Dead Madonna

by Victoria Houston

  “Oh yeah.” Osborne waited as the wind buffeted. Then, at what he thought was the tail end of a gust, he raised his fly rod and backcast with a power snap, only to hear Lew shout: “Duck!” He did, barely avoiding hooking himself in the head.

  Lew was laughing. “You’ll get the hang of it. The good thing is we’re only twenty minutes from the hospital—and they got a whole wing dedicated to hook removal, doncha know.”

  “Very funny,” said Osborne, raising his rod again. He was determined to make this work. He waited. A gust blew hard from directly behind, then eased off. Raising his right arm, Osborne launched a backcast, only to have the line snapped up, whipped around and spit out by a monster of a crosswind. Fly line, leader, tippet and trout fly spun crazily until all ended up in a massive knot, a knot so dense it would take days, possibly months, even years to unravel. Osborne stared at it. A lot of words came to mind—every one challenging him to be morally flexible.

  They found shelter from the wind just past the opening to the creek. Sitting on a hummock under a stand of young balsam, Lew worked at his knot while Osborne set out wedges of cheddar cheese and crackers. She hadn’t had the easiest time casting either, though she hadn’t destroyed her equipment. And so they made the decision to give up on Big Pine and head for quieter water.

  “Tell you what, Doc,” said Lew, clipping away and digging deep into various pockets on her fly-fishing vest, “I’ve got the fly line okay and we’ll just tie on a new leader and some tippet. Forget the rest of this.”

  “What about the Muddler?”

  “We’ll sacrifice it. Not the first trout fly you’ve lost.” She grinned in sympathy, then reached for one of the crackers he’d prepared. “Something I forgot to tell you earlier, by the way. While the Wausau boys were getting started on the Curry place this morning, I happened to check the refrigerator and took a good look at Gwen Curry’s supply of medication since she didn’t take all of it with her when she left last night. Turns out she mail-orders from Universal Medical Supplies.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Osborne.

  “I thought so. I called Rick Meyerdierk and asked him to check the dates on her recent orders, and if those orders were called in.”

  “You’re thinking of Nora Loomis?”

  “Um-hmm. I’m remembering the unmistakable sound of a shredder and that Nora thought she heard a couple fighting. What if Gwen is lying? What if she knew all along that her husband was a little too interested in DeeDee? What if what Nora overheard was Hugh confessing to Gwen that he had killed DeeDee and it was the fight that followed that was on that tape?”

  “Which would make Gwen an accomplice.”

  “Certainly changes things. I just … I don’t trust the woman. So maybe I’m being ornery because I don’t want to make it easy for her. Does that make me a bad person?” Lew gave a sheepish grin.

  “I wouldn’t feel bad about it if I were you,” said Osborne. “Better to have every question answered, every possibility examined. You’re not being ornery, you’re doing your job, Lewellyn.” She kissed him.

  They pushed the kayaks back into the stream. A slight current carried them forward and the tamaracks lining the bank, their roots happy in the wetland border, provided good cover from the wind. Whether it was the wind that had fine-tuned his casting skills, Lew’s kiss or the new leader and tippet along with his favorite dry fly (an Adams Wulff Size 10), Osborne wasn’t sure—but to his surprise he could make his fly go right where he wanted it to. No belly in the line this time and a silent, delicate presentation of his trout fly.

  And then, in a small, quiet pocket of water less than a quarter mile downstream, he made another discovery: the biggest fish were in the least likely spot. Not only did he set the hook on a nine-inch brookie, he followed that success with a stunning twenty-one-inch brown trout! Lew, pleased for him, refused to let him release the fish before she could take a photo.

  As she handed the camera back, he heard a sound off in the distance—familiar but unexpected. A low rumble, it added to the pleasant haze of the summer evening. Even the temperature was easing off. “Whaddya think that noise is, Lew?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the trout fly he was mending with short, quick flicks of his rod. Never had he felt so at one with the world around him: water, fly rod, trout fly and the woman in the kayak ahead. Life doesn’t get much better than this, he was thinking as she answered.

  “Not sure, Doc,” said Lew, her voice happy as she set the hook on a ten-inch brook trout. “I was told there were no rapids in here.” Unworried, they let the kayaks drift and kept casting. The lake may have been a disappointment but this creek was rich with fish. For a while, neither of them noticed that the rumble was growing closer.

  CHAPTER 29

  Osborne was so pleased with his tight fly line and so focused on mending the Adams Wulff dry fly across the riffles and eddies in the stream that he didn’t notice his kayak was picking up speed. The wind, though rebuffed by the tamaracks bordering the stream, found plenty of opportunity to roar high overhead and mask the sound of distant waters.

  Neither Lew nor Osborne heard the rapids until they rounded a bend. Just five hundred feet ahead the stream split around an island of exposed rock ringed with half-submerged boulders. From a distance, the narrow chutes on each side of the outcropping appeared to drop maybe six inches or so. Osborne wasn’t worried. He’d canoed Class Three rapids, which made these look easy.

  “My guess is a foot drop at the most, Doc,” said Lew. “Shouldn’t be bad—” Before she finished speaking, her kayak took on a life of its own, leaping into the swirling waters. “Watch your fly rod through the chutes,” she cried. “Try to keep it out of those branches!”

  “I will—don’t worry, Lew,” shouted Osborne over the water, which now roared louder than the wind. “Uh-oh.” In slow motion he watched the front of Lew’s kayak tip up, up and over. An instant later, he hit the same hidden rock, the bow of his kayak airborne for a split second then tipping sideways, spilling him into the rushing water.

  The current was hard and fast, pounding. This is not good,’ he thought. At first the water seemed about two feet deep and he was buffered as he held tight to the back end of the kayak—but the water level changed and the current slammed him onto sharp, rough rocks. The kayak righted itself but it was fast filling with water. Osborne slammed his fly rod into the boat and grabbed on with both hands.

  The pounding on his lower body and legs was severe, and all he could think was, when is this going to stop? I think I might die …

  As his head hit a rock, light exploded, blinding his eyes. I’m dead … no, not yet. He drifted into semi-consciousness. Time slowed. He hung on, waiting to feel his bones break—they would if he didn’t find deeper water. The bank! He had to get to the bank. Out of the merciless current.

  One slippery toehold after another, he forced his way off to the left, out of the water pulling him through the minefield of river rock. All of a sudden the water was up to his chest and he was struggling to gain a footing when he saw his life jacket, his fishing vest, and his sweatshirt float from the kayak. He reached into the kayak and grabbed for his camera only to let it drop as his glasses floated by. He lunged for those instead. Glasses in one hand, he reached out again for the camera. In that second, his kayak was swept back into the stream and on its way without him.

  “Lew!” Osborne scanned the bank ahead to see if she’d made it. No sign of her. He took a deep breath, felt for broken bones. Then, grabbing one tag alder branch after another, he pulled himself through the deep holes along the bank and around a bend. The stream bed gave way to a shallow, sandy bottom making it possible for him to haul himself up and around until he could see downstream.

  On the opposite bank was a dry, sandy stretch of shoreline. Lew lay there, face down, not moving. Breathing hard, Osborne’s voice croaked as he called out, “Are you okay? Lew?”

  She raised her head slightly. He pushed himself to his knees, thankful he could get
that far, then onto his feet. Determined not to fall and be dragged again, he staggered across the shallow, rushing water on shaky legs. As he bent over Lew, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, a grimace of pain on her face. “Doc, are you okay?”

  “I have no goddamn idea. I’m alive, I’m upright. What about you? Is anything broken?”

  “Not sure. Just … no … strength.” She pulled herself sideways and lowered her head onto the sand. “I need to catch my breath.”

  “Lie still.” He ran his hands down her limbs, feeling for trouble. The fishing shorts and sandals made it easy to see and palpate long, red scrapes running from her knees to her ankles. “No bones broken, Lew. But we’re both very badly bruised.”

  “Let me try getting up, Doc,” said Lew, bracing herself on her arms and pushing up onto her knees.

  “Take it easy, sweetheart.” Osborne dropped onto the ground beside her. “Let’s just sit still for a few minutes. I’m exhausted.”

  “Wait’ll I talk to the sonofabitch who told me this was calm water,” said Lew, pushing her wet hair back from her face. “Man, I am so pissed. Our kayaks are gone—what about your fly rod?”

  “Last I saw it was in the kayak, but then everything else I had in there was dumped. I don’t know but I couldn’t hold on. What about you?”

  “Me neither. And I made the big mistake of taking my fishing vest off when we were on the lake, so that’s gone along with my cell phone and everything. But the hell with all that. Jeez, Doc, I thought for a minute there I was going to get us both killed. I mean, really, we’re lucky our skulls weren’t fractured on those rocks.”

  “I have to say that crossed my mind, too.” They looked at each other and burst into laughter. Long, hard, semi-hysterical laughter.

  Finally Lew wiped the tears from her eyes, wriggled her toes as she dumped the sand from her sandals and said, “So where the hell do we go from here?”

  “Well …” Osborne got to his feet and reached out his hand, “depends on whether or not you can stand up.”

  “I’ll try. I have to say, laughing made me feel better.” She got to her knees first, then onto one foot and the other. “I think I got it,” she smiled. “But, man, am I banged up. I hurt!”

  “We’ll feel worse tomorrow,” said Osborne. “Look, the sun is in the west and I know from the Gazetteer that this creek runs parallel to the channel to Mirror Lake—the one Mason calls “the secret passage”—so I think we ford the stream here where it’s shallow and head due south. We’re bound to run into the channel and, if we have to, we’ll swim up to Mirror Lake.”

  “Darn,” said Lew, “if it weren’t for all the wetlands back in here, we’d have a shot at a logging road.”

  After fording the stream, they pushed through a wall of young popple, which gave way to a shadowed ravine guarded by old hemlocks and much easier to walk. The canopy of ancient trees had long blotted out the sun, so there was little overgrowth on the forest floor. Soon they were facing the edge of a swampy stretch of tamarack and black spruce. Osborne’s watch had stopped working but he figured they had at least another hour or more of light.

  Spotting a berm that was less forested, they decided to detour slightly in order to pull themselves up onto it. “Whoa, what is this?” said Lew, once they were standing on top. “Looks like we found an old logging lane after all.”

  “Sure does. Someone’s been in here recently, too,” said Osborne. “What do you think—do we continue towards the channel or reverse to see where this old road leads?”

  “Let’s keep straight. We know the channel can’t be far. But a road like this could wind back a couple miles at least. I’d just as soon find a place that’s familiar.”

  “I agree. Chances are excellent we’ll see some kayakers on the channel who can help us out.”

  They headed southwest, relieved to have an easier path. They hadn’t been walking five minutes when the logging lane came to an abrupt end at the back of an old barn. From the outside, the barn looked abandoned—the wood weathered a deep gray and windows shuttered.

  Walking around to the front of the building, they found a footpath that twisted its way through a cedar swamp of slash and tamarack, then down a steep bank to water: the channel to Mirror Lake. “Hey, Doc, we did it,” said Lew, standing on the bank. “And look,” she pointed to where grasses growing along the shore had been crushed. “Someone’s been pulling a boat in and out of here. Maybe we can hitch a ride?”

  “Lew, I’m going to see what’s in that barn back there. You never know—could be an old fishing boat stored in there.”

  “Yep, worth a peek. I’ll keep watch here in case somebody comes by.”

  One push at the old door at the front of the barn and it swung open. To Osborne’s surprise, a full half of the interior was filled with brand-new packaged goods—the boxes resplendent with colorful replicas of their contents and stacked carefully one on top of the other. The remaining space was packed with wooden crates and flattened cardboard shipping containers. An old wooden worktable running along one wall held spools of packing tape, tools and sorted stacks of shipping labels.

  Osborne stepped outside. “Lew, get up here,” he hollered, “you won’t believe what’s in this place.”

  “Better be good,” said Lew as she walked up from the water, “‘cause I don’t want to walk any more than I absolutely have to.” He held the door for her to walk in. “—Oh!”

  Together they walked down the center of the barn, amazed at the contents of the boxes. “Look at this—” said Osborne, waving an arm, “dozens of computers, boxes and boxes of iPods … Just look at all these video games, Lew. And, here—flat screen TVs. This place is packed with electronics! Thousands of dollars worth.”

  “Tens of thousands of dollars worth—a warehouse of electronic toys! Stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Can you imagine a kid walking in here—”

  “I think they have—I’ll bet you anything Mason has been here. She’s been telling everyone about the hidden treasure she found kayaking up the Secret Passage.”

  “Honest to Pete,” said Lew, hands on her hips and shaking her head as she looked around. “Why would someone want to store their merchandise way out here? And who owns this place, I wonder?”

  “I vaguely remember a proposal submitted to the town board a couple years ago,” said Osborne. “An elderly woman from Milwaukee who inherited a chunk of property in this area had the crazy idea of building a shopping mall right along the channel here. The idea was absurd, of course—the wetlands surrounding this small peninsula are not buildable and the town board was not going to allow her to bring in fill. Looks to me like she found a use for her property after all.”

  “Or maybe she rents it out,” said Lew. “Take a look, Dr. Osborne.” She pointed at an opened cardboard box that had been set down near the door. The address on the label read: “Gwen Curry; 5317 Mirror Lake Road; Loon Lake, Wisconsin 54545.”

  “Gwen Curry?! This must be her eBay operation,” said Osborne.

  “And these must be her cell phones,” said Lew, pointing to a stack of boxed phones. “And pre-paid phone cards, too. Tidy operation.” An unboxed phone lay next to the stack, its charger plugged into an outlet on the worktable. Lew picked it up and reached for one of the phone cards. “I’m going to call for help first, then we’ll try Mrs. Curry.”

  Lew was punching in the non-emergency number of the Loon Lake Police switchboard when Osborne saw a bright flash at the window and heard a rustling outside the open barn door. Walking over to the window, he peered out but an overgrown bush obscured the view. He stepped outside only to see a flicker of something dark disappear down the path leading to the water. A deer? Maybe a bear? A mother and two cubs had been sighted in the area.

  Curious as to what he had seen, Osborne decided to chance running into a bear. Alert to any sign of the sow, he followed the path to the bank only to catch sight of a lone canoe heading off towards a far bend in the channel. The sun was so low all he could
see was a silhouette.

  Though the canoe was already a good hundred yards away, Osborne called out. Maybe it was the swish of paddle in water, maybe it was the evening breeze blowing in the opposite direction, but it was apparent that he wasn’t heard. The dark figure in the canoe, its back to Osborne, rounded the bend and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 30

  Friday morning arrived too soon. Osborne moved with care from the bed. Steady doses of ibuprofen had done little to relieve the soreness in his lower back and legs. He stretched, then stretched again. The first cup of coffee helped. He called Lew.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” he said. “Old. Very, very old, Doc. I may be in one piece but I am moving s-l-o-o-w. Just called Marlene. She patched me through to Dan Wright, who spent the night in town. He said they figure they have half a day to go before they’ve sorted through everything in that house—still no money or trace of it.”

  “And Gwen?”

  “Dan said they are letting her in late this morning when they’ve finished. No one wants anything to do with that dog—it lunged at one of the guys trying to feed it yesterday. If I feel better this afternoon, I want to sit down and listen to that tape from Universal Medical again. Knowing Gwen ordered from there has changed my perspective on that. It’s bugging me.”

  “Don’t rush it, Lew. You got beat up pretty bad.”

  “How’s your head, Doc? That’s quite a bump you have.”

  “I iced it before I went to bed but it’s sore. Lew, if you feel better later, would you join me for fish fry this evening?”

  “Can I get back to you on that? I’m taking the morning to make some calls from home and just take it easy for a while. My shins are black and blue from the knees down to my ankles.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “I called my friend over in the Department of Natural Resources who recommended that stream, and guess what?” “We kayaked the wrong one?”