Tremolo: cry of the loon
A Gus LeGarde Mystery
Aaron Paul Lazar
Copyright
Tremolo: cry of the loon by Aaron Paul Lazar
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 - 2017 by Aaron Paul Lazar. Originally published by Paladin Timeless Books, an imprint of Twilight Times Books, of Kingsport, Tennessee.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Second Edition, January, 2017
Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover by Design
www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk
Published in the United States of America.
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Devil’s Lake
Bittersweet Hollow, book 1
Two years ago, Portia Lamont disappeared from a small town in Vermont, devastating her parents and sister, who spent every waking hour searching for her. When she suddenly shows up on their horse farm in a stolen truck with a little mutt on her lap, they want to know what happened. Was she taken? Or did she run away?
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- Aaron Paul Lazar
Dedication
To my beloved grandparents
I love you and miss you.
‘Til we meet again.
Chapter 1
Summer, 1964
North Belgrade, Maine
I spun on my seat in the old wooden boat and glanced nervously across the lake. A bank of heavy fog had just rolled in, completely blocking the sun.
“Guys?” I turned to my two best friends who sat side by side in the stern. “I think we’d better head home.” A prickle of nerves raced up my spine. I’d heard stories of people lost in the fog for hours, days, even. And I sure didn’t want to be one of them.
Elsbeth slid closer to her brother, shivering. “Ja. Take us home, Gus.”
I turned the boat around and pointed it in the direction of Loon Harbor, my grandparents’ fishing camp.
Siegfried peeled off his sweatshirt and handed it to his sister. “You are cold,” he said.
“Danke.” She tossed him a grateful smile and put it on.
Wisps of vapor shrouded the boat and goose bumps rose on my arms. I took a deep breath and nodded to the ten-year-old twins with more confidence than I felt. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it.”
Elsbeth—who looked nothing at all like her blond, long-legged brother—drew the sweatshirt tightly around her. The sleeves were six inches too long and she shoved them up to free her hands. Peering at me through a mass of dark curls, she said, “What’s happening, Gus? Why is it so foggy in the middle of the day?”
I cast my eyes around the lake and then up to the sky. It had been sunny when we set out for Moosehead Island. I answered carefully, feeling responsible for the two since I was a full year older. “It happens sometimes, I’ve seen it before. But we’ll be fine.”
Elsbeth nodded and tugged the sweatshirt over her bare legs, her eyes darting with apprehension. “Okay. I hope you’re right. Our father will kill us if we’re late getting home again.”
“I know.” I stopped rowing and stared into the fog around us. I couldn’t see across the lake at all now, and just barely made out the trees on Moosehead Island. “Maybe I should just get us to shore for now.”
Siegfried turned and stared at the disappearing land, wrinkling his brow. “Where did it go?”
The island had vanished. “Crud.” Returning his somber gaze, I set the oars into the boat. Water dripped from the wooden paddles and pooled below.
The fog enveloped us completely.
I shifted on the seat cushion that doubled as a life preserver. Cracks in the vinyl chafed my bare thighs.
A loon warbled in the distance, his cry distorted to a hysterical giggle. Blind, we sat in the gently rocking boat and waited.
“It’s not a big deal,” I lied. “We can sit here ‘til it clears. And if we hear someone coming, we’ll just make some noise.”
“Ja, okay.” Siegfried ran his fingers through his long blond hair. It had grown over the tops of his ears since his last haircut. With each passing day, he looked more like the lead singer in Herman’s Hermits.
I was envious, and begged my parents to let me skip my weekly trim at the barbershop. So far, they hadn’t surrendered.
Although the twins had been in the States for six years, they still spoke with traces of a German accent. Siegfried, in particular, often combined phrases from both languages in the same sentence.
Elsbeth bolted upright and stared anxiously into the distance. “Listen.”
The faint drone of a motorboat purred in the background. Motionless, we listened. It growled louder, and it sounded like it was heading straight for us.
Siegfried’s blue eyes widened in alarm. “Move!” he shouted, gesturing to the oars.
I picked them up and spun the boat around, hoping to escape the oncoming boat. Yanking with all my strength, I rowed furiously, but felt disoriented. Which way was it really coming from? And even if I was rowing in the right direction, could we get away from it in time?
The thrum of the motorboat grew louder as it bore down on us.
We shouted, desperately trying to warn them. “Watch out!” Our shrieks were distorted and gobbled by the mist.
Shrill laughter rang out. I heard the boaters gun their engine. They were actually going faster now.
My heart sank to my bare feet. Horrified, I realized they must be either drunk or insane. Dragging hard on the oars until my arms burned, I propelled the skiff forward into the gray vapors.
A dark shape emerged from the fog and almost collided with our stern. The erratic driver barely avoided us, yanking on the motor handle to veer around our boat. Swearing, he accelerated back into the mist. His passengers shrieked with laughter, and the wake from their boat rocked us violently, causing us to skitter forward.
Without warning, a ripping crash knocked us from our seats.
Siegfried shouted, “Mein Gott. Look.”
Water gushed through a ragged tear in the bottom of the boat.
I stood to inspect the damage. It was bad. Very bad. Peering over the bow, I peered down. A glistening turquoise reflection loomed sullen beneath the surface. “Oh, crap,” I yelled. “We hit Big Blue.”
Elsbeth and Siegfried scuttled to the bow, staring at the monstrous boulder glimmering beneath the surface. Water began to swirl around our ankles.
“Mein Gott!” Elsbeth’s hands fluttered to her mouth. Frozen, she watched the water creep toward her knees.
Siegfried grabbed her floating red cushion and forced her hands through the loops. “Hold this, Elsbeth. Hold it tight.”
The water bubbled higher and the boat tilted forward, throwing us off balance.
&n
bsp; Siegfried snatched his green cushion and motioned for me to grab mine. It floated beside my legs. “Gus, we have to get out.”
My friend was right. We were sinking fast. “Come on,” I said with new purpose. “Let’s get out and stand on Big Blue.” I set one foot on the slimy boulder. It was slick beneath my toes, but I found my balance and reached back to help Elsbeth out of the boat. Siegfried followed.
In seconds, the boat disappeared.
I moaned softly. “My father’s gonna kill me.” I’d cared for the boat for the past three summers with the understanding that I’d return it to my grandfather in good shape at the end of the season.
Elsbeth said, “It wasn’t your fault the fog came in and those crazy people almost hit us. He’ll understand, won’t he?”
I hoped she was right.
We shivered knee deep in the water of the Belgrade Lakes, clutching the cushions to our chests.
“What’s that?” Siegfried said.
The voices of our parents echoed across the lake. Their words traveled in muted, garbled waves through the fog. “Gus! Elsbeth! Siegfried! Where are you?”
We shouted back in vain, yelling until we were hoarse, but our cries were consumed by the fog. Realizing it was futile, we stopped. Even if we knew which way to go, it was too far to swim. Had we been in the boat, I might have tried to row toward the sound of their voices, but as it was, we were stuck.
“Shoot,” I said, trying to hide the fear rumbling in my stomach.
“Scheisse,” muttered Siegfried, surprising me with the German profanity.
He jumped back and stared down at the water. “Mein Gott!”
Elsbeth yelped. “Oh! Something just touched my leg!”
“There. It’s a turtle.” I pointed to the large creature swimming between them. It surfaced slowly, its dark shell glistening with beads of water. I prayed it wasn’t a snapper.
Elsbeth screeched and jumped into the water, arms churning as she splashed away from it. Siegfried shouted to her, diving for her red cushion that bobbed in the opposite direction.
Fearing we’d be separated in the fog, I yelled and plunged after them. “Wait up! We’ve gotta stick together.”
Elsbeth and Siegfried joined hands.
“Come on, Gus,” Sig said.
I swam toward them. We linked arms above the triangle of floating seat cushions and treaded water. I gripped their hands and waited for the air to clear.
Chapter 2
Elsbeth began to cry.
The fog had condensed, turning thick and impenetrable as night fell. Our parents’ voices continued to warble through the mist, becoming fainter as we drifted away from them.
The water was warmer than the air, so we reconnected our grip beneath the floating cushions, looping them through the handles and grasping each other’s prune-wrinkled fingers.
“Don’t cry, Elsbeth,” I said. “It’ll just make you tired. You’ve gotta save your strength.”
I could barely see the outline of her head in the darkness.
She sniffled. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Sig seemed to brighten. “Hey. Maybe we should sing some songs? If anyone is near, they might hear us. And it’s more fun than shouting, nicht war?”
“Good idea,” I said.
Elsbeth piped up. “Ja. Let’s sing Beatle songs.”
The minutes passed as we struggled to avoid sleep, singing “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” “Can’t Buy Me Love,” and “Please, Please Me,” until our throats were sore. The camp waitresses who slept in the red cabin at the top of the hill had blasted the songs over the last few weeks. By now, we knew them all by heart.
The tunes billowed in the night air, punctuating our bizarre watery world with lost love and youthful yearning. My voice grew raspy, becoming weaker. I lay my head on the cushion. Exhaustion took hold as my eyes grew heavy and my lips slurred the words.
The faint sound of splashing washed through the night air. Slowly, I raised my head from the cushion, not sure if I could believe my ears.
Yes! I heard the soft sound of water lapping at a nearby shore. I squeezed the twins’ hands. “Guys? Did you hear that?”
“Ja.” Siegfried sounded excited. “Which way is it?”
Elsbeth piped up, “It’s over there. Come on, auf gehts.”
We paddled toward the welcome sound. Within minutes, our feet touched the soft, sandy bottom. Hurrying toward the dark shore, we climbed onto a granite boulder that stretched into the water under a canopy of white birches. We huddled close together for warmth.
“Now what?” Sig said.
“It’s so quiet. Where are all the people?” Elsbeth asked.
I strained to look into the pitch-black night. No lights shone through the fog. No aromas of grilling burgers wafted on the air. And no sounds of scampering children met our ears. Aside from the chorus of crickets and peepers, it was dead quiet.
I realized we were far from any campsites. “Maybe we’re on the west side of the lake, you know, where nobody lives? It’s where all the fisherman come to catch those big bass every year.
Sig nodded. “Ja. Maybe.”
“Either way, it looks like we’ll have to walk a bit to find someone. Come on. We’d better get going.”
Visibility was a mere three feet. We slid off the boulder onto the ground and picked our way carefully along a narrow shore trail. Occasionally we stepped over fallen trees blocking the way. When we’d trudged for about twenty minutes, I put an arm out to stop the twins. “Hold it,” I whispered.
Shivering, we stood barefoot on the pine needles that softened the trail.
A yellow light bobbed on the path ahead. Someone skittered toward us, running away from the flashlight. A wisp of a girl with long, blonde hair came into view.
The light wobbled as its owner approached. “Sharon!” a man’s voice roared. “Sharon, where are you?”
The girl nearly collided with us. Staring with huge, frightened eyes, she wiped at a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. Her slim body was silhouetted by the eerie glow of the light. She breathed hard, with palpable fear that sent a frisson of nerves down my spine. Swiftly, she raised a warning finger to his lips and shook her head, eyes pleading with me not to give her away.
Before we could speak, she panicked and veered into the woods.
A flicker of fear passed through me, but I froze. Siegfried pulled us both behind some bushes seconds before the man lurched past.
The stench of whisky and sweat filled the air. He bellowed and crashed over the path, treading unsteadily. “Sharon! Goddamn it, girl. Where are you?”
Sharon had disappeared.
After a few minutes of listening hard in the tense silence, we took a chance and returned to the trail, racing away from the drunk.
We alternately ran and walked for another hour, each of us out of breath by the time The Willows campground came into view. A pale light glowed over the door of the camp store, enveloped in a cloud of fluttering moths. We burst through the screen door and fell into the dry warmth.
The woman behind the counter nearly dropped the gallon of milk she was ringing up at the cash register. “Well, my heavens! What have we here?”
We babbled about the fog and the capsized boat and were soon surrounded by caring adults who wrapped us in blankets. Someone called Loon Harbor to alert our folks. We told the storekeeper about the girl and the man who’d been chasing her. Within a half hour, a deputy arrived. After questioning us about what we’d seen, he drove us through the dense fog to Loon Harbor, my grandparents’ rustic fishing camp, where our parents descended on us with concern and hot chocolate.
When I finally crawled under the woolen blankets in my small bedroom over the lake, Sharon’s face floated before me, sending shivers down my back. I had shared her fear as we’d trembled side by side in the dark woods. She was terrified. And hurt. The lout had hit her. I knew it.
I prayed to God, asking that he let her escape the madman. After an hour of tossi
ng and turning, I drifted off into fitful dreams.
Chapter 3
The blocks of ice masquerading as my feet woke me. They dangled over the side of the bed in the frigid morning air, almost numb. I commanded them back under the blankets, rubbed my legs together to generate heat, and snuggled deeper into my feather pillow. The early morning breeze lapped lake water against the rocks beneath my room with a rhythmic, soothing sound. The waves almost lulled me back to sleep, but the aroma of bacon and eggs wafted into my room, making my stomach rumble. Shadow poked his snout out from the covers and sniffed the air, allowing cold air to invade our warm pocket beneath the blanket.
I nudged him out from the blanket and re-tucked it around my legs, cocooning inside.
He whined and scooted up to my pillow, licking my face and poking his cold nose into my neck.
“Cut it out!” I laughed. I grabbed the blankets and pulled them over my head just as my mother’s voice called from the kitchen.
“You up, Gus? Breakfast is ready.”
I freed my head and shouted. “Yup. Be there in a sec.”
This time, Shadow snaked his head under my armpit and nuzzled me. I snorted a laugh, patted his head, and made a fuss over him, telling him what a good dog he was.
His eyes closed in ecstasy as my fingers ran down his long, floppy ears, stroking them over and over again. They were soft and silky and I loved the feel of them.
“Okay, boy. Time to get up.”
Throwing back the covers, I gingerly placed my feet on the cold wooden floor and reached to pick up the socks I’d worn for the past two days. I sniffed them and shrugged. “Good enough. They’re not walking on their own yet.”
Shadow followed me to the dresser, wagging his tail.
I pulled out a fresh shirt, jumped into the jeans hanging over the top of the chair, and then laced up my once-white Keds. My big toe almost poked through the right shoe. Last of all, I grabbed the flannel shirt on the hook behind the door, slipped into it, and buttoned it up. I trotted to the kitchen, where my mother stood over the gas stove, stirring eggs in bacon fat in a cast iron skillet. Raisin toast had just popped out of the toaster.
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