“Keep going, Doc, and don’t worry. I would break the lock if I had to—hard to believe this belongs to those two jokers. I have to wonder if it’s stolen…. ”
“I doubt it. I mean they introduced themselves. Would they do that if they had a stolen vehicle sitting here?”
“Doc, you need to spend more time in my line of work—you won’t believe the level of stupidity, but you could be right. Still, bears checking out.”
Once inside, Osborne groped along the wall for a light switch. “Holy cow,” said Lew as light flooded the interior. “Do you believe this?”
The small entry, floored in granite, opened to a full living room suite furnished with a curved sectional sofa and a matching armchair and ottoman—all upholstered in buttery, pale yellow leather. Scattered across a dark hardwood floor were several small Oriental rugs, giving the room a rich, expensive look. Gleaming brass light fixtures hung from the ceiling.
Osborne thought of Bert’s black pants. “Those guys not only do not own this, they don’t even get to sit here,” he said.
Lew chuckled. “Like I said—something isn’t right.”
She opened a door off to the left. It was the room that had been pushed out from the interior and it served as a bedroom. Clever design of a double Murphy bed along with a narrow table and one lamp made it easy to see how the room could fold in for highway travel.
A beat-up duffel, unzipped, rested on the floor beside the bed. Lew knelt and rummaged through it quickly. Pulling out a checkbook, she flipped it open—”Belongs to Mr. Bert,” she said as she paged through the check register. “Interesting—small deposits and just two days ago he put in six thousand dollars. Six thousand bucks?” She looked up at Osborne. “Bert? That’s a lotta loose change for a guy who looks like he can’t afford to get his clothes cleaned.”
She flipped back a couple pages. “Here’s another one—an eight-thousand-dollar deposit on June twelfth. Then ATM withdrawals drawing it down real fast … lives in Mercer, all right.” She shoved the checkbook back in the duffel.
Next to the duffel was a large cardboard box, the flaps folded closed. Lew pulled them open and peeked in. “Chrome parts of some kind, Doc.” She pulled one out. It was cased in clear plastic with a sticker on the outside: “Gear Shift Control Cover—for a motorcycle maybe?” She shrugged and put it back, then pushed around the contents of the box. “More of the same.”
“They must be delivering this RV for someone,” said Osborne.
“That makes sense. Let’s look fast before they drink that six-pack and head back here.”
Moving quickly to the back of the living room area, Lew opened a door leading into a small hallway. At one end was a stainless steel kitchen with a bar area for dining. A door off the hall before the kitchen opened into a bathroom, long and outfitted with ceramic tiles, gold-plated fixtures, a Jacuzzi, and a skylight. Bert’s dop kit sat on the counter along with a can of hair spray.
“This place cost money,” said Osborne. “Lots of money.”
“Listen.” Lew cocked her head.
A faint gurgling came from the rear of the RV. Opening a door at the back of the kitchen, they found another hallway with a door to a bedroom—this one also pushed out the side of the trailer and was furnished with collapsible twin beds and zoo patterns on the wall, obviously designed for children. A well-scuffed dark brown Samsonite suitcase, overflowing with worn socks and underwear, stood half open against the wall.
“Harold,” said Lew. Again, she rummaged through quickly. “Just clothes and these.” She held up two birthday cards. “Looks like Harold’s got a girl.”
“Or a mother.”
“No-o-o, not these cards.”
A small bathroom also opened off the hall, this one with a shower. Still, the gurgling noise continued to come from somewhere farther back in the bus.
“Don’t tell me they travel with a washer and dryer,” said Lew. A utilitarian-looking handle to what appeared to be a small closet was all that remained unexplored.
“You can try that,” said Osborne, “but that’s where the spare tires are usually kept. I’ll bet the noise is coming from underneath—sounds like an air-conditioning unit, doesn’t it?” Lew tried the handle. The door slid open easily.
“It’s a closet all right,” she said, “but these are the strangest-looking tires I’ve ever seen.”
The space behind the small door was surprisingly deep. Approximately four feet by eight feet, the room held two livewells running the width of the RV. Barely enough space was allowed at each end and between the two for an adult to squeeze through. The gurgling came from the tanks. Lew got between the two and lifted the lid on the first livewell. “Take a look, Doc.”
As he peered in, she opened the top of the second tank. “Same.”
“What do you figure?” said Lew, “about thirty fish here? Well over the possession limit of Wisconsin and Michigan combined.”
“Good-sized, too. I see a couple must be close to four, five pounds. You don’t find smallmouths much bigger than that,” said Osborne. He squatted to look under the tanks. “They’ve got a good aeration system going—that’s what we hear—and from the looks of the refrigerator coils running along the base of both tanks, they’re keeping them plenty cold.”
“Which means these fish will stay healthy for quite a few days, don’t you think?” Lew reached in and lifted one of the fish up by its gills. She examined it closely: “One hook mark, almost healed.”
Returning the fish to the tank, Lew stepped back to look overhead. Shelving above the livewells held rolls of chicken wire, a tool box, and an empty minnow bucket. Osborne pulled the minnow bucket down and peered in. One dead crayfish floated in a puddle at the bottom.
“Let’s check out the driver’s area,” said Lew. “Boy, would I like to know who’s taking delivery of a very expensive RV and way too many smallmouth bass.”
“Being driven by two guys who can’t afford the tires,” said Osborne.
“Right.”
“But who might plant a few fish for the right price.”
“Right again. ‘Course we can’t prove that, can we?” Lew shook her head. “They could always say they’re planning a fish fry. This is gonna be a rough week, Doc. I’ve never known anyone to cheat by planting fish during a tournament…. ”
“You’ve never had a national tournament in Loon Lake—much less one with so much money at stake.”
The door to the driver’s seat was also open. The interior was spacious, nicely appointed with wood and leather, and held two bucket seats spaced quite a distance apart. On a table unit between them, anchored under two oversized paper cups from Burger King, was a partially folded map. Clipped to one corner of the map was a handwritten note. Lew scanned the note, then handed the map over to Osborne. While he read the note, she reached for a vinyl briefcase jammed into a pocket on the door on the passenger side.
“Take Highway 47 south to Rhinelander,” Osborne read, “at the juncture with Highway 8, take Business 8 into town, take a left on Highway 17, and follow that past McDonald’s to the Best Western Motel on the right. Park the RV there, check in to Room 58, and let the desk know that the vehicle is with you. Harold—be there by Wednesday noon.” The last sentence was underscored. The note was unsigned.
“At least we know they didn’t steal it,” said Lew. “Check this out.” She held up one of the papers from the briefcase. He recognized the logo, fishing hot spots. It was a hydrographie map of the structure, holes, and other features found in a body of water. Someone had taken a pencil to mark various sites.
Lew sorted through the papers quickly. “Looks like they’ve got maps for all seven lakes that’ll be fished in the tournament.” She shoved the packet back into the briefcase and stuck the case back in the door. “Wish I had more time to see what they’ve marked on these and why, but I’d just as soon not be in here when they get back.”
“And there is absolutely nothing illegal about two dedicated fishermen pla
nning ahead,” said Osborne.
“I almost wish I hadn’t lined Ray up on that other job,” said Lew. “He could come in quite handy with these two.”
“Maybe he’ll have a few minutes. Loon Lake is such a small town, I wouldn’t be surprised if he happened to run into those boys, would you?”
“Give him a call tonight, Doc? I’d love for him to chat up old Bert—enough to find out who he’s working for.” She backed out of the RV cab. “I guess when you own a rig like this, you can afford a professional driver, huh?”
“Last I heard you have to have a commercial license to drive one,” said Osborne.
“These razzbonyas? I’d be surprised if they had a fishing license.”
“I’m with you, but do you intend to press them on it tonight?”
“Not right this moment, and certainly not when I’m standing in another state. Nah, time to let some line out and see where old Bert and Harold run with it. That’s what I want to see. And I doubt I’m alone. I’m sure a certain game warden I know and the tournament officials will be very interested. Doc, let’s see if we can find the registration for this vehicle.”
“We better hurry,” said Osborne as Lew moved the paper cups and started to open the lid of the table between the seats. “Those boys may get lucky and be back here pretty darn soon.”
“You’re right.” She let the lid drop. “I’ll do a search on the license plate first thing tomorrow.”
eleven
“… the good of having wisely invested so much time in wild country…. ”
—Harry Middleton, Rivers of Memory
Just past ten-thirty Lew swung her truck into Osborne’s driveway. She had pushed the speed limit all the way back. For a brief moment, as they hurtled down Highway 45, Osborne considered inviting her to stay the night. But one look at her face and he thought better of that idea: She was all business.
Maybe she knew what was on his mind because she reached over to where his hand rested on the seat between them and gave it a friendly pat. “We have to talk,” she said. “Not tonight; I have too much on my mind. But soon.”
That was good enough for him.
“Doc, mind if I use your phone to check in?” said Lew, leaning toward him as he opened the door to get out. She had called in once already from a small gas station just over the state line. That was over an hour ago and the only news was that Roger was still at the hospital and that the girl had not regained consciousness.
“Go right ahead,” said Osborne. “Door’s open.” He grabbed his rod case and gear bag from the back of the truck and tucked the empty cardboard box under his arm. “I’ll see you inside. I’m going around to let the dog out.”
“Thanks.” Lew bounded up the stairs to his back door while Osborne let himself in the rear gate and hurried through the yard to open the dog run.
“Sorry, Mike,” he said to the hyperenthusiastic dog bouncing off the back of his legs, “I know you love me unconditionally but I need the Achilles. Sit.” He raised his right arm. The dog sat. “Good dog—heel.” Mike obeyed, tail wagging happily.
Running up the stairway in the dark, he flicked a switch on the outside wall that spilled light onto the deck behind him. As he did so, he heard a familiar scuttling in the bushes off to the lakeside of the deck. Mike gave a warning bark and Osborne turned toward the sound, but all he could see was the light reflecting off a foil-covered package set in the center of the patio table.
The parcel was safe from the inquiring nose of the black Lab—but only the dog. Some other critter had nosed its way under one edge of the foil. Osborne paused. He didn’t remember leaving anything on the table. Certainly not something that would draw raccoons.
“Well, Mike, what have we here?” As he lifted the foil, a toasty aroma floated up from a basket of golden fresh-baked dinner rolls: two, well-gnawed. They must have been set there still warm from the oven. No wonder that raccoon was hanging out. Now who on earth? Osborne shook his head. This was getting absurd.
Balancing the basket on top of the gear bag and backing his way in, he managed to elbow the patio door back far enough to let both himself and Mike through without dropping anything. Lew was already on the kitchen phone.
Osborne set his gear and rod down, then walked through the living room toward the kitchen, turning on lights as he went. He set the basket on the kitchen table. Just as he reached the door to the utility room where he kept Mike’s food, the headlights of a car swung across the kitchen windows. Erin?
She was out of the car and running before he could open the back door.
At the sight of Erin’s tearstained face, Lew excused herself from the phone conversation. With a quick wave of her hand, she indicated things were fine as far as Roger was concerned, then raised her eyebrows as if to ask if she should leave.
Erin answered for him, “No, Chief Ferris, please—don’t go. Dad, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but—” She pulled out a chair and plunked herself down at the kitchen table. Osborne finished scooping food into Mike’s dish, then walked over to his daughter. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. He could feel her whole body trembling, like Mike with a face full of porcupine quills. Erin reached up, putting her hand over his. He sat down beside her.
“I told Lew what the situation is, kiddo,” said Osborne. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, God, no, anything, anyone who can help me figure this out.”
Lew said nothing. Instead she crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter, her eyes fixed on Erin.
“Any news today?” said Osborne. “I tried to reach you earlier—”
“I was gone with the kids all morning. When we got back, I had a letter from Mark. He told me where he is, Dad. He’s at the hunting shack.”
“Thank God.” Osborne sat back. Only when he relaxed did he realize how tense he had been since Erin’s visit that morning. This sounded a hell of a lot better. Mark was hardly the first man to demand time out in the woods.
“And he’s borrowed twenty thousand dollars from our savings.”
“Twenty thousand dollars? You’re kidding.”
“To buy a motorcycle.”
“How can you spend that kind of money on a motorcycle?”
“A Harley-Davidson.” The expression on Erin’s face was a little too familiar.
“Better than another woman,” said Lew with a shrug. Osborne thought he saw a twinkle in her eye.
“You don’t think this is outrageous? That is money we have been saving for our children’s education,” said Erin, an edge of hysteria in her voice. She leaned forward on her elbows, both fists clenched.
An old bad feeling clutching at his chest, Osborne pushed his chair back from the table, away from his daughter. How many times had Mary Lee struck that identical pose? Angry with him, so very angry with him.
“Please, Erin, don’t be like your mother. Don’t do that to Mark.”
His daughter looked at him, stunned.
Osborne couldn’t believe what he had just said. Too late. She burst into tears.
“Oh my God, Dad. This is so bad. I’m really awful, aren’t I? My husband hates me, my kids hate me.” Face in her hands, she sobbed.
Lew reached for a box of Kleenex on the counter and set it on the table by Erin. She leaned back against the counter, crossed her arms again, and waited. She seemed quite unperturbed by the drama taking place around the table but then again Erin wasn’t her child.
“Now hold on a minute,” said Osborne. “No one hates you…. That’s not what I said.” He looked over at Lew for help.
“Erin,” said Lew, “how old are you?”
“Thirty, almost thirty-one,” said Erin, sniffling. She looked more like a tearful eight-year-old than a grown woman. She grabbed a hunk of Kleenex.
“How old is your husband?”
“Thirty.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eight years.”
“Have you had blowups lik
e this before?”
“Never.” As Erin spoke, she took a couple deep breaths. Her hysteria eased.
“So maybe all this is just a wake-up call—time to deal with things you’ve both been ignoring. Have the two of you seen a counselor or a therapist?”
“I did this afternoon.”
“And Mark?”
“He won’t, I don’t think. He said he knows all the shrinks in town because of his work and he hasn’t much respect for any one of them.”
Lew chuckled. “He’s got a point there.”
“And I know he’s been so stressed out at work, too.”
“I know a psychologist over in Minocqua who might be right for Mark,” said Lew. “A man. A northwoods type—he hunts, he fishes; who knows, he might even ride a motorcycle. Why don’t we try to get Mark an appointment with that guy? I’ll get you his name and phone number tomorrow. He does couples therapy, too.”
“Okay, if I tell him you like the guy, that might help. I know Mark has a lot of respect for you, Chief Ferris.” Erin wiped at her nose and her eyes. “Dad, why did you say that about Mom? That’s not fair. I’m not like her.”
Osborne looked at his daughter. “Do you want me to be honest?”
“Yes … I think.”
“Given that you grew up in this house, you got the best and the worst from both of us. So did your older sister.
Erin, your mother felt cheated. She always felt that I should have made more money, built a bigger house, had more things. Maybe she was right. The choices I made: to live in a little town, to go fishing on Wednesdays instead of scheduling more patients—”
“Dad, I know all that. I’m not that way. I wouldn’t be here if I was.”
“But you want a great deal from life.”
“What the hell is wrong with that?” Tears brimmed again.
Lew spoke up. “Nothing is wrong with that, Erin. Why don’t you take it easy on both you and your husband and just try to figure out what it is that each of you needs right now.”
“But a motorcycle?”
“Well, okay, when was the last time he went fishing?”
Dead Frenzy Page 9