Black Otter Bay (33 page)

Abby studied the lights and skyline and harbor spread out for miles below them. It was beautiful, and at this distance looked peaceful and safe. She moved over against the door, avoiding Arlene's sightline in the rearview mirror. Now that the adrenaline rush had passed, she felt the heavy cloak of exhaustion wrapping itself around her. Ultimately, it didn't matter who was chasing them. Arlene was in charge now.

Abby let her head loll against the seat, half-heartedly picking out landmarks in the dazzle of lights below. As beautiful as it was, she'd had enough. She closed her eyes, rocking against the headrest and door, her thoughts moving forward in anticipation of the relative safety and familiarity of the great forests back home.

Marlon Fastwater

T
he postmistress laughed and tossed her crib cards at the cribbage board. She'd won again, making whatever points she might have in the crib meaningless.

“I swear, Mrs. Bean,” Sheriff Fastwater declared, “your luck is absolutely unconscious.” The outcome may have already been decided, but he picked up the crib cards anyway just to see what was there, “Look at this,” he said. “Another eight points.” He threw the cards down, shaking his head in disgust.

“Now, don't start in with your whining,” Mrs. Bean scolded, eyes twinkling as she gathered up the cards. “What is it that's so upsetting, the fact that you've been playing for about thirty years longer than me? Or is it because I'm a woman?”

He scoffed. It irked him when she talked like that. “It's your unconscious luck, that's all. You have no strategy, but then you get all the cuts anyway.”

“Well, don't forget you're the one who taught me to play.” Mrs. Virginia Bean slid an index finger along the cribbage board to count up her margin of victory. “Thirty-one cents, Marlon,” she announced. She moved some of her dinner dishes out of the way to locate her bank, an old cough lozenge tin full of coins. “You barely made it off Third Avenue this time,” she added.

Ignoring her last smart-aleck comment, the sheriff opened the middle drawer of his desk and counted out change from the pencil holder. “I'll have to write you an I.O.U.,” he said, fingering the coins. “There's only eighteen cents here.”

“I broke the bank?” Mrs. Bean clapped her hands and laughed. “You know, you really shouldn't be gambling if you can't afford to lose.”

At the sound of her clapping, Gitch got up from his rug beside the desk and walked a slow lap around them. He ended up at the door, looking back at Fastwater. The sheriff eyed him while commenting to the postmistress, “Even Gitch is happy to have his office back. I don't know how many times his tail got stepped on when this place was overrun with federales and volunteers. What a circus.”

“I think we're all grateful for a little peace and quiet,” she said.

Fastwater got up to let the dog out. The crock-pot on the desk still emitted the glorious aroma of meatballs in barbecue sauce, even though they'd shut it off some time ago. Gitch had eaten a fair share of them himself, probably adding to his lethargic behavior this evening. When the sheriff stepped away from the desk, Mrs. Bean did a quick straightening up, collecting napkins and paper plates for the trash.

Standing in the doorway, Fastwater inhaled the fresh breeze off Lake Superior, letting the cool night air caress him. Gitch plodded into the parking lot, keeping his nose down as if some exotic scent had captured his interest. The sheriff knew this game, and resigned himself to letting it play out. The big dog moseyed along, occasionally swinging his head far enough around to keep an eye on the sheriff to make sure he wasn't being followed. He sniffed along the side of the squad car and then paused near the rear wheel, lifting a leg to do his business against the tire.

“Real funny, you old mutt,” Fastwater called. “Just see how many meatballs you get next time.”

Gitch gave him a last look, then wandered off to inspect the perimeter of the parking lot. Fastwater continued standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, the door propped open against his shoulder. Behind him, Mrs. Bean asked, “What do you hear from Matthew? He hasn't picked up his mail in a day or two.”

The sheriff took a final deep breath of the cool, damp air, and then rejoined the postmistress inside. “I think he's just trying to focus on work and staying busy. They say that can help.”

“That's a load of you-know-what,” she said, suddenly standing up and becoming more animated in her housekeeping. The sheriff stood back, watching while she stuffed the trashcan and used a napkin to scrub at spilled barbecue sauce. “I can tell you what that man needs,” she continued, as if talking to herself. “He needs someone to look after him, and I don't know why he can't see Marcy standing right there in front of him.”

“Now, Mrs. Bean . . .”

She waved him off and turned to face him with a withering glower. “All you men are just alike, so macho and self-sufficient. I suppose he expects Abby to keep that place running.”

“Matthew does a good job with those kids.”

Mrs. Bean glared at him, but didn't dare utter the thought that came to both of them. She seemed to back off then, and took her seat beside the desk with a sigh. “I'm sorry, Marlon. I just feel so bad for them.”

“Well, we all do.”

“I know, I know. It's just that Marcy could be such a comfort to him right now. And Abby—who is she supposed to turn to?” Mrs. Bean paused to take a breath, looking a little lost amid the clutter of the sheriff's office. “All I'm saying is, Matthew and Marcy belong together. They're just alike, and neither one of them will ever leave this town. She's not like Jackie, who was trying to get away from here as soon as she arrived.”

Fastwater remembered the looks Marcy gave Matthew in the café. Maybe Mrs. Bean was right about them, but he doubted that Matthew had a clue. “Now, don't be so hard on Jackie,” he said. “You know that Abby is staying with her for a few days.”

“In Duluth? Are you kidding me? Abby hates Duluth.”

“Well, it was her idea.”

“And Matthew is okay with it?”

Fastwater shrugged. “I suppose. What's he going to do, forbid her from visiting her mother?” He started for the door again, but stopped to add, “Marcy took her down there. She and
Abby convinced Matthew that it would be okay. They're kind of hanging out together.”

It took a moment, but the smile finally bloomed on Mrs. Bean's face. She started to speak, but the sheriff cut her off. “Now, don't go making more out of it than it is. Marcy is just trying to be a good neighbor, and a friend to Abby.”

The postmistress closed her cribbage coin tin, a self-satisfied grin lighting up her face. Fastwater could see her mind whirling as she adjusted items on the desk. He couldn't stop the rebuke. “All you women are just alike, so conniving and meddling.”

She pulled her woolen postal sweater off the back of the chair and draped it over her shoulders. Flipping her hair away from her neck and out over the collar, she sat up straight and fixed him with her merry blue-eyed gaze, as if everything was once again right with the world. “Okay, Marlon, fair enough. Touché.”

He shook his head and went back to the door to watch for Gitch. For the most part he enjoyed the evenings he spent with the postmistress. She could be a little pushy at times, perhaps a bit too opinionated for his quiet nature, but the fact remained that he looked forward to sharing a dinner with her, or a walk down along the shore. He appreciated her companionship, and the intimacy of sharing their daily exploits and gossip. He even had to admit that as irritating as it was to lose to her, he enjoyed their cribbage games over his desk in the office. She'd picked up on the subtleties of the game very quickly, and although he'd never admit it to her, she was a good player.

He spotted Gitch sitting by the entrance to the parking lot, gazing down the hillside toward Lake Superior. The dog tipped his nose up, as if picking up on a scent or listening to a strange sound beyond the sheriff's ability to hear. A sudden gust of wind blew past, and a chill rattled down Fastwater's spine. He shook himself as goosebumps rose on his arms. Peering into the darkness around the side of the office, up into the
woods and the graveyard beyond, his intuition warned of ill tidings roaming the forested countryside. Whatever it was, evil motives or just bad news, he knew that it was coming his way.

And then the phone rang.

He jumped and turned much too quickly. He could see in Mrs. Bean's face that his reaction had startled her more than the ringing of the phone. Striding across the room, he held his breath in an attempt to compose himself. He allowed his shoulders to slump in apparent disregard, while his thoughts coalesced around the certainty that this was no ordinary phone call.

“Sheriff Fastwater,” he said into the phone.

“Hey, Marlon. I wasn't sure you'd still be up at the office.”

“Ike?”

“Glad I caught you. I'm on my way up. Can you stick around for a while?”

Earl Eikenberry was a forensic pathologist in Duluth, and a good friend of the sheriff's. Fastwater looked at Mrs. Bean, and when he noted that she was studying him with a curious eye, he turned away, and said, “Of course, Ike. Come on up.” He lowered his voice and mumbled, “You got something?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. But you have to see it. I'm already on the road. I'll be there in thirty minutes.”

Fastwater's thoughts blurred over. He held the phone to his ear like a small dumbbell, nearly crushing it in his hefty palm. He directed his attention to any spot in the room other than Mrs. Bean's eyes. Ike had found something. What did this mean?

“Marlon? You still there? I'm not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Yeah. I mean no, you're not interrupting,” the sheriff blurted, unaware that he was nodding into the phone. “I mean, yeah, I'll be here.”

“Okay, buddy. Ciao.”

Fastwater put the phone down. He wanted to move, needed a physical outlet to override the premonitions of dread and ill will.

“Was that your friend Earl?” Mrs. Bean asked, as if reminding him that she was still there.

“Yeah, Ike. He's going to be stopping by.” Trying to hide an involuntary shudder, the sheriff flashed on a picture of Floating Bird, his grandmother, and then shook off the remnants of his intuitive vision. Abruptly, he was all business, stalking to the door to call Gitch while running his fingers along his belt in an unconscious inventory of equipment. Back at his desk, he picked up his cell phone. No messages. Should he call Leonard?

“Well, I should be getting along anyway,” Mrs. Bean said. “Tomorrow is another day in the post office.”

“I'll walk you home,” Fastwater said, his thoughts still reeling. He had no idea what Ike may have found, but he trusted his intuition enough to know that it was important. “Just let me finish clearing away the trash, and I'll take the garbage out on our way.” He could feel the postmistress watching his every move, and even Gitch seemed to have overcome his lethargy. He paced around the room with renewed energy, anticipating the walk that he knew was coming.

When they'd finished picking up, Fastwater tied off the garbage and took a last look around the office. His gaze finally fell on Mrs. Bean, and he couldn't help but return her smile of affection. That was another thing he appreciated about her—she seemed to know when to back off. She'd get all the gossipy news out of him soon enough, usually before anyone else, but when he was in the middle of it, she allowed him his space.

“Come on, Gitch,” the sheriff called. “We're on escort duty tonight.”

The big dog bounded up to Mrs. Bean, nosing her hand to hurry her along, and then trotted over to the door.

“Okay, Gitch. I'm coming,” she said, smiling at his impatience. She hooked an arm through the sheriff's, and then the three of them stepped outside into the mellow glow of the parking lot's flood lamp.

• • • • •

A
short time later, when headlights flashed through the parking lot, Gitch ran to the window to see who was coming. The sheriff didn't often get visitors arriving by car, and Gitch usually recognized the few vehicles that did pull in. He never barked at them. When Gitch spotted a friend approaching, his tail began wagging and he'd whine in anticipation. On the other hand, when a stranger pulled in, the doge would strike a rigid pose at the window, his front paws on the sill, and emit barely audible, deep-throated growls.

But it was dark out now, and the headlights made it impossible to get a glimpse of the car, so Gitch assumed his position at the window and emitted a growl, all while trying to keep his tail from wagging. The growl soon rolled into a whine, and then he looked back at the sheriff sitting at his desk.

“It's okay, Gitch. That's our friend, Ike.”

Fastwater came out from around the desk and the two of them went to the door. The sheriff let the dog out, and Gitch bounded into the parking lot to greet their visitor.

Earl Eikenberry was a tall man with an athletic build, and a smile full of large, white teeth that lit up under the glow of the flood lamp. His teeth were crooked, but only slightly so, and not enough to be homely. Instead, they seemed to enhance and accentuate his virile, masculine good looks.

“Hey ya, Marlon,” he said, reaching out a hand to shake. “It's good to see you.” In his other hand he carried a soft-sided canvas bag, like a toolbox. “And here's my pal, Gitch!” The big dog stood on his hind legs to nuzzle the offered chin, while Ike wrestled him into a staggering bear hug.

“Come on in,” the sheriff said, holding the door. He wished this was a simple social visit. He'd offer his friend a beer, maybe a shot of something stronger, and they'd swap some stories and jokes about the old days. But Ike was here on business tonight. He had news to share, and Fastwater was anxious to hear it.