It made her feel sick, a stupid thing. A kid’s thing, bought for Charlie’s son, for skiing, no kind of grown man’s boat.
“You bastard,” she said. “Why’d you do it?”
“Fuck you, Red.” Lomak spat. “Look at my fuckin’ head, ask me why.”
There was something still left in him. Even on his hands and knees, knowing he might never walk again, might not live, he was still the tough guy. A man who kills women, then blames them for it. She edged her way to Lomak’s feet. Above the left boot, the pants had hiked up. She reached down and touched Lomak’s calf.
“Feel that?”
“Fuck you.”
She took satisfaction in it, with no shame attached. “Where are the keys?”
“Pants. Broke my fucking back. Stabbed my fucking back, fucking—”
“You feel nothing.” Disgusted to touch him, she reached down, shoved her hand into his pants, and pulled out the keys.
“I feel like shit.”
Brenda straightened, remembering Charlie’s face as he neared the houseboat. It had been full of guilt and shame, her own full of suspicion. He had known how it must seem to her. No Charlie Schmidt meant no Louis Rohmer.
“Who else is in this besides Rohmer?” Looking now at the anchor, she fought off an urge to grab it, twist it, just to hear him scream. “Look, help is on the way. You’re going to make it, and you can do yourself some good. Right now. If someone else is in this, tell me now, it can help you.”
Quickly, she shoved past Lomak and crouched again at his head. “What else did you do? Help yourself, Jerry, you can do yourself some good—”
“F’geddaboudit. You know this movie?”
“Who else is in this!”
“Fucking Indians everywhere.” Lomak coughed and spat. “Duke Wayne, these settlers. No, maybe Green Berets. Surrounded, VC everywhere. Someone says ‘Now we got ‘em right where we want ‘em.’”
Lomak coughed a laugh. “Right there, in court. Right where I want ‘em, no shit. In court. Tell my story, blow up her fucking house, fucking space station—” He coughed again, trying to laugh.
“Marion’s house? You did something to it?”
“Write a book, Red. In prison, no shit. Write a book, get me an agent…”
Brenda stood and looked again to the lake. She wanted others, right now, to free her from choice. To stop her from choosing. The distant islands floated in bright sun. Against the sky, the pines looked to her like a ragged, two-dimensional graph. Like vital signs on a monitor in some patient’s room.
“Tell me what you did to the house!”
“Seventy-two hours, Red. ‘To the moon, Alice—’” He coughed again. “Gimme my cap.”
She looked down. Lomak’s head was still bleeding. The cap lay next to the fuel tank.
“Put it on. Fix the hair, put it on.”
Another ragged cough. Disgusted, Brenda reached down. She lifted the hairpiece with two fingers and settled it in place. She got the cap and set it on Lomak’s head. “Push it down tight.” Bent at the knees, Brenda shoved down with both hands, wanting to hurt. Lomak moaned.
She wiped her palms on her knees. “Do you want some water?”
“I like it.”
“I said, do you want water?”
“Just like a movie.” Lomak’s hand moved. “Send her postcards from the slammer. Why not, Red? Every week, once a week. ‘How they hangin’, Marion? Wheelies in the yard, Born on the Fourth of July. Just like Tom Cruise. Boogie up my wheelchair, pimp my ride. Three squares a day. Lift weights with the brothers in the yard. Get me a wife. Fuck… Give me any kind of lawyer, I’m out in seven.”
Brenda shoved up and looked a last time out to the lake. He was right. It would be his word against Marion’s. Second degree murder, not first. No premeditation. No intention. A trial, lots of publicity. Book and movie people would soon know who was involved—prominent lawyer Marion Ross, Pulitzer winner Brenda Contay. They would come running, she knew all about it, from her own book. Knew exactly how sensational experience got turned into money. The difference was, she had no daughter. No son, or husband.
Two skinned horses swung lazily in dusty sunlight.
“What did you do at the house!”
No answer. Seeing nothing, hearing no outboard, she stepped around Lomak, to the controls. She had watched Charlie. A rocker switch raised and lowered the boat’s heavy motor. She inserted the key, and depressed the switch. An electric whine. Finger still on the switch, she turned to watch the glossy engine slowly lever up. Brenda held the switch until the housing was fully raised. Charlie had done it last night on their way back, saying this way, the Stratos drew less than a foot of water.
She used the seat to step up onto the dock, then moved to the stern tie-up rope. She worked the knot open, and not looking down she stepped quickly forward to the piling tied with the bow line. The second knot, pulled tight by pressure, was harder to work open, but she got it untied and stepped back.
It made sense to her. Given more time and the hard current, both ropes might have come loose on their own. But the Statos wasn’t moving, still huddled and lodged against the dock.
You don’t get off that easy, she thought. You just don’t.
Looking away, feeling the cowardice of not looking, she sat quickly on the dock and pushed the Stratos with both feet.
She stood now, and watched as the bow was caught by the current. It swung sharply, the stern scraping the dock. No longer snagged, the boat moved fast and cleared the last piling. To bear witness, she stepped to the end and watched the Stratos now whip left. Lomak’s hunched form was visible a few seconds, then not as the boat neared the spillway. Once there, it slammed the cement. Now it ricocheted along, tat-tat-tat, edging its way along the cement wall.
Did he know?
She heard nothing but the rush of water, the hull’s grating, gradual progress, until the boat’s bow extended into the spillway. It swung up sharply. Without delay or snag the glossy black hull slid quickly down, the motor last.
Nearing the hill’s crest, Schmidt stopped. The gravel footing on the far side would be even worse going down. He balanced on one foot, pulled off a shoe and emptied out stones. He slipped it back on, hopping, and did the other.
He started up again. The shoes dated from another era, Johnston & Murphy wingtips he kept for painting. They had no laces, and for no reason this made him think of Lars Nielson. When the old man didn’t wear his dentures, it was like wearing floppy shoes. Maybe Lars was alive, but Schmidt didn’t think so. People here lived by routine, like toy trains on a track. It was why the son had come this morning, looking for his father.
He heard birds and looked up. There were streaks of cirrus cloud high up. The sun felt warm despite the cool air. You could have a blizzard, or this, or both at this time of year. Even on the same day. Cold fronts, warm fronts. The idea led him to speed up, the changeable weather making him question leaving Brenda alone. He had not worried about Lomak, but now wasn’t sure.
She would be glad to know Marion was back in control. They had found a crew opening the hotel, a phone that worked. Marion was using it now, calling London.
◆◆◆◆◆
The bay’s smooth pool had a mesmerizing effect. It was glossy and almost circular, embraced on three sides.
Brenda glanced from it, out again to the lake, the islands. Any time now, people in uniforms with radios would be tying up and stepping onto the dock. They would introduce themselves before helping her down into their boat, or up the hill to take her statement. She had seen the drill often enough and felt ready.
However long it went on, whatever the questions, it was on her. No one else. It was good knowing this. A relief.
She heard a sound and turned to see Charlie skating, sliding down the gravel road, arms out for balance. He knows
already, Brenda thought. He comes over the hill and sees you on the empty dock, hands in your pockets as though just figuring out what to do with the day. It was his turf and boat, his house. Some nice woman killed by his houseguest. He would feel responsible, and need something from her. Nothing was his fault. He’d been used, exploited. It must be awful for him, and Brenda watched Charlie running now, down the steep incline, heedless of falling.
The distant whine of an outboard came from her left. She looked out over the bay, but saw nothing. When she turned back, Charlie was standing at the end of the dock, all slit pants and ill-fitting, too-small coat. He was staring at the place where his boat had been, the sleek, black phantom with a praying figure on the floor, replaced by a watery hole in the world.
He looked at her, more reluctant than confused. Brenda stared straight back at him, sure he saw how it had been. She was sure he did, how she’d untied the Stratos, how she sat on the dock and shoved with both feet, the thing rocking out, catching the current, the figure still at prayer as the hull snapped straight and slipped toward the spillway.
He came now, glancing down and back, crossing the hollow dock. His face looked seared.
“Tell me about Marion,” she said.
He looked to the lake. “Someone’s coming. Maybe Lester Gertz, the Orr sheriff. She’s okay, on the phone.”
“That’s good, but there’s more. Lomak did something at her house. Something happens there in seventy-two hours.”
He faced her. “We have to get this straight real fast.”
“It is straight, Charlie. Just say what you know.”
He frowned and shook his head. It made her want to wrap him in her arms. The sweet dunce wanted to make a plan, a story.
He looked back out. “I went up with Marion. I came back and you went up alone. To tell her what Lomak said about her house. I was here, I decided and untied my boat.”
“Bullshit, Charlie. This is mine, not yours. Lomak had a plan. Even from prison, he planned to keep it all going.”
“Lester’s no country bumpkin. We need to keep it simple.”
“Charlie—”
“That’s it, Brenda. It was my party and my boat. In your place, I might’ve done the same thing. So that’s what I’m saying, that’s what happened. Don’t say anything else.”
“No.”
“Yes, and if you say different, I’ll tell him you’re lying. Hysterical.”
“No.” Not knowing why, she grabbed his hand and pulled. “Come on—”
He resisted, jaw locked, determined.
“Come on, hurry—”
He let himself be taken, the top of his hand sticky. She understood he was indulging her, not yet understanding. Yanking his sticky hand, she made him jog with her, off the dock, up the slope. To be out of sight of the arriving help.
“Marion’s all right,” he said. You don’t need to worry.”
She didn’t answer, desperate now, the approaching boat louder. As they moved she looked back. Still there was nothing, the lake empty, islands static. When they reached the path leading to the lookout, she grabbed his coat and pulled him with her.
“What are you doing? The hotel’s straight… Brenda, stop.”
He resisted, but she kept pulling, starting to see what might be done, concealment just ten yards away. Five. Breathing hard, she dragged him into the cover of tiered pines and let go of his hand. She dropped on the nearest bench and breathed through her mouth. Again, from this point she could see only slices of water. They were hidden.
“If you’re thinking about Heather, I’m sorry but there’s nothing—”
“Just shut up.” He thought she wanted to see if Heather had lived. She took deep breaths and studied him. She felt challenged, blocked, but at least they were now hidden.
“If there were any chance, I’d be down there.” He looked up the slope.
“Down where?”
“At the falls.”
“You can get there? From where we are now?”
“On this path. It goes down on the Canadian side, to Rainy Lake.”
“You’re saying you can get there on foot.”
“It takes about ten minutes. It’s no good, Brenda. Lester will contact the Park Service, they’ll have boats. We can’t do anything.”
“But we can actually do it. Get there from here on foot.”
She stood. Still he didn’t follow. He wouldn’t, he was a good man and for that reason a bit unimaginative. She knew better and had seen things. Written about them. The motor was louder, and whoever was coming would soon be in the bay, nearing the dock. Finding no one there, they would walk up to the hotel.
“Are there people in Rainy Lake? Fishermen?”
“Could be. If they saw the boat go over, maybe a crowd.”
“Is there a clear view? From where we’d come out down there?”
“I don’t know. It’s usually misty. Why?”
“He was dying.”
Finally, the light dawned. “No, Brenda. I don’t think so.”
“He killed Heather Reese. She has daughters and a son. He plays hockey—”
“That’s not— it doesn’t matter, it’s done.”
“It matters. No one saw him. Just you, me and Marion. He managed to get up, I was in the bow, somehow he jumped—”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Stop fighting me and think, Charlie. You have daughters, a son.”
He turned and started down the slope. Brenda ran in front of him. She turned and pushed his upper body with both hands, backpedaling. He kept coming.
“No—” She kept at it until he grabbed her arms. “Really selfish, Charlie, self-centered—”
She kept shoving him with her palms, angry. “I did this thing, I made this decision. Now you want to hang tough, stand tall, all this Eagle Scout crap…. I did the easy part, but this is not easy, this is something else… Charlie Schmidt, big-time local hero. Bullshit!”
He had been trying to pass her, but now stopped.
“That’s right,” she said and dropped her arms, amazed at herself and breathing hard, knowing from his face how crazy she must look to him. “That’s right, it was easy. Making a decision, doing the right thing. I believe that, Charlie. The man killed Heather Reese, we know that. Just like we know what comes next if I didn’t do what I did. So, Charlie, this, right here, this is the hard part. Right here. Going against your Mr. Nice Guy take-the-blame pledge of allegiance. Let’s see it, Charlie, that pledge, show it to me. Does it say anything about your daughters? Your son who gets to sell dad’s place and never come here again? What’s the pledge say about them, Charlie Schmidt? What about me!”
He half smiled. “Believe me, you don’t know the place.”
“I know enough—”
She shoved him again, feeling angry, all in now, having chosen and now driven. “I know if we go right now, down to Rainy Lake, it will end with Lomak. No one else gets hurt. I know this. You did not do this, I did not do this. You took Marion to the hotel, you came back, we took this path to Rainy Lake, hope against hope, looking for Heather. We heard something—”
Maybe it was working. He was no longer moving toward her, pushing back.
“You think Marion won’t come to Minnesota?” she said. “Oh, yes, she most certainly will. You think you’re the only Eagle Scout? She’d be back here on visitor’s day and Christmas and Groundhog Day— every fucking time her conscience rings the bell— 'Hello, Marion, time to go chat up Charlie Schmidt in some jerkoff prison, the guy your client screwed for keeps.’”
Maybe it was working. “And Tina, Charlie—”
“You really—” Still loosely holding her upper arms, he was studying her now, his own face a mix of fascination and disgust.
“Really what, Charlie? Really what? Tell you what you don’t want to hear? What you didn’t think of? Too bad. That’s right. Tina, Charlie. Whose only close friend is no more—Tina back in Milwaukee—
“Don’t leave out the dog—”
“—reflecting on recent events. Oh yes, of course, it will be a whole lot better knowing Charlie Schmidt’s in prison. Getting corrected for what? Oh yes, that’ll be good, a real comfort.”
She watched his good face stuck with adhesive and thread, looking for signs that her blackmail and sabotage were working. And what about me? But in the moment she sensed as Charlie now sighed, getting where she wanted him to go, that whatever might have been waiting for them, to be found or created, would not be. Not now.
She took his hands in both of hers and squeezed hard. He let her. The motor below had slowed, and in the following seconds fell silent. Someone would be tying up, looking around. If there were two, one would go up to the hotel, the other stay on the dock. Marion would tell them what had happened, and they would have radios. Call and ask whoever was on the dock about Charlie and a second woman. No sign of them here would be the answer.
That’s right. She yanked Charlie by the hand. No sign. He was still making her pull him, and she was breathing hard again, conscious of being out of shape. But now he seemed to decide, came alongside and began trudging next to her, holding her hand.
It revived her. They moved higher. The falls grew loud. It was as she remembered it and this, too, gave her something. Petting-the-dog, the good guy—Brenda held him close, marching. Give me this, she thought. Don’t change your mind.
She let go and put her arm through his as they neared the lookout. “I knew there was something wrong with him,” she said. “Yesterday. When he came over to help Heather and me. He had to impress us. Show us what he knew, but he couldn’t. He was clumsy, he fell getting into our boat, it made him angry. He comes over to these two women, he falls on his ass—”
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 23