Dead Renegade (2 page)

The Jaycee Kiddie Fish Pond was a kidney-shaped, manmade water hole situated east of the dirt road that ran along the Wisconsin River. It ended at a railroad trestle that fed boxcars into the paper mill. Every spring the Jaycees stocked the pond with panfish, hoping more youngsters might learn to enjoy the sport that fueled state revenues. But bullheads had crashed the party, so interest was limited. That sunny summer morning, eight-year-old Mason was the only kid fishing. And no adults were allowed.

Beyond the road was a narrow strip of grass that ended at the river’s edge. The river ran deep with a strong current that swirled around a small island about thirty yards straight across from the road. An outpost of straggly jack pine, clumps of tag alders and flotsam left after the spring floods, the island was uninhabited. The only access was by the train tracks running across the trestle.

The railway, which was suspended over rapids visible between the ties, had no guardrail. Though Loon Lake teenagers were known to dare one another to cross, no one Mason’s age was brave enough to even consider getting close. The Jaycees had put up a barbed wire fence to close it off, but people or animals had bent it forward—it could be crossed if one were determined.

Mason took a few steps along the edge of the pond, hoping for a better look at whatever that was out on the island. Fishing here almost every day since school got out, she had seen some of the big boys out there fooling around but nothing that color, and such a weird shape. Again she raised one hand over her brow and squinted into the sun.

At first it didn’t register. Then her breath caught. Now she saw. And the awful boy saw her. She whirled around, a scream catching in her throat as she scrambled for her things. Grabbing her rod, she threw the worms into the pail with her tackle box and clutching the pail to her chest, she ran. Feet pounding up the road she dared a glance across the river. The boy was gone.

She ran and ran, unable to keep from sobbing. Along the road up to River Street, then five blocks to cross Wisconsin Avenue and down past the Masonic Temple. When she was three blocks from home, she was so out of breath she had to stop. She looked back: A bike two blocks away and heading towards her. She couldn’t see the rider. No time to make it home.

The big house on the corner—their garage door was open. She ducked, scuttling along the fence, hoping it would hide her. Inside the garage she crouched behind a garbage can and waited, barely breathing. A clicking noise … then the patter of footsteps. She pressed back hard against the wall of the garage.

Too late she realized she was hold the spinning rod upright.

CHAPTER
3

“Y
eah, hey, Mr. Calvertson? You home? Curt—” Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Ron Shradtke shouted up at the deck of the log home. The late June morning had warmed the air so only a screen door separated the outside from the inside of the big house. Ron started up the stairs but Kenny tugged on his shirt, stopping him. “Look at your boots, man, they’re filthy.”

“Oh yeah,” said Ron, backing down to where his friend stood. The screen door swung open.

“Calverson—the name is
Cal-VER-son
for Chrissake—how many times do I have to tell you goombahs?” Curt Calverson walked over to the deck railing, coffee cup in hand, and looked down.

He was dressed in the crisp khakis and open-necked white button-down shirt of a northwoods businessman prepped for casual Friday. Didn’t matter to Kenny how the guy was dressed—or the fact he was clean-shaven with his hair combed back so soft and smooth. None of that could disguise the small head with its pockmarked face and skin the color of liver: just add a tail and Kenny’d swear the guy was a lizard.

Annoyance on his face, Curt returned the stares of the two men. “Whaddya want?”

“Well … we’re here to get paid,” said Ron, glancing back towards Kenny to include him in the request. Kenny had sidled up to stand behind Ron but at an angle, as if looking over his shoulder and ready to run. No matter what Ron said, Kenny Reinka couldn’t help feeling skittish around Calverson. He worried every time he had to deal with him. But then, Kenny was short and wiry while Ron, hell, he had muscle on him. Fact was that without Ron’s strength—and his equipment—they would never have been able to log that back forty for the guy.

Curt reached into his left shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes, shook one out with one hand, set his coffee mug on the deck railing, and searched his pants pocket for a lighter. “That’s right, Ron, you left me a couple-a voice mails ‘bout this, didn’t you.”

“Yep, we finished logging that whole section just like you asked. I don’t see them logs piled up back in there so I take it they got delivered and you got paid.”

“That I did.” Curt pulled on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. He said nothing.

“Well …”

“The way I see it you boys were pulling down unemployment that whole time, right?”

“Yeah … so? What’s that got to do with it?” asked Ron, a tremor of anger in his voice.

Ron wasn’t just strong, he was
big,
with shoulders so broad he had to buy flannel shirts that hung to his knees. He was wearing a green and black checked one today along with baggy jeans that slopped over his beat-up work boots. A rough, black beard might hide most of his face but not the eyes, and Kenny knew his friend’s eyes would be burning now. Beard or no beard, anyone could see right away when Ron was mad.

Kenny resisted the urge to scramble back to the safety of his pickup, hoping to hell things wouldn’t get worse. If they did, he wouldn’t be much help. He was only five-five and weighed less than a hundred and forty. Not built for bar fights.

“It’s okay, Ron, we can take care of this later,” said Kenny, pulling on Ron’s sleeve for the second time. Ron shrugged him off

“I said ‘what’s that got to do with it,’
Calvertson
.” Kenny was sure Ron deliberately mispronounced the guy’s name. Like that helps. “We logged that back forty of yours and now we’re here to get paid.” Ron set his shoulders and returned Curt’s stare.

“That’s called ‘double dipping,’ my man,” said Curt. “Against the law. IRS’ll be after you.”

“The hell they will—this is under the table, you know that.”

“Yes I do. You want me to blow the whistle?”

“Are you saying you’re not gonna pay us?
” Incredulity rang in Ron’s voice.

Now even Kenny was surprised. He was expecting the guy to hassle them down a few bucks. But not pay them anything?

“How many times I gotta repeat myself?” Curt knocked an ash off his cigarette. “Bye, boys.” He walked back into the house, the screen door slamming behind him.

Speechless, Ron turned around, then turned again as if ready to run up the stairs.

“Hey, man, forget it,” said Kenny, pulling him towards the pickup. “I don’t need this shit—you don’t either. The guy’s a jackass. We can take care of it—we can make damn sure nobody works for that asshole ever again.”

“I’ll make sure of more than that,” said Ron, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door hard.

“Hey, easy on my truck,” said Kenny. “Look, we got twenty minutes before we gotta be back on the road crew—let me buy you a beer. Calm us both down.”

“Don’t want a beer.”

“You don’t want a gun either or you’ll end up back in the hoosegow,” said Kenny, angling for a little humor.

But Ron wasn’t buying. Hunched forward, his face closed in, he was silent. As the pickup sped down the county highway, Kenny glanced from the corner of his eye. Ron’s lower jaw was working. Never a good sign.

That Calverson is one lucky guy, thought Kenny as the two men drove in silence back to the road construction crew that was their employment seven months of the year. He’s lucky Bobby Shradtke is still doing hard time or sure as hell Ron would be calling on his big brother for help just like he did when they were kids.

Kenny remembered those days all right. Big Bobby was always there for Ron, which is why to this day guys stayed out of his way. Kenny was still in the service when Bobby got sent away, but he had been informed of the circumstances. Circumstances he heard once and never wanted to hear again.

“Yep,” said Kenny, attempting to lighten the dead air between them, “he sure is lucky Big Bobby ain’t around.”

Ron looked down at the floorboards of the pickup, then swiveled his head to grin at Kenny. “Who said he’s not around? I didn’t say that. Did you hear me say that?”

CHAPTER
4

E
rin and Catherine peered over Osborne’s shoulder as he used his pen to tip the skull from one side to the other. A touch of gold caught light in the dim room.

“Isn’t
that
interesting,” he said, leaning closer only to pause, then sit back on his heels, “but I better wait before examining this further. The light in here is lousy, and the last thing I need to do is compromise any evidence that the Wausau boys might be able to use.”

“Why, Dad? You think that skull is human?” Erin spoke in a whisper, her eyes wide.

“Without question.”

“Oh dear,” said Catherine, adjusting her glasses for a closer look. “Things are so old here.” She touched the far end of the rug, which was still rolled tight. “Thick with dust—this hasn’t been moved in ages. Maybe it’s from a museum?”

Osborne shrugged, “only Bart can answer that question, but we aren’t the people to ask.” He got to his feet.

“Now why did you say ‘Wausau boys,’ Dr. Osborne?” said Catherine, “what on earth does Wausau have to do with this?”

Osborne repressed the urge to be short with the elderly woman. He wasn’t in the mood to provide a complete profile of the workings—or non-workings—of the Loon Lake Police Department.

“They run the crime lab for our region,” said Osborne. “Since Chief Ferris has only two full time police officers and a couple deputies she can call on—like myself or Ray Pradt—Loon Lake needs their lab services whenever there’s a crime requiring more science than what’s available here.”

Was it Lew canceling their weekly Wednesday morning coffee (the one his McDonald’s buddies kidded him about) that put him in such bad humor? The more he dwelt on it, the more it bothered him. Not the reunion so much as that homebuilder guy. And the fish fry.

And not just any Friday night fish fry but one with former classmates and …
and
that homebuilder guy. Lew was honest about the guy, saying she’d had a crush on him sophomore year. The same guy who was recently retired, divorced and worth millions. She also said he had started emailing her last month, letting her know he was coming for the reunion. Osborne knew exactly what that jerk must have in mind.

No wonder he was doing his best to keep any discussion of Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris to a minimum.

“But I thought that’s what we pay Dr. Pecore for,” said Catherine, unwilling to drop the subject. “I see his wife at the beauty shop every Friday and she’s always complaining that he has to work so hard. He’s the coroner, isn’t he? Isn’t that what coroners do? Make decisions on dead bodies?”

“Pecore may allege to be a pathologist but his level of competence extends to determining if someone’s dead or alive—period,” said Osborne. “And that’s assuming he’s not dead drunk at the time.”