Black Otter Bay (39 page)

Abby reached for a handhold on the railing at the side of the boat directly across from Ben, when a painful groan attracted everyone's attention to the ground near Daniel's feet. Eddie held the side of his head and tried to sit up.

“Get in the boat now, Abby,” Randall commanded.

She hoisted herself up, straddled the railing, and looked behind her again. Eddie was on his feet, dazed and unsteady,
but when he spotted the gun in Randall's hand, he reached behind him for his own. Suddenly everyone began yelling and scrambling for cover. Eddie charged the boat, screaming, “What, were you planning to just leave me here?”

The gun in Randall's hand jumped, sending a reverberating explosion through the small room. Eddie staggered backward and sat down again on the cobblestone beach floor, this time with a stain of blood blossoming across his chest. He reached behind him in a daze, groping for the gun that wasn't there. Daniel knelt beside him, steadying the wounded man. By the time they looked back up at the boat, however, Randall had pulled the release lever, and the heavy boat dropped swiftly down the tracks into the water. The sudden movement flipped Abby over the railing, where she disappeared into the bottom of the boat.

A moment later, the big outboard motor fired up with a lusty rumble. Daniel lunged for the boat, charging into the water, but quickly lost his footing on the slippery underwater rocks. By clutching the bow of the boat he finally regained his balance, only to be knocked aside by another form leaping over the railing. In the darkness beyond the reach of the boathouse lantern, it looked like a wolf hurtling through the air. The animal barely grazed the railing before crashing into the interior of the boat. It all became clear when Sheriff Fastwater stepped around the side of the boathouse, using two hands to level his massive .44 Magnum at the drifting vessel. Over the grumbling of the idling engine, he yelled, “Shut her down, Randall. Shut her down or I'll blow it out of the water.”

To everyone's surprise, Randall laughed, cranked the steering wheel around, and shoved the throttle lever full forward. Fastwater's .44 began to speak, a deafening roar that knocked the knees out from under everyone. One shot, and then two. Abby fell on top of Ben, covering him with her body as sparks flew from the outboard motor housing. Three shots, four. Pieces of metal and plastic ricocheted through the night. Gitch leaped up to maul Randall where he stood clutching the
center console. Five shots, six. The motor sputtered, coughed, ran again, then suddenly died. The next wave rolled under them broadside and Randall and Gitch, locked in a bear hug, tumbled to the floor. By now, Daniel was out to his waist in the lake, but managed to grab hold of the free-floating rig.

Retrieving Abby's flashlight, Sheriff Fastwater played it over the scene out on the water. Henry Bengston's old breakwater of stacked boulders created a grinding, screeching wail as it punched at the hull of the boat. Abby got to her feet first and, looking every bit like an all-star third baseman, flung Randall's gun as hard as she could out to sea. Ben struggled to get up, and she held his arm to support him while working at the tape over his mouth. There was still a commotion in the back of the boat, but a moment later Gitch's big head stuck over the side to look at the sheriff, and then he raised himself up on his paws on the railing, tongue lolling and tail wagging, just like he did on the windowsill in the sheriff's office.

“Good boy, Gitch,” Fastwater called while using his speed loader to insert fresh rounds into the gun. Daniel walked the boat back to shore, secured it to the ramp cable at the water's edge, and prepared to help the kids over the side when Ben suddenly blurted, “Dad!”

Everyone turned to look at the tall man in the plaid flannel shirt scrambling down to the waterfront. He gave his brother the briefest look and then waded into the cold, black lake to grab Ben in both arms, hauling him over the railing. He clutched his son in a desperate embrace, rubbing the boy's back with his huge hands and snuggling his face against his son's neck. When he finally set him down on shore, Abby saw tears in her father's eyes reflecting off the boathouse lantern light. She'd never seen her father cry before, not even when Jackie left, so when he spotted her still standing in the boat, she couldn't hold back her own tears of exhaustion and relief. He came to her and cupped her cheeks in his big, rough hands. All she could think to say was, “Poppa.”

Black Otter Bay

T
he Black Otter Bay Café had taken on a party atmosphere by late Sunday morning. Rumor had it that Matthew Simon and his children would be stopping in soon. For the past few days they'd been in Duluth, where authorities had questioned them vigorously in an effort to piece together the components of Randall's illegal business dealings. But the family was back in town now, and the locals were eager to hear their first-hand accounts regarding the events of the past few weeks.

The story of Ben's miraculous return had made the front page of the Duluth newspaper, as well as all the regional news broadcasts and even several national media outlets. For a day or two the town had been overrun with well-dressed, exotic-looking journalists and reporters, but now that they were all gone, the locals were patiently awaiting the opportunity to personally congratulate their hometown heroes.

The Simon family, minus Jackie, had attended church that morning, but of course the townsfolk were too polite and shy to corner them for specifics, especially in a house of worship. Pastor John Petersen had mentioned it, though. From his pulpit in the tiny country church overlooking the shore of Lake Superior, he'd centered his weekly homily on the joys of a loving family and caring friends. He publicly applauded the outpouring of support from the tight-knit community. And it appealed to the townsfolk's sense of fair play when the good pastor offered up a prayer for the well being of the wounded man recovering in a Duluth hospital.

Marcy Soderstrom had returned to work, and her participation in the arrest of Randall Bengston, however peripheral it
may have been, attracted a lot of attention in the absence of the Simon family. Today, anticipating a busy day of serving customers, she wore a fresh coat of fire-engine red fingernail polish to match her high-top red tennis shoes.

She paused for a moment in her rounds to look out over the crowded café. Arlene Fastwater had been here all morning, entertaining everyone with her legal opinions regarding Randall's case. Her amusing anecdotes and outrageous laughter contributed to the festive atmosphere in the café. Marcy kept looking at the door, awaiting the arrival of Matthew and his family. She told herself that she was just excited to see them, like everyone else in town, and the thought that it could be something more than that was simply crazy. With a weary sigh, Marcy once again glanced at the door, and then cruised the counter refilling coffee cups. At the end of the line she set the empty carafe aside, grabbed a freshly brewed pot, and wandered out among the tables.

“Hey, Marcy,” Red Tollefson called when he spotted her coming his way. He shared a table with Arlene, Owen Porter, and Mrs. Virginia Bean. As Marcy approached, he said, “Tell us again about getting run off the road. Your version is a lot more exciting than Arlene's.”

Marcy's breath caught in her throat at the reminder of that horrible night on the back road. She paused near the table, eyeing their coffee cups but seeing the fog and confusion in the front seat of Arlene's speeding, spinning car. She looked at the sheriff's sister, so calm and elegant. Her raw silk caftan lit up the room with its cheerful red and pink floral designs.

Red said, “Arlene claims you guys almost rolled over out there.”

Marcy's eyes popped wide open. “We did?”

Owen Porter burst out laughing. “Are you sure you were there, Marcy?”

Mrs. Bean said, “Now, Owen . . .”

Arlene's voice carried over the laughter. “Hey, come on, you guys, it's not her fault she doesn't remember. Her eyes were closed through most of it.”

Marcy cringed with the new round of laughter. She wasn't used to being on this end of the joke. Seeing her embarrassment, Arlene added, “But Abby would never have gotten out of Duluth without Marcy's quick thinking. Plus, she discovered the hard evidence they'll need to prosecute Randall.”

With the laughter finally fading away, Red said, “I can't believe Dan Simon tried to kill you. He knew who was in the car, didn't he?”

“Of course he did,” Marcy said. “He saw me in Duluth. He knew who was in the car, and that Abby was with us.”

Red fingered his coffee cup and shook his head in disgust.

“But there must be some sort of loyalty left in the man,” Arlene said. “Because I'm convinced he wasn't trying to hurt us. He only wanted to keep Abby from getting to town.”

“How can you say that?” Marcy argued. “Jeez, Arlene, it was the middle of the night and he ran us off the road. You said yourself we almost rolled over in the ditch.”

“And that's why, honey, if I get him in a court of law, I'm going to roast his scrawny little hide. But he never intended to hurt us.”

Marcy rolled her eyes and leaned around Owen to top off their coffee cups.

Red pushed his cup forward, saying, “I read in the newspaper that the sheriff stopped Randall's getaway by shooting his boat.” He looked at Owen with a skeptical grin. “You ever heard of such a thing? He didn't even shoot holes in the hull, but disabled the motor instead. And he wasn't using a shotgun or rifle, either, just his service revolver.”

“Have you ever seen the sheriff's handgun?” Owen countered.

Red puffed himself up for a good argument. “It sure sounds like a stretch to me. I mean, think about it. The boat
was out in the water, and it was pitch black and foggy outside. And don't forget that those kids were in the boat, too.” His voice grew louder while he made his argument. “It would take quite a shot with a handgun just to hit the boat, much less the motor. No, sir, if it actually happened that way, it was nothing but pure luck.” Too late, he realized the café had fallen silent. People were looking at him, and his words seemed to linger in the air.

He looked around and found Marcy standing by the counter, still holding the coffee pot while staring at the door. Red let his eyes wander over the crowd to the entrance, where he saw Sheriff Fastwater standing in the doorway looking at him. It seemed everyone in the room was staring at him now. The big lawman peeled off his sunglasses, fired a last dismissive glare at Red, and then stepped toward the counter, where Marcy began pouring his coffee.

Folks let out a collective sigh, and Mrs. Bean leaned across the table to quietly address Red. “Oh, he shot it all right. Marlon told me so. He blew that outboard motor to pieces,” she added, jabbing an index finger at the table in front of Red to emphasize her point. She stood up, used a hand adorned with an amethyst ring and matching bracelet to smooth out her dress, and with a snooty parting nod at Red, joined the sheriff at the counter.

A murmur went through the room now, and when Red once again looked at the door, he saw Matthew Simon standing just inside, with Abby and Ben in front of him. Marcy immediately slapped the coffee pot down on the counter and went to them, in her haste looking like a worried mother intent on the safety of her family. Matthew's white shirt was buttoned tight around his neck, giving him a stiff, awkward appearance, and making his presence in the crowd look even more uncomfortable than usual.

Leonard Fastwater was with them. He stood off to one side, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his blue jeans, his thick
black hair plaited into twin braids that hung over his shoulders. He smiled with pleasure at the chorus of greetings called out to the Simon family.

A few of the more outgoing townsfolk came forward to meet them at the door with handshakes and pats of congratulation. Marcy slid her arms around the shoulders of the children and led them to a table, with their father straggling behind, acknowledging the well-wishers with nods and timid smiles.

Owen Porter stood up, tall and gangly, to shake his friend's hand as Matthew passed. “We're really happy for you, Matt,” he said.

“I appreciate that, Owen.” Matthew paused at their table, working his neck uncomfortably in the tight shirt, and added, “We want to thank all of you for your help and support.” The words sounded strange coming from such a taciturn man, and even though the short phrase was probably rehearsed, the words rang with genuine sincerity.

He turned to leave when Red suddenly spoke up. “Sorry to hear about your brother.”

Matt stopped and looked back at him with a puzzled expression. “But my brother is fine,” he said. “It was that other guy that got shot.” He looked at Arlene and Owen, offering a confused shrug.

Red persisted. “But didn't he kidnap Ben?”

Matt laughed. “Good heavens, no. He was working undercover on an investigation into the Ardito family in Chicago. He didn't get involved in this part of it until after Ben was taken. He kept an eye on him to be sure he was safe while continuing the investigation.” Matthew looked down at his shoes. This was more talking than he was used to. He gave the impression of wanting to leave, but then he looked at them again, and said, “Of course, it would have been nice if he'd let me know that, but I guess under the circumstances that wasn't an option.”

Stepping away, Matt nodded again at Arlene and Owen, and then joined his family at the next table, where friends
surrounded Abby and Ben. Marcy scurried off to the counter for soft drinks and coffee.

Red turned to Arlene, shaking his head in confusion. “What kind of circumstances is he talking about? I could have sworn I heard a reporter say that Ben was held hostage in Disney World. Now Matt says Dan was in Chicago.”

Arlene snorted. “Ben was in Chicago, but they convinced him that Navy Pier was actually Disney World. That way, when they released him, he wouldn't be able to point out where he'd been.”