“It’s really tough,” he said, in between drags on his cigarette. “I’d take a drink right now if you offered me one.”
“At least you’re honest,” Lacey said, shocked at the hungry look in his eyes.
“I’m a third-generation drunk,” he said, puffing on his Marlboro. “My grandfather died of cirrhosis of the liver in his fifties. I don’t even remember him.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lacey murmured.
Ron flicked his eyes over her, trying to gauge her sincerity. “My dad’s been a drunk for as long as I can remember.”
“They say alcoholism can be genetic,” Lark said, regretting it the minute he saw the despair cross Ron’s face.
“No shit, man.” Ron leaned over towards Lark, jabbing himself in the chest. “Look at me, take a good look at me,” he yelled.
“Treatment can help,” Lacey said.
“I’ve been treated before and so has my dad. It’s never successful. We get sick of AA and crawl right back in the bottle.” He stubbed out his cigarette butt.
“What are you going to do this time?” Lark asked, ignoring the emotional vibes emanating from Lacey and Ron.
“I’m doing thirty days here. I’ll go back to daily AA and I’m going to take Antabuse,” he said, staring down at the table.
“What’s Antabuse?” Lacey asked.
“A drug that makes you sick as hell if you take it and drink. Mom says I’m a mean drunk. I guess I slapped her twice last week when she tried to get me to stop. I don’t remember it.” His trembling hand reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.
“Did you hurt her?” Lacey asked, her voice no longer sympathetic.
“She’s got a black eye, says I gave it to her,” he said, his voice hardening. “Scared the shit out of me that I could do that to her and not remember it.”
“You ever get into fights when you’re drinking?” Lark asked.
Ron took a deep drag on his cigarette and shot a plume of smoke upwards, watching it climb to the ceiling and dissipate.
“Did you …”
“I heard you the first time.” He cocked his head to give Lark a sharp look. “I’ve been in fights with guys before but I’ve never hit a woman.”
“You’re sure about that?” Lark asked, staring into his face.
“Yep,”
“How can you be sure when you don’t remember hitting your mom?” Lacey asked.
“I’ve never been this bad before. This is a new goddamn low,” he yelled.
The door swung open and Mrs. Krejewski leaned in. “Ron, I could swear someone called me. You need something?”
“No, sorry,” he replied, slouching down in his chair.
“Don’t you worry. The next time you holler I’ll be right in.” She pointed her finger at him as she closed the door.
“Old fucking battle-ax,” he said over his shoulder, his voice raised.
“That’s quite enough.” A voice as cold as steel drifted through the door. “You’re working yourself up to loss of privileges. Calm down.”
“You said you’ve never been this bad before,” Lark said, trying to get him back on track.
“I’ve passed out before, but never lost blocks of time like last week.”
“Where were you the weekend before Thanksgiving?”
“Drunk,” he said, his eyes flicking back and forth between Lark and Lacey.
“Drunk where?” Lark asked.
Ron stubbed out his cigarette. “Mom told me there was another body found at Wazowski’s. A college girl, Terry somebody. I didn’t know her.”
“I didn’t ask you that,” Lark said with deliberate patience. “Where were you the weekend before Thanksgiving?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure?”
“Goddammit,” Ron said, slamming his free hand down on the table. “Dad and I went hunting Saturday. We drank all day. I don’t remember Saturday or much of Sunday.”
“Where’d you hunt?” Lacey asked.
“We got up before dawn and drove to the Chequamegon State Forest around Clam Lake.”
“When did you leave there?” Lacey asked, watching him light up again.
“I don’t remember.”
“Who was driving?” she asked.
“Dad.”
“Did you stay overnight or sleep at home?”
“I got up at home on Sunday morning.”
“What did you do Sunday?” Lark asked.
“We went hunting up around Grand View, in the Chequamegon.”
“Do you remember when you got home Sunday?” Lacey asked.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“What about Monday?” she asked, scribbling on her notepad.
“Pretty much the same as Sunday. We got up, ate, and went hunting. This time out by Big Oak Lake, but not at Wazowski’s.”
“Do you own any snowmobiles?” Lark asked, interrupting Lacey’s line of questioning.
“Two of them. What’s that got to do with this?” he asked, glancing at Lark.
“Someone shot out a couple of windows at the Ransons’. Ann Ranson also had her Explorer shot at. They also shot at my house.” Lark didn’t take his eyes off Ron’s face.
“Sounds like hunting accidents.”
“Somebody did all three on a snowmobile at night,” Lark said.
“The trails aren’t open yet.”
“That doesn’t seem to matter to this guy. Funny thing, he chain smokes Marlboros,” Lark said, watching him for a reaction.
Ron lit a new cigarette with the butt from his spent one. “I got here Thursday night.”
“First shooting happened early Thursday morning,” Lark said.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Do you remember where you were Thursday morning?” Lark asked.
“At home. I was at home drinking.”
“You sure about that?”
“Ask my mom. She’ll vouch for that. So will my dad.”
“We’ll do that,” Lark said, getting up. “Does your dad smoke Marlboros?”
“My dad didn’t know those girls from Adam,” Ron shouted as he shoved his chair back and stood up. “Leave him out of this, goddammit. He’s got enough problems.”
“I didn’t say your dad did anything.” Lark replied, watching Ron’s frightened face. “I just asked if your dad smokes Marlboros.”
“Yeah, right,” Ron said, turning to watch Mrs. Krejewski walk in the room.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asked, surveying the two men standing opposite each other.
“We’re fine. We’ll be leaving as soon as Ron answers my question,” Lark said, flashing her a smile.
“Yeah, he smokes Marlboros.” Ron stomped out.
“I’ll see you two out as soon as I get Ron back to his room,” Mrs. Krejewski said, motioning for Lark and Lacey to sit down.
“He sure reacted when you asked him about his dad.”
“I’d say he overreacted.”
Before Lacey could respond, Mrs. Krejewski bustled back in the room.
“This is none of my business, but that’s never stopped me before,” she said, dropping into the chair Ron had vacated. “Ron was quite the high school football player. My son played against him in high school. During his senior year, the sports pages were full of stories about him and what a promising athlete he was. You know, he went to Madison on a football scholarship.”
“How’s he been since he got here?” Lacey asked, wondering why they hadn’t heard any of this until now.
“Very depressed. Facing the fact that he’s an alcoholic. There were always rumors that he had a problem with alcohol. I didn’t know how bad it was until he was admitted.” All traces of jocularity left her face. “Look, this is none of my business, in fact, I probably shouldn’t be talking to you, but he’s worried to death about his mom.”
“He told us he gave her a black eye,” Lacey said.
“He told me that, too, but I think his father
has done far worse many times before. He’s worried about her now that he’s here and can’t take care of her.”
“Has he mentioned the two girls who were killed?” Lacey asked.
“Only the first one. He cried a couple of times when he talked about her.”
“He hasn’t mentioned Terry Foltz?” Lark asked.
“No, I asked him about her. He’s been very concerned that someone else was killed. After more than twenty years here nothing surprises me, but I’d be shocked if he’s your murderer. He’s depressed, confused, and angry, but I don’t get the feeling he’s evil. Believe me, I’ve seen more than a few evil ones.”
Just as Lark was going to ask her another question, her beeper went off.
“No rest for the weary,” Mrs. Krejewski said, standing up to fish it out of her pocket. “Or was that the wicked?” She smiled at Lacey. “Gotta go. Never a dull moment.”
“Just one more thing,” Lark said as they headed for the door.
“Make it quick, dreamboat. I’ve got an admission.”
“Has Ron’s father been up to see him?”
“Been here twice,” she said with distaste. “Both times reeking of alcohol. We wouldn’t let him in. He took a couple of swings at the security staff. Thank heaven, he was so drunk he missed. We called the police but he left before they got here.” Her beeper went off again and she set off down the hall at a surprisingly fast clip for a woman her size. She turned around and waggled her fingers at them just before she rounded the corner. “His father, now there’s a slice of evil who could use a little time with us.”
Lark and Lacey headed out the door, each lost in their own thoughts. They were pelted with a barrage of small stinging snowflakes. Lark forged ahead of Lacey to shield her from the blizzard. After cleaning three inches of snow off the Jeep, they crept out of town.
Joel had left a message on the car phone that all the Madison students’ alibis had checked out. He also told them that Terry’s car had been found in a strip mall parking lot in Wausau. They stopped at the Sportsman’s Inn for lunch and devoured thick juicy burgers and fries in the nearly empty bar. They were back on the road by one-thirty.
MONDAY AFTERNOON
NOVEMBER 27—SWENSON
Once they were out of town, Lark called and asked Flo to have someone search the area across the road from his house where Ann Ranson had her accident. She informed him that there had been two car accidents so everyone was out, and that Joel had called to let her know he was not going to make it to Big Oak. When Lark cursed, she offered to call Joel back. He apologized, telling her he felt it was best that Joel not drive in this weather. She informed him that the state police were thinking about closing the roads and that the county road superintendent was debating pulling the plows off until the snow slowed down. In the background, Lark heard someone on the radio, squawking at her to respond, and quickly got off the phone.
Lacey was focused on the road. The snow was creating near white-out conditions. Even with the defroster and the windshield wipers on full blast, it was difficult to see. One hour and twenty-five miles later, the Lake Tomahawk sign came into view.
“Do you think we should stop?”
“Let’s go on to Minocqua,” Lark said, his eyes riveted to the road.
It took them another half hour to drive the ten miles to Minocqua. The radio stations were predicting a record blizzard and the police were asking all motorists to get off the road.
Highway 51 looked like a bumper car rink with several vehicles in the ditch and half a dozen fender benders. On the outskirts of Minocqua, they encountered a police officer detouring traffic. He informed them that Highway 70 and Highway 51 were closed and gave them directions to the motels up the road.
The detour, although less than ten miles, seemed endless. They moved at two speeds, crawl and standstill. There seemed to be as many cars in the ditch as there were on the road. The relentless snow reduced vision to the end of their headlights when they kept it under ten miles an hour. Ninety tense minutes later, they pulled into the brightly lit Northwoods Inn, the only place that still had a vacancy sign blinking.
The exhausted woman at the desk told them they could have her last room. When they told her they needed two rooms, she called the other motels in town and informed them this was all that was left, take it or leave it. They burst out laughing and rented the room.
Lacey went to the room and Lark went to park the Jeep. When he didn’t return, she went to the lobby to find him. He came back half an hour later, lugging three plastic bags and his briefcase.
“I thought you dropped off the face of the earth, but instead you bought out the store,” she said, taking two of the bags from him as they plodded upstairs.
“A couple of stores were still open so I bought us some necessities,” he said, handing her his briefcase so he could unlock the door. It was small but clean, complete with a refrigerator, coffeepot, table and chairs, TV, and a double bed.
“Home sweet home,” she said, sitting down on the bed to investigate the shopping bags. She pulled out several travel-size toiletries, two cans of mixed nuts, a package of beef jerky, several candy bars, a bag of potato chips, and dip. He pulled a six-pack of beer and a six-pack of Diet Coke out of another bag. Two pairs of gray sweats emblazoned with the Green Bay Packers logo and two pairs of white socks embroidered with little footballs and Green Bay helmets were the last things out of the bag.
“At least we won’t starve,” he said, rationalizing his junk-food fit.
“Did you get us a cheesehead, too?” she asked, holding up an extra large sweatshirt to check it for fit.
“It just about killed me to buy these, but beggars can’t be choosers. The shelves were almost bare and they were closing when I got there.”
She glanced at her watch, surprised that it was only five-thirty. “Should we see if the restaurant is open or just depend on this feast?”
As she was talking, Lark called the dispatcher in Big Oak. Flo was getting ready to leave and informed him they had worried themselves sick over him driving in this mess. After a few minutes of reading him the riot act, she told him to call Ann Ranson at home and Brian Foltz in Duluth. He took down both phone numbers and dialed Ann first. She answered on the second ring, her voice irritable.
“You sound like you’ve about had it.”
“This phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day,” she said. Lark could hear water running in the background. “And if it wasn’t the phone, it was the damn doorbell. I don’t know if people really care this much about me or they’re just nosey.”
“Both. Did I interrupt your dinner? If so, I can call back later.”
“No, no, don’t mind me. I think this attitude is from the concussion. I have a mother of a headache. The pain pills zone me out so I’ve quit taking them,” she chuckled.
“Flo said you called earlier.”
“I got an interesting phone call from a friend of mine in Madison. She’s an instructor at the University. Barbara read about the bodies when she got home from Vermont last night. She knew Terry Foltz and Katey Lowery. What she had to say is news to me, but it probably won’t be to you. First, you should know that Barbara is a lesbian. She’s been out for quite a while and is very involved in some of the campus gay and lesbian groups. She called to find out how I was, and during our conversation she speculated that the murders might be hate crimes against lesbians. She was surprised when I asked her why. She was under the impression that Terry Foltz was a lesbian because she had seen her at several lesbian group meetings with Katey Lowery. Did you already know about this?”
“No, I didn’t. Did you know that Katey Lowery was gay?”
Lacey, listening to Lark’s side of the conversation while she put their purchases away, stopped dead in her tracks. “What the hell—”
He brought his index finger to his lips.
“I didn’t have a clue, but now that I think about it, I’ve never seen her out on a date. A male date, that is. Maybe I’ve
seen her on a date and didn’t know it. I’m ashamed to say this, but I assumed since she was so gorgeous that she was straight. I told Barbara that and she gave me one hell of a lecture on stereotyping. I should know better.”
“I do it, too,” he said, his mind racing.
“Cathy Lowery just left here. She’s here for a few days to check up on her father. I wanted to talk with her about this, but I just couldn’t make myself bring it up. I don’t know if she has any idea that her daughter might be gay.”
“Ann, leave that to me,” Lark said with concern.
After some discussion about the weather, Lark hung up and called Brian Foltz. While the phone was ringing, he told Lacey he’d fill her in on the details once they got downstairs. He left a message on Brian’s answering machine and they went down to see if there was any food left.
The dining room was packed. Two smiling men raced back and forth behind the bar, serving drinks. A hostess was taking names for the dining room. She told them it would be a forty-five-minute wait, but gestured towards the seating area behind the bar as a spot where they could relax until their table was called.
Despite the crowd, Lark was able to get a beer for each of them while Lacey found a small table near the sliding-glass doors to the deck. They had a nice view of the massive stone fireplace that crackled with a warm, cozy fire.
“Isn’t this incredible?” she said. The deck was infused with a glow from the perimeter floodlights. Silvery icicles hung off the gutters and the railing was heaped with at least a foot of snow. The woods beyond the deck, a mixture of white birch, pine, and bare hardwoods, sparkled with layers of snow. Fine flakes of snow continued to pelt down.
“It’s great if you don’t have to shovel it or deal with accidents as the result of it,” Lark said, lounging down in his chair and watching the snow. “This is going to be a real bitch for us and the road crews. If it keeps up, we’ll be lucky to get out of here tomorrow.”
“Worse things could happen,” she said, sipping her beer.
Lark studied her profile, wondering what was on her mind. He couldn’t get the information Ann had just given him off his.
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